“Go for a walk on the beach, sort this thing out in your head.” He lay in their bed and smirked at her. She resisted the temptation to attack him and pulled on shorts and a disreputable tee-shirt.
An hour or so away from the cabin it all became clear. If he could do that on their honeymoon.
The only remaining question was how far away she could get before he noticed she had gone.
Picking up the pace to a mile eating jog she showed her teeth in a feral grin.
At midnight he realised he was alone…

©Jane Jago

Next morning, at two minutes to nine, Gribble strode into his office to find the geek chair. Empty. He peered out of the door carefully looking both ways along the corridor. There was nobody in sight and he permitted himself a thin smile. His new geek was going to be late. How perfectly splendid. He was sure there was a clause in the contract that covered lateness; he even rather wished he had read it. Positioning himself in the doorway, he pulled his dwarf-made timepiece from his pocket and stood ostentatiously studying its ornate face. The University bell bonged nine times and a bored imp poked its head out of the casing of the timepiece in his hand.
“Nine of the clock. Midweek day. Climate a little uncertain. Some chance of precipitation.”
The head disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Behind Gribble somebody coughed politely. He spun around as if he had been shot. The geek desk was now occupied.
“What? How? Who?”
His new geek smiled, showing far too many teeth.
“Good morning, Professor Gribble. Belladonna Handyman at your service.”
As she spoke the pieces began to fall into place in Gribble’s distraught brain. The bastards had given him a non-human. He pulled himself together and considered the evidence. Belladonna bespoke vampire or shifter heritage, whilst Handyman was a dwarf name. It just wouldn’t do, so he strode towards her sneering, only to be halted in his tracks by a small gout of flame from somewhere beneath the desk at which she sat.
He squeaked in a most unmanly manner, and stared at the desk.
“Who? What?”
Belladonna smiled. “Oh. That’s just my brother, Eric.”
“Brother?”
“Same father. Different mothers. Only difference is while my mother was hunting the shape-shifting bastard to cut off his balls, Eric’s mother ate him. Oy, Eric stick your head out and say hi to our new employer.”
A square reptilian head poked around the corner of the desk. “Hi.” Then the creature belched another small flame.
“Isn’t he a bit? Petite? For a dragon?”
“Oh. Not really. He’s in his condensed form right now. If he wasn’t he’d not fit in this room.”
Gribble tried to summon a threatening frown. “I wouldn’t entirely mind if he wasn’t in this room.”
Belladonna smiled, it was a vaguely patronising expression. “Oh he’s in the contract too. Where I go, he goes.”
Even an egocentric, unimaginative academic knows when he has been outmanoeuvred and Gribble shook his leonine head in recognition of defeat. “Very well. To work then.”
By the end of the morning, he was forced to admit, if only in the quiet vaults of his own mind, that this was the fastest and least emotional geek that he had ever encountered. She was also the most irritating, as she looked at him with the kind of amused tolerance that scraped on his nerves like fingernails against a chalkboard.
He was dictating a list of questions about the content of an obscure Assyrian incunabulum when the clock struck noon. As the last tocsin sounded the geek disappeared. For a second or so Gribble’s mouth carried on speaking, unwilling to believe the evidence of his eyes. He swore sulphurously, and Belladonna’s face appeared in the air in front of him.
“Lunchtime,” she said brightly.
Gribble showed her his teeth, but she just smiled and disappeared. At one-thirty on the dot Launcelot Gribble’s geek reappeared. She wiped her mouth on a red napkin and belched delicately. Under the desk her saurian sibling also belched and a tongue of flame licked the leg of the desk which sparked briefly.
Gribble leapt into the air and squeaked before collecting himself and dragging up a sneer. “Now the bloody dragon is only setting fire to the sodding furniture.”
“Language,” Belladonna murmured, before settling back into work as if she had never been away.
They worked all afternoon, but at the stroke of five the desk became empty and an infuriated Gribble found himself talking to thin air.
He went home a confused and bothered man and snarled his way through the evening before spending a disturbed night throughout which he dreamed of flames and toothily grinning females.

