After twenty-two years of happy marriage, Bob and Carol marched into the guidance counselor’s room wearing identical expressions of fury and heartache.
“He is utterly intolerable,” Carol declared.
“She is completely unbearable,” Bob countered.
“He says strawberry ice cream is best, which is obviously just wrong.”
“She thinks chocolate tastes better. How could she?”
The counselor sighed. It was the usual problem.
“A good marriage is about compromise, you know. Do you agree on vanilla?”
They both nodded warily.
A short time later they left wreathed in smiles – and with a tub of Neapolitan ice cream in a carrier bag.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Not To Be, is the second part of Iconoclast the final trilogy in Fortunes Fools. To celebrate the upcoming launch of A Necessary End, the last book of both the trilogy and the series, the entire first trilogy in a single volume, Transgressor, is free to download until 20 March.

It was like walking around with a bomb in your head.
That wasn’t such an unfamiliar feeling for someone like Jazatar Baldrik who had served time in the Special Legion. There they plumbed a direct link into your brain and set it so that you had to keep connected to the data network lattice or it would fry out and kill you. Even if you made it through the five years of hell so you could qualify for release from the convict unit, as very few ever did, the device had a bad effect on the brain tissue it was implanted in and would kill you eventually anyway. Jaz had personal experience of that too. He had recently lost a friend that way. A man he had once considered as close as a brother.
But this was different.
Different because this bomb wasn’t going to go off and kill himself. When it went off, it was going to kill one of the very few people he actually cared about. Getting that news had been the most unexpected event of the day. But still only one in series of unexpected events. and that in a place where the unexpected was so rare it never happened.
For the past two cycles Jaz had been effectively imprisoned. Initially against his will and now with a kind of grudging acceptance, he was held in a secure clinic run by the terrorist organisation known as The Legacy. It was the kind of place where today was the same as yesterday and tomorrow wouldn’t be too much changed from that. Running to its own quiet, pre-planned patterns, nothing was allowed to penetrate which might risk breaking the steady rhythm of daily life. It was the sort of protected and predictable environment Jaz had never known any time in his forty-two years of life. He had even begun to feel safe.
Which was a mistake.
When they told him he had a visitor, he’d been a bit puzzled, but mostly just curious. It wasn’t like anyone he knew had any idea he was even here. So he didn’t expect it to be the kind of visitor most of the other inmates of this place got now and then.
It wasn’t going to be some family member who would look all concerned. Or even an awkward work colleague, checking up on how he was doing because someone had to and they had drawn the short straw at the office. Jaz had seen those kinds of people in the reception area sometimes, waiting to be taken through to see one of the inmates – or guests as the staff smilingly called them. There was even an elderly couple standing there now, the look of worried parents clear on their faces. Obviously distracted, they didn’t even notice him. He walked right in front of them and into one of the therapy rooms.
It took him a moment to realise who his visitor was and when he did, his first reaction was to turn himself around and walk right out again. He had to use some real willpower to make himself stand still and not do that.
Car Torbalen.
The man ultimately responsible for Jaz being put in this place and being taken very much out of circulation. Even thinking that was enough to make Jaz tense up all over. But, in a place where yesterday and tomorrow were both so much the same, he was curious enough about this sudden shift to see what it might be about.
Torbalen greeted him with a slight smile, holding out his hand like some formal event.
“Jaz. I was delighted to get your message that you wanted to see me today. Let’s go for that walk you suggested, eh?”
Something was wrong.
Jaz was more than sure he’d sent no such message. Even if he had the faintest idea on how he might have set about trying to get in touch with Torbalen, he would never have been inviting him over for a cosy one-to-one, walking in the grounds.
This man had effectively betrayed him. But the fact was Torbalen was standing there and knew that. He must also know he wasn’t going to make it on to Jaz’s link list in any conceivable future. Which made Jaz wonder enough that he didn’t deny or challenge what Torbalen had said.
There was nothing to read in the pleasant smile, because Torbalen was an operator with a lot of skill, but there had to be something important behind this. For him to step away from his so-busy life drawing in ever more fanatics for The Legacy, there had to be something pretty big on his mind. So Jaz took the offered hand briefly in a firm grip and said nothing. Then he went through the door which Torbalen had opened and walked out into the secure grounds around the clinic.
And they were very secure. When he was first allowed out, Jaz had spent some time examining the perimeter wall, observing the security measures and figuring there was no way he was going to break out. The grounds themselves were one big garden. Lawns. Flowers. Bushes. Trees. Paths. All the things a garden should have. Probably garden people would like it.
When you had enough walking, there were plenty of benches so you could sit and look at some bit of it for a good long time. Torbalen chose one of the benches and gestured Jaz to sit beside him.
The grounds were also the nearest you could get to privacy in this place. It was the ultimate freedom here, given only to those who were felt to be safe out on their own. There were surveillance drones up high, but they were so discreet you could forget they were even there. Not like indoors where the sense you were being watched never left you— that and the knowledge it wasn’t any kind of paranoia. He glanced up and Torbalen caught the look.
“They don’t have audio. I checked.”
Jaz nodded. “Good to know.”
He studied the man beside him, but there was nothing he could read in the bland expression. “So— I don’t get it. Why’re you here? What’s this about?” He knew he sounded closer to hostile than friendly, but right that moment he wasn’t up for caring about that.
The bench they were sitting on was in one of the smaller sections of the garden, one made more private by a row of bushes. It had a whole load of colourful plants set carefully around a raked sand area, with a small pile of stones in the middle where running water spilled into a pool. It was one of the places Jaz liked to come alone as there was a wide stretch of lawn, invisible to the main building, on the far side of the planted area. Most days now he’d go through his martial arts routines there and then sit on this bench and just sort of unwind and think of not much after. So in the pleasant warmth of the afternoon sun, Jaz would normally have been feeling pretty relaxed in this spot. But then normally he’d not have been sitting with the man who had put him in the clinic against his will. This man owed him more than just some regular kind of an explanation and they both knew it.
That was awkward.

