You are old and that can’t be much fun
You should sit home and live like a nun
But you’ve pierced both your nipples
And you rode a Speed Triple
Round the Nurburgring clocking a ton

© jane jago 2017

Walker checked his watch.  It was new.  A company just on the edge of Smoke, called Claymore and Tims, (which always made him think of a weedy little man trying to wield a huge sword), had just started developing this ‘wrist watches’.  They were smaller than pocket watches, and he always worried that he would push the tiny winder too far and break the spring. As such, he leaned towards underwinding, and his watch subsequently lost time.  Now, he was wondering just how late Judge Thompson was.  He kissed his teeth and leaned back in his chair.

“The judge will be with you shortly,” Jenkins, the judge’s clerk poked his tiny spherical head out from the office.  His thick spectacles engulfed his face, the lenses reflecting the room and giving the youth an almost mechanical look.

Walker held his watch to his ear to check that it was still ticking.

“Oh! You’ve one of the new wrist ones! How do you find it?” Jenkins asked eagerly.

“Small,” Walker said frankly. “And damned if I don’t always check my pocket first, every time!”

“Jenkins!” The voice of the judge boomed from the office behind them. “Stop your chit chat and send Walker in! You’re worse than my wife for gossip, boy!”

Jenkins’ cheeks flushed and he opened the door fully. “The judge will see you now, Sir.”

Walker nodded, rose gathering his papers and headed in.

“That will be all, Jenkins,” Judge Thompson dismissed the terrified youth. “So, Walker, how is it you always end up with the no win cases, eh? Damned bad luck, or are you cursed?” He laughed, leaned back in his chair and opened the walnut box on his desk, producing a thick cigar.  As he lit it and inhaled; a heady scent of cigar smoke filled the room.  Taking his cue from the judge, Walker took his cigarette case from his pocket and lit one.  He took a seat without waiting to be offered and looked at the judge for a moment, studying his countenance, his self satisfied grin that was permanently emblazoned on his face. The look of a man who knew he’d been born to privilege, and was going to exploit it.

“I volunteered,” Walker said calmly, blowing smoke across the office.

“Why the hell did you do that, man?” Thompson asked incredulously. “That woman is going straight to the noose! Amazed she escaped it before, killed her husband, apparently.”

“Because everyone deserves representation,” Walker maintained a calm exterior, but the grip on his cigarette tightened. “And I have a witness that says he was in there mutilating girls. It could have been self defense.”

“Witness! What witness?” Judge Thompson sneered. “Some whore? Who will believe her? Sir Thomas was a member of my golf club, for gods’ sake!”

“Then, are you sure you are the correct person to be trying the case, Judge?” Walker asked carefully.

“Don’t give me that bull, man!” Thompson snapped, waving his cigar ash over the desk in a flurry. “I can try a case based on the facts, it’s just that the facts scream guilty.”

Walker gritted his teeth and studied the judge.

“Anyway,” he continued. “Doesn’t exactly scream innocent to run away, does it?”

“Run away?” Walker repeated.

“Yes!” Thompson laughed. “That’s why I called you here, sorry, chap! Yes, your client has fled, with some boy. Last seen lurking at the train station. If she doesn’t report for court tomorrow, I’ll have no choice but to pass an automatic guilty verdict.”

“No choice?” Walker repeated. “Of course, that would wrap things up quickly.”

“No odds to me, man,” Thompson snorted. “Just thought I’d give you a chance to bring her in peacefully.”

“Right, yes, thank you.” Walker stood up. The long strip of ash that had been burning down his cigarette dropped onto his shoe. He shook it under the desk and left the butt in the judge’s ashtray. “I’ll see what I can do.” He left the office.

He knew this woman stood no chance in Judge Thompson’s court. He had already decided on her guilt.  The victim was most likely the slasher that the police had been half heartedly hunting for the last two years, but he was a member of the right golf club, so who cares? Walker strode towards the station. He knew the judge would have a man on him, and if he didn’t at least try to be seen to be seeking out his client, there would be consequences. Professional. He was already unpopular due to the anti-establishment cases he took pro-bono. The system was broken, and this was the only way he knew to fix it.

It was dusk now, and as he left the dimly lit streets of Smoke for the station he lit another cigarette. The smoke was barely visible in the dusk, but the orange tip glowed brightly. Smoking calmed his nerves.  The station was deserted.