From Gribble’s Geek by Jane Jago which is only 0.99 to buy throughout November.

The colonists landed safely on Alpha-Eight-Six-Zero, but something had gone wrong with the storage AI. Most of their desperately needed food supplies were contaminated.
The botanists ran tests and declared only a few seeds they had brought from Earth would grow here – let alone thrive.
The elected leader had to break the bad news.
“We may not all make it through the winter,” she said.
Careful management and strict rationing meant none starved, though all went hungry.
A year later, after they had finished unloading the last harvesting bots, the colonists of Alpha-Eight-Six-Zero voted to name their new home ‘Thanksgiving’.

E.M. Swift-Hook

… or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

ahrd (noun) – inconvenient erection

down’t (adjective) – pale and needy as in children and rejected lovers

greay (adjective) – of civil servants, properly impassive

editititing (verb) – titting about when you should be editing

flookingorward (verb) – catching flatfish with a pole

garcen (noun) – french child with a speech impediment

goig (noun) – zit on the end of the nose

manged (adjective) – of old men looking like a dog with a skin disease

miseray (noun) – a bloke called Raymond in a bad mood

prominenet (noun) – contrivance for collecting hormones from urine

ratehr (noun) – bossy person who works in ‘human resources’

sceince (noun) – calling up the spirits of the dead by means of the microwave oven

specail (noun) –  vegetable with the colour and texture of vomit

tidey (adjective) – prone to the influence of the moon

waery (adjective) – of hair, prone to spring out at unflattering angles

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

He only went through the door because Livy was convinced they would find Narnia, whilst Kate was sure there was a secret garden.
Neither was right, although there was a garden of sorts, and there were wolves and beavers. Unfortunately the beavers didn’t talk and the wolves rather fancied child flesh for dinner.
To his surprise, he could fight better here than at home and the girls became brave instead of femininely timorous.
When they had fought their way back to the door, Mother waited just the other side of the wall.
“Thou art a man now,” she said proudly.

©Jane Jago

Imagine waking up one day unable to recall who you are or where you came from – only to find you are serving a sentence as a convict conscript for crimes you have no memory of ever committing…