The opening of Iconoclast: Not To Be part of the Fortune’s Fools series by E.M. Swift-Hook.

The cover is an original artwork by Ian Bristow, you can find more of his work at Bristow Design.

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

You are old, let me just make it clear
That even your knitting is queer
You should knit baby clothes
To warm tiny toes
Not merkins in purple cashmere

© jane jago

It is hard to let go, I know I need to but relinquishing the things that you have had all your life is not just painful it is soul destroying.
“It’s a lovely place, mum, sunny, bright and such nice people.”
“Yes, it is,” I say, “but it’s not my own house with my own possessions and my own world. It will be like living in a hotel, except I can never go home.”
I don’t think she really understands. But one day she will.
I won’t look back at the house. I don’t want her to see me cry.

E.M. Swift-Hook

“So what do we do now?” Edbert asked. “We’ve summed it all up pretty neatly between us, but so far I don’t see where it gets us.”
Gallus opened his mouth to speak, but was forestalled by Bryn.
“It’s very much a case of waiting it out at the moment. I have people with ears to the ground and leaning on anyone they think might have any ideas. We are doing all we can do. When the reports come in, then we can act.”
Julia could feel for Edbert and in many ways shared his sense of frustration. She wished her heavy body away for just one day so she could be the one out there asking the questions, demanding the answers. But she knew Bryn was right and that he would be doing everything that could humanly be done.
“Then you had better get back to Viriconium,” she said, “in case those reports come in. I think we’re done here for now.”
Gallus gave a salute as if dismissed from parade, but Bryn stood solidly.
“Do you have a moment, Domina?” he asked. “Your cook is just outside the door looking very unhappy. She was wanting to knock when I came back in, but I said I’d let you know as soon as we were done.”
The one thing Cookie never did was interrupt Julia when she was working. If something had driven her to do so today it had to be very pressing and urgent, above the ordinary run of domestic crises.
“Of course, show her in please.”
Bryn opened the door and stood aside.
“Thank you so much Domina Julia.” Cookie’s normally placid face was creased with worry, and she never normally called Julia anything but dearie, Julia set her own worries aside and beckoned her forward. Cookie twisted her apron in her big red hands.
“I’m sorry to bother you but there is something odd going on. It’s my nephew, Ban and the boy Dewi who helps Edbert with the dogs, and the youngest garden lad, Cerdic. They are getting hold of porn somehow. And they have started trying to spy on the younger girls in the household. Luned caught them. She boxed all their ears and thought no more of it, except to come and tell me, but almost all the rest…” She took a deep breath before ploughing on. “I decided to see if I could find out what they are up to. I tracked them to the bothy, where they are now – swigging cider they have pinched from the store and watching stuff I don’t want to describe. And the youngest of them no more than fourteen. They’re not bad lads, but this..this… Well, I dunno what to do.”
Julia held out her hands to the distressed woman and nodded to Edbert who produced a massive handkerchief in one of his pockets.
“Chin up, fach,” he said. “They are all three under age, so a quick visit from the local law should frighten them into good behaviour.”
“It should indeed,” Bryn had managed to dredge up a grin. “We can go by that way as we leave. Bothy you said?”
Cookie nodded and Bryn cocked his head at Gallus. They left shoulder-to-shoulder, walking as easily together as if they were friends. Cookie blew her nose lustily and offered Edbert his handkerchief back. He looked at it in some distaste.
“Tell you what, Cookie, you can keep it.”
She smiled her appreciation, pocketed the hanky and ambled off back towards the kitchen.

An extract from Dying to be Fathers by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook which is the sixth Dai and Julia Mystery, set in a Britain where the Roman Empire never left…