“Right, that’ll do, mate,” he turned to the judge’s man, who had been rather conspicuously tailing him. “Either walk next to me and have a chat, or go home, the creeping about in shadows is… well…”

The man was holding a walking cane, with a silver horse’s head as a handle. He raised it. “The judge wants you to let this one go,” he said as he brought it down hard.

Walker raised his arm to block the blow, and swore and the cane struck it.  The man swung again, but Walker rushed him, tackling him to the floor. The cane struck the ground as the two men tussled. Walker struck several blows, he had boxed at university, and although he was out of shape, he still knew how to land a punch. As they scrambled to their feet, Walker was on his toes, fists raised.

“Come on then, mate, let’s see how brave you are without your cane!”

“I’ll have you for assault!” The man responded. “They have just been waiting for an excuse to put you down.”

“Better make it worth it, then!” Walker responded with a series of blows to the face and torso.  The man reeled and turned, stumbling across the tracks to the other side, Walker in hot pursuit. He scrambled towards the scrubland on the other side and suddenly disappeared. “What the…” Walker looked around. There was nothing. He frowned. His face felt sore and a bruise on his cheek was starting to rise. Taking his cigarette case from his pocket he placed another between his lips and struck a match. The light of the flame revealed something shimmering in the dusk. He moved the match over it, studying the iridescent colours. He dropped it with a curse as it burnt down to his fingertips, only to see it disappear inside the portal. He struck a second match and picked up a rock, watching it disappear within the shiny prism of light.

“Well, I’ll be…” he said to himself, finally lighting his cigarette and rising from his crouching position. “The won’t find you there, will they?” he smiled to himself and patted his pocket before remembering and checking his wrist. The face of his watch was cracked. Time had stopped. Beyond the horizon he could see the streetlights of Smoke glowing. It was his city, and it was broken, but it could be fixed.  He walked slowly across the railway tracks and picked up the fallen cane. Like a javelin thrower he launched it at the area of the scrub where its owner had disappeared. It too vanished. Taking his cigarette from his mouth, he tapped the ash onto the ground. That was an interesting evening

You can find more to read by C H Clepitt here.

Mes chers lecteurs qui ecrit,

It is one, the ever exquisite Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV…  world-renowned author of the classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and patient writer of these handcrafted ‘Thinking Quill’ bon mots with which I seek to educate, inform and inflame the imaginative juices of my adoring followers. Fret not, mes estudas, that you may never be as talented, or beauteous as your teacher. Follow in the footsteps of one’s infinite wisdom and even your poor weakling Muse shall be uplifted of the wings of a Moonbeam

How to Start Writing a Book – Lesson 7. The Write Beginning

It is a truth that cannot be overemphasised that the first sentence of a book is the bait with which to put hooks into the soft underbelly of your putative reader and claw him into the world you have been so painstakingly crafting. Choose your words with care, craft and calculation, my children. For each and every book can only have one first sentence…

For myself, I find the creation of the first words in any work as full of pain as that delicate beauty who is my own Mama found giving birth to me.

“Moony,” she often says, “if I’d known how much squirting your oversized cranium out of my fanny would hurt, I’d have been a fucking sight more proactive with the hot baths and the gin.”

But one digresses. First lines.

Let your hooking of the reader be as sharp as the tongue of an ungrateful child, as cutting as the condemnation of a disappointed mother, as innocent as the first kiss of a virgin mouth, as knowing as the compère in Cabaret, and as gnomically engrossing as the dragons of literature who overfly your work. Take as your inspiration the works of she whose rose-coloured prose makes beat faster the heart of your beloved tutor. Use your very first sentence to introduce the proud beauty in whose trials and tribulations you intend your devoted reader to invest time, love, worry, and, of course, the pecuniary outlay necessary to purchase your elegant work.

Make your sentence long and include all the information you can. Do not be fooled by those who counsel brevity. They are the basest dogs of conventionality, the creeping rats of mediocrity, and the unsound practitioners of a black art that seeks to sap you of your creative juices.

No my children, in the symphony that is literary exposition at its finest let us begin with a crescendo. Let the conductor bring down his baton on a crashing chord of instrumental noise that will reverberate within your reader’s head forever. Begin With A Bang.

In conclusion, there is one more point to consider. And that one is moot to our whole lesson. Let us ponder momentarily those unfortunates whose books are remembered for their first lines and very little else – as in Mister Orwell’s oddly distorted historical drama, and Miss Austen’s rather anodyne love story. To them I can only say one thing. You begun well; shame about the rest of your book.

And there it is mes enfants, the secrets for a perfect beginning.