“Then what makes you feel you are entitled to enjoy a normal life now, soldier? What makes you think you can ever pay that back?”
“I can’t, sir.” The answer sounded bleak. “I know I can’t pay any of it back. And I know I will never have the kind of normal life which involves a family. I have forfeited that right. I carry the burden of responsibility for actions I can’t recall or even conceive of myself ever committing.”
Again Vane noticed dissonance between the idea of this man, able to speak in such a way, and yet having no memory before his time in the Legion. Could it be possible he had somehow fooled the system? Vane knew the intensity of monitoring Revid had been placed under and made himself dismiss the idea. With difficulty.
“You are telling me you are not the same man?” he asked.
“I am the same man, sir. I am not the same person.”
The green gaze met his own, disconcertingly steady. Vane looked away, his need to read the instructions flashed up by the unwelcome observer, helped him convince himself he was not backing down from a challenge. He found the next question easier to ask.
“What are your plans if you are discharged?”
The answer this time sounded well rehearsed, maybe too well.
“The Criminal Rehabilitation Department has arranged a new identity for me. They have found me approved accommodation and allocated employment as a production operative in a reclamation plant on one of the Middle Worlds. One called Thuringen, sir. For which I am grateful.”
Vane knew the form. The Criminal Rehabilitation Department gave a discharged Special the same deal they offered to any convict upon release: a dead end job, since no decent employer would accept them, with a room in a doss house paid up until their first paycheque. That, together with two sets of clothes and enough money to buy a couple of decent meals, remained the CRD’s standard offer to every ex-con. This man would get the same, except his notoriety required he be given a new identity too. Most released convicts, wisely, did not take up the CRD’s offer. Most had family who would take them in. Those with no other choice but to take the official hand-out were notorious for their high rate of re-offending.
Vane sighed and shook his head.
“Yes, the famous CRD package and how many manage to stick with that?”
He meant it to be a rhetorical question and the reply came back sounding glib.
“Not many stick through five years in the Specials – sir.”
Vane found himself glaring at Revid and looked quickly back to his screens.The whole idea of letting this creature loose into the community disturbed him.The man was too suave, too quick with his answers. Setting aside the idea they were dealing with a conscious and cunning mass-murderer, undeserving of any clemency, there remained an even more unpalatable reality. Even if Revid was indeed an innocent abroad, even if he had no conscious connection with his past history, it did not alter the fact his memories were filled with violence, war, obedience and institutionalisation. There was nothing of any value or relevance to draw on when faced with the demands of everyday life. At large in society, unsupported, Revid would be a walking time-bomb.
Whichever way Vane looked at it, turning him out on a CRD package was destined to end in disaster. Whoever conceived the crazy idea, was at best grossly misguided and at worst incompetent. But words were flashing up again, impatient and dismissive: Grant the discharge and let’s all get out of here.
Vane pretended not to see. He refused to be bulldozed by another agency whose agenda was clearly ticking boxes on a checklist, not considering the full facts and their implications. He returned his focus to Revid, still standing rigidly at attention.
“What makes you believe you have what it takes to live in the civilian world when you have no knowledge of it?”
He noticed no hesitation this time.
“I had no memory before I joined the Specials, sir. I had to learn how to live in this environment, meet and exceed the expectations placed upon me. I did so. I believe I can learn what is needed to fit into the civilian world in the same way.”
“But that is the problem, soldier. Before, your memory held nothing for you to draw on, or so you tell me, but in becoming a civilian you would bring to that the expectations and reactions you have learned in this unit. Unlike any other Special I might approve for release, who can convince me they are ready to go back to society, you would not be ‘going back’. You have never lived in society.”
The green eyes remained focused on the middle distance and Revid said nothing.

From Trust A Few – book one in Haruspex, the second Fortune’s Fools trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook – which is only 0.99 to buy throughout November.

The melee had reached its peak. The moment of truth when one side would snatch victory with bloodstained gauntlets from the broken bodies of their enemies. The clash of steel on steel, the shrieks of the wounded and dying, the stench of smoke, sweat and death.
It was silent.
Preternaturally so.
A distant cough echoing on marble-faced walls, loud as a gunshot and the squeak of a leather sole on polished granite floor tiles, shockingly sharp.
The battle scene canvas filled the whole wall at one end of the gallery and Hugh stood before it captivated by the frozen chaos.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Instinct Theory – Annihilate by Ian Bristow, the concluding volume of the Instinct Theory duology, is out today. When the world is running out of options man looks further afield for survival and some are willing to cross any line it takes…