Mistrust and Treason, is the first part of Iconoclast the final trilogy in Fortunes Fools. To celebrate the upcoming launch of A Necessary End, the last book of both the trilogy and the series, the entire first trilogy in a single volume, Transgressor, is free to download until 20 March.

Even for someone who’d seen more bad things than most in a long career with the Coalition Security Forces, the images being projected onto the wall of the briefing room were hard to look at.
Really hard.
At first glance, he found it difficult to tell if the images showed something that had indeed once been human. Plastered up on a screen and close to twice normal size, it looked more like something drawn from the hyper-imagination of a special effects creator working on some VR linkcast nasty. In case any gory detail of the torture inflicted was missed by the viewer, the images showed it all from several angles, and zoom shots homed in on each specific injury in horrid magnification.
It was butchery.
“Just in case there is any doubt about the kind of people we are dealing with here, this is just one example of their work.” The voice of the briefing officer was unemotional. “This man was once one Foss Fingal. Almost all the injuries you can see were inflicted before death.”
The narrator paused as two male faces appeared, one on each side of the original image. One showed a man smiling and at ease with himself and the world; the other, a man who wore a taut expression, watchful, expecting some kind of attack.
Durban Chola and Jazatar Baldrik.
“These, then, are the two people responsible,” the briefing continued. “One ordered it done and the other carried it out. Let’s be very clear from the outset, these are not pleasant individuals — even by ‘City standards.” The understatement hung in the darkened room like a bad smell.
So this really was something serious.
Even before the presentation began it had been pretty obvious this was going to be big. Instead of the briefing taking place in the usual way by link conferencing, he had been ordered to report to Coalition Security Force Headquarters in Central. And he’d been given the kind of thorough security check-in normally reserved for visitors, not for the fully-cleared, ID carrying operative that he was. Then there was the fact that he had been shown into a room buried deep in the heart of the HQ complex. A briefing room with no external windows and quietly dominated by the subtle hum of full-on surveillance damping with all external link access shut-off. Just in case anyone there was inclined to make an illicit private recording of the proceedings.
Another giveaway that this was anything but a regular briefing, not that he had still been in any doubt at all by that stage, was the identity of the man who greeted him: Garn Jecks. Calculating it out, Jecks would be the boss of his section head’s boss’s boss. In fact, Jecks was the ultimate boss. He was the man in charge of the entire Coalition Security Force and hovering close to deity as far as most regular serving CSF officers were concerned.
“Dugsdall. Right. Good that you are here. Take a seat.”
There was only one empty seat in the area of the room where Jecks gestured, so he sat on it and glanced around briefly to see if he knew anyone else. The woman on the chair beside him looked the lean, mean and hungry kind – the only doubt being exactly where that hunger was focused. She was presently focused on whatever personal screens held her attention, but he had a strong feeling they were not going to be ones about her favourite esport celebrities.
Whatever it was she was looking at must have been pretty attention-grabbing though, as her top teeth were visible, pressing hard into her bottom lip as she concentrated. Then she moved her arm and he saw the slight bulk of a wrist slot analysis device, no doubt the source of her screens. It also answered all his questions: she was on a power climb – a woman literally wired to her work. Which made her exactly the kind of person he would choose to swim a shark-filled river in full spate to avoid.

From Iconoclast: Mistrust and Treason, part of the Fortune’s Fools series by E.M. Swift-Hook.

The cover is an original artwork by Ian Bristow, you can find more of his work at Bristow Design.

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

You are old so you shouldn’t bedazzle
You should be both faded and frazzled
It shouldn’t be you
With a Harley (brand new)
And a Swarovski Crystal vajazzle

© jane jago

He’s an enigma known only as Splice; a criminal mastermind with unlimited resources, cunning, and guile. A silent force who can make world leaders disappear in a miasma of blood and gore. But how did he get here? Where did he come from? The world may never know, but you will. Splice: Hit Bit Technology is by Bill McCormick.

He’d known what the stuff he wanted looked like but was whelmed by the myriad of choices. He hadn’t realized how confused he must have looked until he heard a deep voice behind him.
“Can I help you, young man?”
The owner of the voice was easily six and a half feet tall and probably had a side job as a wall. His uniform shirt looked painted on, and his muscles seemed to have muscles of their own.
Terrified, but lacking options, he’d handed the man his list.
“My dad’s doing some repairs and asked me to get him this stuff.”
“Did your dad give you money?”
He smiled as best he could.
“Oh, yes, sir. He’s good about that stuff.”
The giant grunted, took the list, perused it briefly, and smiled.
“Good man, your dad. Getting the electric in order before the snows fall is a smart thing to do.”
“Yes, sir. My old man’s got smarts.”
He’d managed not to visibly gag on the thought of his father framed in a positive light and followed the landmass as he wandered through the store, adding item after item to a small basket.
The walking zip code was chatty now that he had a customer and, especially, a kid who said nice things about his father. The human area code went on and on about how his old man was a saint and kids these days didn’t appreciate family and too many kids didn’t know their place, no offense, and it was good to have a father who knew how to fix things and the reason people got fat was because they ate too many vegetables and ….
Unlike other droning litanies he’d endured this one had two advantages. First, it wasn’t accompanied by a fist. He’d admitted to himself he’d found that to be a huge benefit. Second, the litany ended, and the counting began.
One hundred and seventy-six dollars later, to the penny, he’d walked out of the store with a heavy bag full of tools.
Once night had finally fallen completely, he’d opened his notes, and put everything in order.
The office had emptied out precisely at six in the evening, and the front door security cameras went live. They were fun to watch, swaying back and forth as they scanned the entrance for interlopers. He had no intention of being anywhere near that entrance, so he’d ignored them.
Around midnight he’d slid up to the power box, laid out his tools, and set to work. A half an hour later, you couldn’t tell he’d been there at all. The wires leading to his hovel were carefully hidden underground, covered by the usual debris found in alleys. The box was still dirty on the outside, and a late rain would cover the rest.
Back in the small room, he’d carved out of nothing; he happily plugged in two space heaters, a small fridge, and a little clock. All quietly purchased from small stores where no one would remember a little black kid. They’d barely acknowledged him at all. He was beneath them, beneath all notice, and he was learning to use that to his advantage.
You can’t arrest a ghost.

 A Bite of… Bill McCormick

 Hero or villain? Which is the more interesting to write?
They both have value. In The Brittle Riders I focused on the heroes and their acts of daring do. In SPLICE there are no heroes at all, just this young kid who makes the best of things by stealing from the mob. Not a good life choice normally. However, as has been noted by others, my heroes and villains share multiple traits. I like characters to have some grit to them. I also like them to have some depth. That said, the motivations for villains can be wide ranging while heroes are limited. They’re there to save the day. So, I guess I like the naughty ones best.
 
Is it important to include all shades of belief and sexual orientation in a book?
I don’t know if you need them all in every book, but I do believe it’s important to have a diverse roster of characters. The trick is to write them honestly. Bob the black guy and Lucy the lesbian aren’t going to snare any readers. But Bob the multi-lingual botanist who loves poetry and happens to be black, and Lucy the welder from Omaha who creates sculptures of dragons out of waste metals and happens to be a lesbian, are the beginnings of characters readers might like to know.
 
Have you ever written somebody you know into a book? A lover? A friend? An enemy?
All of the above and all the time. Sometimes I just add their traits to other characters, but I have used people’s names. Sometimes, like the John Dobbs character in SPLICE, I created a super Marine and then named him after John who is not ex-military in anyway and, in fact, was the lead singer and guitarist of a popular metal band back in the day. He got a kick out of it.

A glimpse into the mind of… Bill McCormick
A klazomaniac genius and retired bridge troll who dabbles in ballet, horticulture, and vivisections, Zeezledop now resides in a musty cavern once owned by a malicious geneticist. Having long since eaten any residual pets he spends his time cranking out yellow journalism and dinosaur porn. Bill is @BillMcSciFi on all social media and You can find out more about him at BillMcSciFi.com.

James had been brought up to be courteous.

He held doors for those who approached them, he offered his seat on trains to the infirm, he drove with impeccable manners and he never swore in public.

When his boss fired him for making a single mistake, he was scrupulously polite in return and took his box of possessions from his desk, thanking the security guard for showing him out.

Next day social media buzzed with interesting insider tales about the company, casting aspersions on its integrity.

James had been brought up to be courteous, but learned revenge was much sweeter.

E.M. Swift-Hook

The adventures of Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson

The train huffed and puffed across the quiet countryside and Piglock sat huddled in one corner of the carriage. He was obviously deep in thought, and Bearson managed to ignore his rumbling stomach while hoping Homes would remember Mrs Miggs’ pies before they went cold. Fortunately for Bearson’s  temper, Homes lifted his face from contemplation and thrust a trotter into the bag and passed out an oozing pie.

Bearson sunk in his teeth into the pastry and groaned silently as the gravy ran down his chins. By the time he had finished his pie, Homes was halfway through his. The great detective belched discreetly and threw the second half of his pie to Bearson. 

The rattle and groan of the express train lulled Bearson to sleep, while Piglock Homes pondered the problem they were speeding towards.

The great train groaned and shrieked its way into the station concourse at Brizzle. Homes leaned out of the window and studied the press of humanity on the platform.

“I say, old chap,” he ejaculated. “If it isn’t our old friend Yore.”

The inspector was pushing his way through the crowd towards the train, but the guard was already slamming the doors closed.

Homes poked the top half of his body out of the window.

“Guard,” he shouted. “Hold the train. There’s a guinea in it for you if my friend there catches the train.”

The guard slowed his progress along the train while Yore increased his efforts to reach the express before it slid out of the station. Homes threw the carriage door open and, as Bearson dragged the inspector aboard, flicked a coin into the guard’s horny palm.

Yore just about collapsed onto the faded plush of the seat. He was obviously exhausted, his limbs were shaking and his face was grey and drawn. Although, to be brutally honest, Yore’s face was always grey. He appeared to be struggling for breath and Bearson hurried to feel his pulse.

Homes looked concerned, but Bearson smiled. 

“He’s fine. Just over exerted.”

Bearson reached into his pocket and brought out his hip flask. He put it to Yore’s lips. The inspector drank deeply.

“Ye gods Bearson, what is that?”

“It’s creme de menthe and Irn Bru.”

“It’s vile. But I’ll have another belt if it’s all the same to you.” He drunk again. “I’ve been waiting for you. Homes. But I’m afraid we’re too late…”

Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson will continue their investigation into The Affair of the Dartymuir Dog next week…

Jane Jago