Until next. Ecrit Bon…

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Join The Adoring Fans of Moonbeam Farquahar Metheringham IV

'Soul Mates' by Victor Aquista one of the sixteen amazing short stories in the Scifi Roundtable's new anthology The Quantum Soul.

First step required that the chamber be cooled. Mike watched as the temperature within the box chilled to 7 0 Celsius. The cricket had slowed and now remained still except for a twitch of antennae. A puff of ether gas erupted as Mike injected the anesthetic. He included this step in the protocol for humane reasons. It probably didn’t influence whether or not the insect suffered, but as experiments advanced to lizards, chicks, mice…all the way up to dogs and cats, he would feel guilty if they needlessly felt pain. The ether likely minimized any animal suffering.

While writings from the ancient Greeks, Egyptians, Hindus, and Chinese all
demonstrated a basic understanding of life energy, Mike realized it was only a qualitative understanding. In 1907, the French philosopher Henri Bergson published his essay, The Elan Vital and Self-Evolution. Bergson’s exploration and philosophical analysis still informed much of Mike’s understanding. That same year, and Mike hardly thought this a coincidence, Dr. Duncan MacDougal published, The Soul: Hypothesis Concerning Soul Substance Together with Experimental Evidence of the Existence of Such Substance. MacDougal remained convinced that the soul had physical mass and he measured the difference in body weight pre and immediately post-mortem. His conclusion: the average weight of the human soul calculated to 21 grams.

Chilled carbon dioxide filled the container next. This food preservation technology, borrowed from cold storage of fruit—how else do you think you can have a crisp apple off-season—served a dual purpose. The odorless, colorless CO 2 suffocated the animal within the box, while the temperature and lack of oxygen within diminished cellular degradation. While Mike observed the cricket through the view panel on top of the chamber, his eyes remained focused on the pair of gauges measuring élan vital. One measured the force within the container, the other calibrated the life energy within the adjacent collector.

MacDougal had the right idea in so far as measuring the soul, just another name for this life energy. But it wasn’t physical mass, it was energetic and not electromagnetism. Whatever the energetic “substance” happened to be, Mike still could not say for sure. In his mind, he imagined it as quanta of consciousness. The theoretical physics and mathematical formulae explaining this life force led straight to quantum mechanics. Mike had a decent IQ, but the theoretical basis didn’t matter to him. Measurement. That was the key.

The two gauges measured identical changes, the box down by a fraction, the accumulator up by the same fraction. Although Mike had no electrodes or way to monitor whether or not the cricket was truly dead, he felt certain the insect within had passed and its spark of life energy no longer animated its insect body. He reversed the polarity, vented the CO 2 and began to raise the
temperature. Heart racing, Mike saw the gauges flip back to their previous baselines. The cricket twitched a couple of times then resumed exploration of the chamber. Success!

“Honey, I think it worked.” He crawled into bed next to Julie. Her boss asked that she put in extra hours as the firm had taken on a big case. It seemed the paralegals bore the brunt of that extra work.

“That’s nice, sweetheart.” Her sleepy voice told him a love-making all-nighter would have to wait. “When do you get the Nobel prize?”

As his wife’s gentle snores lapped his consciousness like waves upon a glorious beach, Mike lay wide awake beside her. Abruptly, he shot up and went down to the basement. As the light flipped on, the cricket ran to the corner of the terrarium where he had moved it. It’s still alive!

The Quantum Soul is available now and you can find more books by Dr. Victor Acquista on Amazon.

1. What is the best part of being involved in The Quantum Soul anthology?

Great question! First off, I would like to thank you for interviewing me on your blog and for giving me the opportunity to tell your readers a little about myself and my work. Many writers are a solitary lot. Having a group of colleagues to discuss common interests, offer help, guidance, feedback, etc. represents one of the many great benefits of participating in the Knights of the Sci Fi Roundtable. The core group and greater collective community provide a wonderful forum to share, learn, and contribute. The Roundtable fellowship helps to counteract some of the isolation that many writers often contend with. Having the opportunity to not only submit to the inaugural anthology, but to be selected and represented as one of the featured authors is an honor. Furthermore, the topic binding this group of stories—The Quantum Soul, represents an area I am particularly interested in. This is fertile ground where elements of science and metaphysics intersect. Finally, I get to work with outstanding folks such as yourself, Captain Ducky, and Sir Eric (to name just a few)—a fun, quirky, and thoroughly delightful group of sci-fi/fantasy junkies and talented miscreants individuals.