Federation Director of Resources Guthrie Adams had gone over this moment in his head dozens of times, rehearsing ways to make the reality sound less disturbing than it truly was. But now that the time had come and Commander Alexander Christoph’s hologram was staring back at him, he couldn’t deny the truth. There was no way of manipulating what he needed to say into any semblance of tolerable.
“It’s worse than we thought.”
Alexander’s hands balled into fists.
“It seems they never intended for you to come back.” Guthrie paused. The Federation’s cruelty was beyond belief, and it was more difficult than he could have imagined to voice it. “You are the bait they need to get people fired up and willing to support an attack on the natives when the time comes.”
Alexander’s expression flickered, revealing the split second that his hardened captain’s persona failed to bury a reaction to the full blow of what he’d just heard.
“Yeah, I got that impression.”
“Had I known, I never would have opted for you to be at the helm of this debacle. I just thought, being the person I know you are, you could make a difference. Set things right.”
“I can make a difference. And I will.”
Guthrie nodded. “I will do all I can from this end to make sure you know what’s going on. It has been hard to fool Hawkins into thinking I’m taking his side. But so far I have played my part well, and I do believe I remain in his confidence.”
“That’s good news. Any information you can give me along the way will be greatly appreciated.”
“There is … something else. Something I’ve not told you, namely because I’m not a hundred percent sure it’s set in stone. But I can assure you, it is more heinous than you can…”
The floor above Guthrie’s basement saferoom creaked.
“Can what?”
“Shit! Hold on. I think someone’s—”
Another creak.
He shut the handheld off to make sure the intruder couldn’t track its signal, then moved over to the computer he’d been using under the Federation’s radar. A system wipe protocol was already in place, should this moment come, so he pulled the data stick from its port—his failsafe—and activated the protocol sequence. Once he was sure the sequence had started, he grabbed the handgun he kept hidden beneath his desk, moved to the far corner of the room and slipped behind the hollowed-out bookcase he’d set up for just this kind of situation.
Through the tiny gaps between fake book spines, he saw two intruders, clearly skilled at their task, enter the room, no doubt hired operatives whose job it was to sweep their dirt under the rug. One did a quick visual sweep while the other, who Guthrie could now see was a man, went straight to the computer.
“I don’t see him.” A woman of average height and build clad in black, joined her partner by the computer.
Guthrie breathed a silent sigh, thankful he hadn’t been found.
A man’s voice replied
“He probably had an escape route in place.”
“No matter. It’s not him we’re after anyway. Can you stop the system wipe sequence?”
“Course I can.”
The intruders fell silent. They were huddled over the computer now, and one was typing and tapping on the screen at such speed it almost looked like he was twitching.
“Shit.”
“What?”
“There’s a defense procedure in place. One I wouldn’t have expected from someone like the Director. Well beyond the standard Federation protocol.”
Guthrie enjoyed a brief moment of self-satisfaction and found himself smiling.
“What does that mean? You can’t access the data?”
“Oh no, I can. I just have to work harder for it.”
The smile fell as quickly as it had come.
“How much time do you have?”
“Not much. As soon as the system has properly deleted everything it’ll shut down and the core will fry.”
“Looks like the Director is definitely their traitor then. No one employs this kind of security without something serious to hide.”
Traitor.
The word hit Guthrie like a blow to the gut.
That’s what he was now.
A traitor.

A Bite of… Ian Bristow

What gave you the initial idea for Instinct Theory and how much did your original notion of how it would go change in the writing?
Great question. The initial idea came to me while I was taking Cultural Anthropology in college. I had already been toying with the idea of a sci-fi story, and then the idea came to me in that class for creating an MC who’s a world-renowned cultural anthropologist during a period when humans discover sentient life on another planet and what how being asked to join the team to study that life could impact the character. A great deal of the details changed from the very first ideas to what it ended up being, but the core themes never did.

What was your favourite and least favourite aspects of writing Annihilate?
My favorite aspect was in the characters’ journey, and creating a world for them to explore, both beautiful and dangerous, familiar and alien. My least favorite aspect was maintaining the level of realism I wanted even when some characters’ professions strayed miles from my wheelhouse. There were some real growing pains involved in bringing my writing of certain aspects up to scratch. Even now I can only hope I mostly achieved.

With this story finished, what plans do you have for your next book?
I’ve had the urge to start a fantasy series brewing for well over a year now, so I’m pleased to finally get my feet wet with that. I’ve already started working out a map of the world and doing some of the macro story dev.

Ian Bristow is a freelance artist (the cover is his own design) and the author of Instinct Theory series, Hunting Darkness and the Conner’s Odyssey trilogy. He is currently working on development for a new fantasy series (title yet unknown). When he isn’t writing or creating works of art, he enjoys playing music or spending time with his family and friends. You can visit him on Facebook and Twitter.

They said Daddy would be home soon. Every morning Evaline looked out of her window and wondered what they meant by soon. It had been winter when he went away. The day that it became spring she cried and Mummy held her gently.
“It’s not daddy’s fault.”
Summer followed spring, and autumn came too.
The picture outside her window changed, but the pain inside her heart stayed the same.
The first snows of a second winter were falling from a leaden sky when she saw a bulky figure crossing the square.
It was as if her feet became wings.
“Daddy!”

©Jane Jago

A brutal fantasy tale of piracy, friendship, romance and revenge on the high seas…

It was almost a year after the master of the Rey Don Phillipos met his maker that Bony Mary came looking for Tall Jack.
She found him in the island’s least reputable tavern with a fat slattern on his lap and a bumper of exceptional rum in his fist. He had obviously been drinking for some time, because he blinked owlishly at her and even went so far as to blow her a kiss. She sighed and jerked a thumb at the tavern wench, who made herself scarce. Once Jack was unencumbered, she carefully removed the tankard from his hand and hefted him under one brawny arm. In most situations the next destination would be the harbour, but she had a sneaking suspicion that a half dwarf with a steel leg was likely to sink without trace, and she sort of liked the little shit. Instead she headed for the bathhouse where she handed the, by now swearing, pirate into the tender care of two very camp young men.
The younger of the duo looked into Jack’s bloodshot eyes. “Give us an hour, Mary, and he’ll be all yours.”
“Just don’t let the little weasel escape. Or I will be annoyed.”
With which imprecation she ambled off to arrange a decent meal and bottle of the best red wine piracy could provide. When she returned to the bathhouse, a sober and clean-shaven Jack eyed her with real dislike.
“This,” he said bitterly, “had better be good. That beard took me the better part of five years to grow.”
Mary favoured him with a sour smile. “Oh, it’s good. Well, no, it ain’t good. But you needs to hear it. And with a sober head.”
Normally, Jack would have argued for form at least, but something in the set of Mary’s meaty shoulders told him this wasn’t the time for random contrariness.
“Okay, then, let’s go somewhere where we can talk.”
Mary didn’t bother to reply, merely turning on her heel and striding off at a pace that had Jack running to keep up.
“Oy,” he puffed. “Tin leg behind you.”
It is a measure of just how disturbed Mary was that she not only abated her pace, but she also muttered an apology.
Once they were seated at a table in the dining room of one of the cleaner bunkhouses around the harbour with bowls of steaming fish stew in front of them and glasses of almost priceless ruby-red wine at their elbows, Mary started to speak.
“I’ve just come back from San Christo. While I was there I checked up on Isabella.”
Jack must have looked as puzzled as he felt because Mary looked skywards and make a tisking noise with her tongue.
“Isabella is the girl we rescued from Don Carlos’ fragging treasure ship. The one you gave a share of the booty to.”
“Oh. Right. I just never knew her name. Is she doing okay now?”
“Yeah. She’s fine. But that ain’t the point. The girl seems to think she owes the pirates of Retiro de Ladrones, so she keeps her ear to the ground and her mouth shut. She works as a bookkeeper for the banquier who holds all our moneys. And she eavesdrops…”
“Why am I getting a bad feeling about this?”
“Because maybe you should. Seems that Don Carlos had him a brother. One Esteban. A very wealthy man. And one who would seem to bear grudges…”
“Tell on, my friend.” Jack suddenly started sounding as dangerous as he undoubtedly was.
“Yeah. Well. I am. Just lining it up right in my head. This Esteban, he takes his brother’s death hard and vows to find the scoundrels responsible and put them to the sword. Only there’s hundreds of pirates out there. But then he got lucky.”
“He did? And how might that be?”
“There’s hundreds of pirates. But there ain’t too many undead talking rats.”
“No. I guess not. There’s probably about one.”
“Probably. So this Esteban is on San Christo throwing gold around like it’s worth nothing. Offering anybody who brings him your head more money than most of us could ever dream of.”
“Many takers?” Jack asked in a deceptively mild voice.
“So far as I heard, none. But there is gonna be a few.”
At that second, a manky looking parrot landed on Mary’s shoulder and chortled derisively. “Pieces of eight,” it grated.
“Shut up Gravel.” Jack threw the ugly yellow and blue bird a crab claw which it caught in its beak.
His mind clicked into gear right about the same time as Mary’s; they both leapt to their feet.
“One-Eye Sam. Assassin to the masses.”

Jane Jago

There will be more from Bony Mary and her crew next week…