2. Star Trek or Star Wars?

Yes, this seems to be a question that percolates throughout the sci-fi universe. Short answer is both, but for different reasons. In some respects, I think the question sets up a false dichotomy. I view Star Wars primarily as a film series. I have not read the many books that develop the Star Wars universe. I find the films appealing in how classic myths, themes, and archetypes are developed. I love the notion of “The Force” and the need for balance between light and dark, good and evil. The hero’s journey, redemption, destiny—these classic elements are all present in the films in such a wonderful and entertaining way. Compare these films to the Star Trek films and there really is no comparison.
Collectively, the Star Trek films, in my opinion, have been marginal at best. Although, I did really enjoy The Wrath of Khan. The Star Trek TV series and the various spin offs such as Next Gen, Deep Space 9, etc. are a very different entertainment medium, especially when it comes to exploring and developing social themes. There are so many more episodes available for writers and producers to develop characters, themes, interactions, enemies (Klingons, Borg, Sulibon, etc.). Gene Rodenberry, the creative force behind the original show, specifically wanted to call attention to social issues of the time.
In total, I don’t think Star Wars can hold a candle to the exploration of these issues we’ve seen developed through the Star Trek franchise. While Rodenberry was groundbreaking in the sense of using the series to raise social consciousness, George Lucas was groundbreaking in a different way. What LucasFilms and Industrial Light and Magic achieved amounted to something revolutionary. We get to enjoy the creative efforts of both of these revolutionaries.

3. If you were to write under a pen name, what would it be?

In general, I prefer writing under my own name. At least, that is where I feel most comfortable. If I author a piece of original work it is a reflection of some aspect of myself. To use a pen name suggests to me that I don’t want readers to truly know that I am the author. However, I am currently writing a satire and plan to publish it under a pseudonym, a sobriquet, a nom de plume. Pen name sounds too banal to me. The work is so outlandish that I can’t even take myself seriously and will instead attribute the work to a devious alter ego, Tungyn Cheque. That name, of course is just an expression of yours truly.

Dr. Victor Acquista has become a successful international author and speaker following careers as a primary-care physician and medical executive. His non-fiction and his workshops focus on personal growth and transformation, especially as pertains to health and wellness, more can be fond about that on this website. His fiction includes social messaging intended to get the reader engaged in thought provoking themes. Dr. Acquista has a longstanding interest in consciousness studies, is a student of Integral Theory, and strives to do his part to make our planet a wee bit better. He lives with his wife in Florida. He is a member of the Authors Guild, Writers Co-op, and is a Knight of the Sci-Fi Roundtable. You can catch up with him on his website, on Twitter and on Facebook.

From 'Wondrous Strange' by E.M. Swift-Hook a story from the Scifi Roundtable's The Quantum Soul anthology which is out today!

Something was amiss with the resonance here. Not just this Work, but through all the Symmetry. A memory bubbled within [^], recalling the content of the last harmonization one had shared with [=].

>>we are becoming infected by Entropy, my bond{0ne}<< insisted [=], with a welded mix of sadness and anger. >>as an Explorer I see it more than you Weavers. I experience the tiers and return to Symmetry and each return confirms again my perception. the greed of the 0nes to encompass and draw in ever more of energy into the Symmetry is having the opposite effect. each new fissure in the tiers, supposed to bring in more energy, is opening us to parasitic reflux. I have perceived it, I have recorded it, but the Influencers will not receive my concepts<<

Swirls of antipathy and frustration curled between them. In empathy, [^] harmonized and soothed, but one’s own equilibrium was not easy to maintain. If what [=] perceived was as it seemed, then all 0nes stood in danger of ultimate dispersal – of becoming eventual victims of Entropy.

>>why don’t they consider your findings? I can’t understand what they think they gain by ignoring them<<

>>they don’t ignore them [^]. they observe the entirety of infinity as if it were the Symmetry and hold that therefore, where we dwell, the equilibration of any energy excess will harmonize back into that Symmetry. they forget Infinity is symmetrical only through the process of equilibrium. so when excess causes instability, balance is restored through that process. but our Influencers do not face up to that. they prefer to give the mark of truth to those who hold we can obtain sufficient energy to replace the losses<<

Aghast.

>>how can we draw sufficient for stability from other entropic tiers? surely all we do by opening ever further Nexūs, is to allow more Entropy to inveigle us<<

>>wisdom from you my bond{0ne}, but not from other 0nes and certainly not from the Influencers<<

They shared a concurrence of harmony and [^] experienced the perceptions that had caused [=] such concern. It was not even slightly reassuring.

>>the very best we can do is avoid opening any more points of entropic access. those we have wrought might be resealed by using what energy we have gleaned from the tiers through the ways exploited by 0nes from The First Budding. if we do so, we are inevitably diminished, our Symmetry less glorious and far-reaching, but at least we are spared from Entropy<<

'Wondrous Strange' is a Fortune's Fools origins story - for Durban Chola. Read the whole story in The Quantum Soul anthology which is out today!

What is a soul? The child asked the wind
But the wind neither answered nor cared
What is a soul? Cried the soldier blue
And his tortured young voice rent the air
What is a soul? The young mother mused
As she tenderly rocked the cradle
Who has a soul? Was the old man’s cry
Someone tell me if anyone’s able
What is a soul? And who has such a thing?
Are the questions that torment the mind
The answers are tender as thistledown
As hard for to hold and to find
What is a soul? Is a cry from the heart
From the child, from the mother the son
It’s the question that burns in the depths of the breast
From the day that the thread is first spun
What is a soul? The spectre sings
As it blindly flies into the night
There’s never an answer from gods nor kings
And there isn’t a wrong. Or a right

© jane jago 2017

An excerpt from 'When Words are Not Enough' by Cindy Tomamichel one of the sixteen amazing short stories in the Scifi Roundtable's new anthology The Quantum Soul.

“We got another big day of writing ahead of us, I know you have it in you. Dig deep.” I wiped Captain Smith‘s spittle off my face and nodded. I had heard it before. Hell, we all had. We had been on the Shakespeare for so long we had forgotten where we had come from, let alone where we were going. Sure, there were legends, but like all the stories on the ship, they got twisted to make them more entertaining, anything for a laugh, to amuse the cargo.

The Captain’s magneto neck coils glowed red, and I refocused. She wasn’t a happy Captain being ignored. “Now, I need a volunteer,” she growled. “Which one of you hacks has hit the wall?” I held my face straight as she clumped past the rows of writers, her one good eye flickering red. The diodes must need replacing.

Inside I trembled. The table behind her had a pile of red shirts on it, and we all knew that meant a suicide mission. “Please pick me,” I heard someone whisper, then realized it was myself. I bit my lip, and stepped forward.

Behind me the room rustled as others also stepped forward. Captain Smith flicked a glance at them and they retreated. I held firm, this might be my only chance. She was so close I could feel the heat from the coils on my face. “You ready for the red shirt, hack? You think you’re burnt out enough for this job?”

“Yes ma’am,” I said.

“This your second or third millennia?”

“Forth, ma’am. I was in the original intake, I wrote my first story and got transferred from the science section.”

I heard the others gasp. With all the rejuvenations we took, most of us looked different year to year. Hell, I couldn’t remember if I had been male or female when I came on board. I was pretty sure I had been human, unlike the evolved cats who still retained a certain tendency to whiskers.

But I still remembered signing up. A five year tour they told us, to get to the nearest system with planets. The ship was a longevity one, with a pile of rich bastards that lay like logs in cold storage, while we kept on rejuvenating. And writing. To keep the cold storage passengers mentally alive, stories were channelled directly into their brains. But they always wanted more.

Their reviews got fed into the computer and controlled our lives. The computer ran the ship, we were nothing more than rats in the tunnels, tapping buttons to get review stars. The more stars, the more rations. But we went through a meteorite storm that first year, and something happened to the computer. It announced we were to refer to it as “Zon” and then it never spoke to us again, although it did monitor us and our reviews.

“Right, you, come to my office,” Captain Smith barked. “The rest of you hacks, go pound out some words.” She paused. “I know you still have some left. Dismissed.”

I glanced at the others as I followed Captain Smith out, the red shirt clutched in my hands already damp with sweat. Their haggard faces gave me courage. They had run out of stories, we all had. But the audience was insatiable.

The Quantum Soul is available for pre-order and releases tomorrow.

Find out more about Cindy on her website or check out her books on Amazon.

Cindy has a story in The Quantum Soul anthology which is out tomorrow!

Q1: What do you think is the best thing about writing a short story rather than a novel?

Q2: Do you enjoy reading anthologies?

Q3: What gave you the idea for your story in The Quantum Soul?

“You can confirm your registered name is Charity Sweetling?”
Charis nodded, expecting to see the usual smile when she gave her full name, but this official just raised an eyebrow.
“I need you to answer me, please. You are in no way disabled so a full verbal answer is required.”
“Oh. Sure. Sorry. Yes. That is my registered name. But could I ask what this is about?”
The official glanced up, looking back to his screen, as if he had not heard her question.
“You were born on a non-Coalition planet and arrived in Central when you were assessed as being an estimated four years old, a certain Vor Franet declared you as a seeker of asylum on the grounds that were you to be returned to your home you would face certain abuse through enslavement.”
Charity nodded again, then realised and said quickly: “Yes.”
The official went on in the same uninflected voice as if he were reading a shopping list rather than dissecting her life.
“You were accepted into the Coalition Protected Children Program and placed with a family who ensured you received an appropriately supervised upbringing and education. On achieving full majority and adult status you undertook the required military service of the Program and completed it successfully.”
The official stopped again and looked across at her.
“I think it’s a bit unfair to describe my upbringing as just ‘appropriately supervised’. My parents gave me the very best they could. They gave me an awesome upbringing, a loving upbringing, a fun and caring upbringing – ”
“Var Sweetling,” the man cut across her, “are you wanting to challenge your upbringing as not being appropriately supervised? Or report the Coalition Program has been at fault in some way?”
Charis shook her head. Then, under the expectant glare of the man sitting opposite her, said: “No, I do not want to challenge anything about my upbringing.”
“And you will confirm the other details I stated are correct? Or do you need me to repeat them for you?”
Charity began to feel uneasy. This appointment, at almost zero notice, had been pushed on her out of the blue in a severely worded linkmail, which made it clear failure to comply would lead to any number of unpleasant consequences. It meant she needed to take half a day off work and fly back overnight from her scheduled stop-over to make it, forcing poor Ebon to jig some very creative adjustments to the roster. But since it came with the badge of the Central Immigration Taskforce, she was obliged to attend. Charis linked her mother as soon as the appointment arrived, but even she had no idea what it could be about.
“Probably just some un-dotted I or uncrossed T in their internal files,” her mother said. “But if it turns out there is a problem, just let me know and we’ll get it sorted out. Do you want me to come down there with you as your legal representative?”
Sometimes having a lawyer for a mother could be very reassuring. But Charis, not wanting to force her into the three-day planet hop it would have meant, told her not to bother and promised to let her know how it went.
“Var Sweetling? This is very important. Can you please confirm -”
“Uh – yes. Yes, you have the facts right.”
The official went on: “You have been employed as a pilot for the last eight years, working for the Rota Corporation in a role which complied with the reserved occupations list.”
“If by that you mean shunting big freighters around the galaxy, then yes.”
The official nodded as if pleased she grasped the idea of the interview at last.
“And you recently moved your occupation to work for – ” He paused as if in doubt about the words on the screen he read from. “The Wild Ride Superb Bus.”
There was an awkward silence.
“It is a tourist shuttle a good friend of mine, Ebon Wild, set up – it’s not really a job, more of a sabbatical. Just a chance to do something a bit different before I go back to cargo shunting.”
“I only require you to confirm the veracity of the details I have here, please, Var Sweetling.”
“Oh for -” she bit back the words and tried to calm down. “I mean, yes. Yes, I can confirm it. But what is all this about?”
“Your present occupation is not on the reserved list, Var Sweetling.”
Charity struggled to see that as an explanation and shook her head.
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything. It is a temporary contract and when it expires I’m back to the big ships again. Rota even told me they would take me back right away no need to go through the application and trials again. Like I said before, it is more of a sabbatical to help a friend get their start-up off the ground. Literally.”
The official seemed to be listening and waited, wearing a polite expression of indifference until she finished.
“Your present occupation,” he repeated, in the same toneless voice as before, “is not on the reserved list.”
Charis felt the confusion returning. It made no sense.
“I really do not understand what this is about.”
“Let me put it in plain words, Var Sweetling -”
“Oh please do, plainer the better – this is just sounding bizarre.”
“The Security of Place and Persons Committee has decided the term of your asylum is now over. The original conditions of it being in place – you being an unescorted minor in need of safety – no longer apply and the sole mitigation you held through working in reserved employment, is no longer valid. As a result, Var Sweetling I need to inform you that you are no longer a citizen of Central nor – since you were born outside it – of the Coalition.”

‘The Interview’ concludes next week…

From Trust A Few - Part One of Fortune's Fools 'Haruspex' trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook.