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…

Vane nursed no illusions about the fate of those conscripted to serve under him. For the vast majority, joining the Specials meant nothing more than a deferred death sentence. His troops served with an average life expectancy of just under two years. Most died very quickly, either on active service or were killed in the gruelling training. Others fell afoul of their own violent recreational activities or failed to sustain the psychological strength needed and committed suicide. Some died in brawls or were murdered by their comrades. Yet it remained a truism whenever a dirty job needed doing anywhere in the Coalition’s sphere of influence, the Specials were first on the ground, often ahead of the AI mechs. Vane took pride from that. He heard the troops did too.
Ironically, it meant, to be standing here, this soldier could only be the toughest kind: a man who could survive and even thrive in such an environment.To date, those few up before him for release, fell into one of two categories: those who were ruthless and brutal in pursuit of their self-preservation, and those who were high functioning socially, surviving as much through their ability to engage with others as by their own prowess. He thought of them as the ‘Lone Wolves’ and the ‘Socialites’. The ones he passed fit to leave were of the latter type. Yet so far this man seemed to defy both categories and until he could fit him into one or the other it would be difficult to make a call.
He looked back from the screens to the man himself.
“How do you feel about becoming a civilian?”
The green eyes showed no expression.
“I have been informed it can be very rewarding, sir. I see it as an opportunity to serve the community of the Coalition and the chance for my own self-development and personal fulfilment – sir.”
Lines from a manual. The last individual he cleared for release, which must be over a year ago, said much the same: words any ex-criminal would have engraved into their psyche before being passed fit to rejoin society.
“You were arrested for perpetrating numerous acts of terrorism against the Coalition. How do you feel about that now?”
From beyond the holofacade, Vane noticed the lounging figure stir and pull the chair upright, leaning forward with sudden interest, staring a little to the side where, no doubt, screens were showing selected close-up angles and readings taken from the Lattice. But from Vane’s own perspective, there was little reaction to see. The soldier’s face remained impassive as he spoke:
“Although I acknowledge my guilt in many terrible crimes against humanity, due to my amnesia I have no memory of committing them. The Coalition is a just and compassionate association of free, democratic people. I cannot understand why I would ever have wished to commit such heinous acts.”
It sounded rehearsed, not at all the language of a ranker in the Legion and Vane noticed a frown forming on the face of the observer as their fingers moved, recording notes. The Commodore, feeling himself as much observed in this as Revid, pressed the point.
“Do you understand the nature of the crimes you committed?”
“I do, sir.”
The burly Sergeant Hynas standing behind Revid, had been glaring in silent protest for some time. Now he cleared his throat. Vane suppressed a momentary irritation and nodded his permission for the man to speak.
“With respect, sir, this man has been wired to the Lattice for the last five years, he has no real idea of what anything means except obeying orders and killing. He’s just a killer,” the Sergeant said, spitting the word, “and all he did before his arrest were killing, so it’s natural he would see nothing wrong with it now. I don’t care what the neurocologists say about it, I know this man and that’s the simple truth. That’s why it’s taken them so long to even consider clearing him for discharge, sir.”
For the first time since the interview began, Vane saw a spark of animation in Revid’s eyes. The fixed gaze shifted to meet his own, it’s intensity disconcerting.
“Permission to speak, sir.”
“He’s a – “
Vane silenced the protesting Sergeant with a curt gesture.
“Permission granted, soldier.”
“Sergeant Hynas is under the impression I am unable to judge the moral difference between unjust murder and just warfare, between mindless terrorism and the well considered use of force. I would like it to be on my record I am very much aware of the difference between the two.I made a public statement renouncing my previous criminal activities, some years ago, activities for which I have the deepest disgust.” It was his longest speech so far and for once his tone held a bite of emotion. Vane felt very sure Sergeant Hynas had been tormenting this man for a long time. “I have been given numerous additional tests to ascertain this and despite my application being rejected and returned for review four times, each time I have been cleared for release. I would like to vindicate the wisdom of the Coalition’s system of justice, offer service to the community as a civilian and take this chance to recommence my life. Sir.”
Vane sat still for a moment, shocked into silence. He had never heard any of his Legionaries speak like that. Coming from the mouth of the scarred, adapted creature before him, with an ugly direct brain-linked data port visible behind one ear, the incongruity of it left him feeling profoundly unsettled. The language sounded far from anything heard in the ranks and this did not seem like a well rehearsed speech, which made it increasingly difficult to line up such fluent expression with the idea of total amnesia.

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.

Every morning for thirty years, Geoff walked past number forty and saw the stone elephant. It stood three foot high with flowers cascading, changing according to the season, from the howdah on its back. It had been part of his morning commute.
As the years went by he found himself making up stories about it on the train.
The day he retired, he saw the elephant for the last time and made a decision. Taking a picture of it on his phone. He got home and started writing a children’s book – about a garden ornament elephant that came to life…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Having never encountered Duke Grandfather, or the Nuisance Men, before I came to this little book without preconception. I hoped for a good, fast-paced fantasy laced with a dollop of humour.
I wasn’t disappointed.
It didn’t really take too much to figure out what a Nuisance Man does, and although the peculiarities of his gun were never explained it didn’t get in the way of my enjoyment.
I loved the way the author just picks you up and dumps you right in the middle of Duke Grandfather’s life; if you’re new to the books you kind of have to sink or swim, but there are so many life rafts about that the swimming is easy and the story hurtles along at such a pace that you don’t have time to worry too much if you don’t completely understand a small detail or the nuances of a particular relationship. I loved it.
The idea of a portal to hell isn’t revolutionary, but it is handled with a fresh imagination and the outcome is never a sinecure.
I don’t want to compare this with anybody else’s take on a strange city in a strange land, instead I will say that this book is fast, funny, clever and very well written.
My advice?
Read it…
Five big fat shiny stars.

Jane Jago

Duke Grandfather is back!

If you are already fully involved in the world of Duke Grandfather this is another wonderful addition to his saga and I doubt you even need a review – you’ll have seen it and bought it right away!
Duke Grandfather Unleashes Hell (most aptly named) is a short read set after the main events of the series and features most of the characters one has come to know throughout reading it. Like the other stories in the series, it is fast-paced, tension-packed, hilarious and full of the unexpected. But what else could it be when a bottomless pit to the heart of Hell opens up in Capital City?
Backed by his friends and allies like Brindar the Dwarf, and even his less-than friends like the enigmatic Raven, and of course Lily his beloved necromancer wife, Duke Grandfather has to find a way to defeat the Bone-Lord and seal up the Pit before Hell is irrevocably unleashed.
Comparisons to Pratchett’s world and style must spring to mind, and if you are a fan of that you might very well love Duke Grandfather. But personally, I see them as very different perspectives on a similar theme.
However for those who are frowning in puzzlement at the odd name and wondering what exactly is a Nuisance Man, much as I feel this is a wonderfully accessible short story, I would sooo advise you to go back to the beginning and pick up a copy of Tales of a Nuisance Man so you can follow the whole wonderful saga through from its beginning – Oh, and you’ll find out what a Nuisance Man is as well 😉
I absolutely love the Duke Grandfather series and enjoyed having a chance to revisit it in this short. Please may there be some more!

E.M. Swift-Hook

To be honest, the astronomy lecture made no sense, but there was going to be supper after the talk and Bella was perpetually hungry.
Outside, the night was cloudless and the sheer glory of the wheeling sparkling sky all but took her breath. When you’ve lived in the caverns all your life the sheer bigness of the firmament either excites or terrifies you.
Bella just looked and looked.
“That’s Orion the giant,” a voice beside her said.
Bella could see no giant, only the goddess’ stars on the blue bosom of the sky.
That night a moon priestess was born.

©Jane Jago

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

Midnight Runner was stalking a treasure ship from Hispaniola keeping a careful distance and doing nothing to draw attention to herself. But her captain, Tall Jack Stainless, was puzzled. Rey Don Phillipos was a big ugly bitch of a ship, riding low in the water, and seemingly unaware of an imminent tropical storm. If her captain had any sense he would have been crowding on all possible sail and beating for the shelter of the closest of a group of verdant islands – where the hidden teeth of a coral reef would hole his ship and leave it at the mercy of the pirate crew – or dropping the sea anchor and preparing to ride out the storm as best he might. However, he was doing neither, instead the ship held tightly to her course, making her majestic, if slightly wallowing, way across a sea that looked like molten copper.
Gobshite, the talking rat, stood on his hind legs and came as close to a frown as his rodentine physiognomy would permit.
“Whassamatter with the stupid bastards,” he hissed. “Don’t they know that ugly old scow will founder at the least breath of wind?”
“Apparently not.”
“What’s the plan then, boss?”
“As she ain’t gonna sail into Nombre Dios Bay, we have to take her in open water. So we wait for reinforcements.”
“Coming are they?”
“No. We’re just gonna sit here until the old Runner rots under us.”
Gobby scratched his scarred head. “What good’s dat boss?”
Jack clouted him ungently. “Of course they are coming you dimwit. I made the signal two hours since. The wrecker is on her way.”
“Why didn’t you say, Cap?”
“I just did.”
The rat opened his mouth, and Jack braced himself for further stupidity. A low whistle from the crow’s nest rescued his thinly stretched patience.
He hurried to the taffrail and looked windward. A dark-coloured three-master with steeply-raked sides was coming towards them as fast as every sail she could muster would permit. It was the wrecker, a fast clipper with a specially reinforced bow that would cut through most ordinary ships like a knife through butter. It would be crewed by whoever was idling their time away in the waterfront stews of Retiro de Ladrones. This lot looked keen, as the wrecker was already on a collision course with the overloaded treasure ship. As the raked clipper passed the bow of the Runner. Jack caught sight of a head of hair as red as the setting sun and realised who the crew were. He swore briefly before issuing a set of crisp orders.
“Crowd on the sail boys. Bony Mary and her mad girls are on the wrecker.”
The sails unfurled and the pirates armed themselves ready for a fight.
The crash as the wrecking ship hit the side of Phillipos could probably have been heard by the treasure ship’s owners back in Spain and it was quickly followed by the ululating cries of the female pirates as they swarmed onto the deck of the wounded ship. The crack of musket fire could be heard, even above the increasingly loud screams and groans.
Jack recognised the tall, handsome figure that stood on the poop deck of the crippled treasure ship at about the same time as his crew did. It was Don Carlos de Herrera y Corrado, whose cruelty was a byword across the Spanish Main. The Don used fire against crippled ships, castrated captured men with his own hands, and took women and children to be sold in the slave markets of Asia Minor. An angry hiss spread from mouth to mouth aboard the Runner and, as usual, it was Gobby who found his voice first.
“If it ain’t Don Carlos his own self. Nobody better get between me and that one.”
Jack ignored him.
“Grappling hooks ready boys. And boys. Make sure somebody takes out that arrogant bastard on the poop deck.”
The growls of assent suited Jack’s mood, and the instant the Runner rubbed her side against the stricken Spaniard he was over the rail with a pistol in one hand and a hook-bladed knife in the other. The Spanish soldiers guarding the treasure were well-drilled and operated in two ranks. One rank stood and fired muskets while their compatriots crouched to reload. Then they swapped. But for all their experience and discipline, none of them had ever experienced anything like the sheer ferocity of the female pirates under the command of the imposing figure that was Bony Mary. The women swarmed over them like a tidal wave, taking many wounds in the process but completely undeterred by injury to themselves or the screams of the men they got their hands on.
Mary herself led the charge, with a thick stave of ironwood in one massive fist and a wickedly sharp knife in the other. As her girls overran the musketeers by dint of sheer numbers and almost unimaginable savagery, Mary thrust her cudgel into a loop on her belt and bent over the first live musketeer. She cut him open with one swift stroke of her skinning knife. Ignoring his screams, she moved on to the next soldier. She had gutted about a dozen of them when her eye fell on the aristocratic figure of the Spanish Commanding Officer as he duelled with the blood-maddened gremlin that was Gobshite the rat.
Taking a running jump at the railing around the poop she crashed through the woodwork to land behind the hidalgo. Even as he pressed home the advantage his height and reach gave him over the berserk rodent, Mary slashed the tendons behind his right knee with scientific precision. Don Carlos turned his death’s head grin on her.
“Too cowardly to take me one at a time?” he hissed.
Mary laughed and licked the blade of her skinning knife. The Spaniard must have realised what the wall-eyed giantess had in mind, because he redoubled his efforts to disarm, maim or kill Gobby, whilst at the same time trying to keep an eye on the dangerous madwoman. It wasn’t going well for him until Gobby lost his footing momentarily, and the saw-edged poignard slipped from his sweating claw. The Spaniard ran him through neatly and turned to face Mary with his blooded blade moving like a snake’s head in the metallic light. Unfortunately for him, the rat wasn’t that easy to kill and Gobby reared up from the ground, jumping onto his foeman’s shoulders and sinking long, yellow teeth into the pulsing artery in Don Carlos’ throat. Even as the Spaniard desperately tried to dislodge Gobby, Mary attacked.
“Nooo.” The man’s despairing cry was loud enough to stop the fighting around him. “Nooo. You promised me I would be invincible.”
Whatever else he had been going to say was cut short by a scream of mortal agony as Mary slashed open his guts. and Gobby drank his lifeblood. A single pistol shot gave him the mercy of a swift death.

Jane Jago

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

Oh what can ail thee, nightingale
Alone and with no song to sing
When moonlight strikes the underpass
And iron rails do ring

Oh what has made thee weep and cry
And huddle in thy threadbare coat
Why do salt tears seep from thine eyes
And clog thy long white throat

I see a faded summer rose
Entangled in thy midnight hair
And though the light shines in thy face
I see no spark of moonlight there

I met a man the maiden sighed
Full fat and fair was he
Who brought me from my garden green
And promisèd his love to me

But he was not an honest wight
For all his eyes were blue
He walked away one stormy night
And left me here to rue

My garden and my precious home
Within it’s sheltering wall
I know le beau homme sans merci
Me hath in thrall

And this is why I wait alone
All sad and palely loitering
He robbed me of my greatest gift
And left me with no song to sing

©jj 2021

The following day Avilon had deposited her travel bag at the spaceport and reached her chosen observation point in good time. A bench under a tree. She had identified it as giving her a clear view of three of the entrances to the mausoleum. Like most across Coalition space, it was set in a small park. Many mausoleums were polyhedral with the octagonal format being most favoured.  This one was smoothly round beneath its dome, three stories high, with curved alcoves pushing the building’s walls out in bulges, so it looked a little like a sophisticated dessert, upturned on a serving dish.
Considering the venue, she had dressed appropriately and wore a traditional mourning veil over her face. Just as most of the women and many of the men present were doing as a mark of respect or simply to hide the signs of their grief. Except this veil was not as traditional as it appeared. Aside obscuring her features and making her hard to recognise, the fabric was designed to disrupt facial recognition in a way no amount of current technology could correct.
The weather was overcast, which seemed to fit well with the mood of the place. Two funerals arrived as she waited, the people filing in solemn procession through one of the entrances, the coffins bourne on silent gurneys, flanked by smartly clad relatives and followed by friends. Once inside they would be shown into one of the side-chambers of the mausoleum, where they would sit and listen to speeches in praise and remembrance of the one who had died.
After the second of the funerals had gone inside, Avilon checked the time and took the security cameras offline, before walking slowly to join a third funeral procession making its way into the mausoleum. There was nothing preventing her simply walking in to honour the dead, but as part of a larger group she drew less attention from the staff and it was not difficult to detach herself unobserved once inside. She had spotted Car Torbalen walking in the middle of the second procession, a veil over his head and his demeanour as grave as the rest of the mourners, only recognisable by his bulk and the way he moved. She wondered if he was indeed there to attend that funeral. It would have provided a solid pretext to satisfy the Legacy whilst removing him from under their scrutiny. It was a good idea to keep in mind that he was a very clever man.
Even though it was dull outside, the dimly lit interior of the mausoleum seemed dark. Avilon had to allow a few moments for her eyes to adjust as she looked around. The funeral procession she had followed was still slowly filing into a side-chamber, guided by silent ushers. There were also a handful of people in the main body of the building, come to visit their dead. Avilon looked up to where the domed roof was set with thousands of shining points of light. Most were white but there were reds and blues and greens there too, illuminated from around the dome. Each point of light, a gemstone formed from the remains of someone who had died many years before. The gems of the more recently deceased were set in special cabinets where relatives could visit them and place flowers or leave other tokens. These cabinets were in the alcoves, tiered around the walls, accessible by open walkways on each floor so the echoing silence and beauty of the dome was omnipresent.
Torbalen was visible on the top walkway, leaning on the rail and looking up at the dome. He had removed the veil and seemed oblivious to her presence or that of anyone else, lost in thoughts of infinity and mortality, perhaps. It was hard to tell as the lighting was too poor, but it was very clear he was alone.
This was not a place to rush or be seen to move fast, so Avilon walked as quickly as she could without breaking convention and drawing attention to herself. Appearing to be a not-so-recently bereaved relative, moving with purpose to visit her dead. Once she was on the highest gallery she lifted her own veil. Torbalen must have heard her approach as she made no attempt to move silently but he remained, arms folded on the rail, contemplating the starry vault of the mausoleum dome. It was only when she was a couple of paces away, he turned, briefly, met her gaze and stepped into the alcove behind them. Avilon followed.
“My parents are here,” he said, not turning to face her. He opened one of the cabinets to reveal two crystals resting in a soft cloth bed, nestled side by side in the gentle glow of the cabinet’s lighting. “It won’t be long before they are set in the dome – five years I’ve been told. They need the space for the more recently deceased.”
Avilon wondered what to say. Her own parents, dead in an accident that she had long since doubted really was one, would be somewhere in a Central mausoleum. She had never been to visit them and was not sure she would want to even if it were ever possible. She was no longer the child they had raised or the person they had known, in more ways than the merely physical.
“This is your homeworld?” she asked after the silence stretched too long.
“It was. Once. I don’t think any of us really have a home as such now, do we? And yes, I am here for the funeral of a relative. My brother.” He lifted a hand as Avilon drew breath to speak. “No need for condolences and you are not intruding on private grief with this meeting. We were never exactly close. In fact, I can’t recall the last time we had a civil word for each other – and that includes our shared childhood. But it was still expected for me to be here, of course.”
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”
Torbalen half-turned to sweep his hand over the cabinet, closing it again, leaving them in the dark of the alcove.
“You didn’t give me much choice. I need the information you have.”

From the eighth Fortune’s Fools book Iconoclast: Not To Be by E.M Swift-Hook .

I don’t know when it happened
But somehow I got old
Everything turned silver
When it once was gold

Except the music that I love
Is now all ‘golden oldies’
But to me it is as fresh
As this year’s new-sprung daisies!

I used to be unlabeled
Upon the internet
Now I’m a ‘silver surfer’
A term I much regret.

Yet e’en as my hair turns silver
I’m in my golden years
Though I see little reason
To grace it with such cheer

For all this precious metal
Is pointless simile
I’m as poor as the proverbial
No silver or gold for me!

E.M. Swift-Hook

Mother told Sebastian that conflict is drama. After which he spent his life engineering conflict and being dramatic about the outcome – loudly and to the detriment of the mental health of his workforce.
This was fine as long as his uncle owned the place, but then the old guy retired. Sold the factory to a swarthy individual with an unpronounceable name and a lot of cousins with calloused hands and intricate ink on their arms and shoulders.
Nobody knew precisely who Sebastian pissed off with his habitual dramatics. But they did know how quiet he was with a broken jaw.

©Jane Jago

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Fireworks.
What is the effing point of effing fireworks?
At any time.
They might look pretty for all of about ten seconds, but they leave disgusting litter all over the place when they come down that is positively toxic and someone always gets hurt.
At least the Americans, when they do it, is all about celebration – not remembering some poor bastard who got hung, drawn and quartered for failing to do something we’ve all fantasised about. And our colonial cousins have the sense to choose a nice warm time of year when you can sit out and watch the ruddy things without freezing your bollocks off.
But Brits on Bonfire Night?
Has no one noticed it’s November and freezing cold?
You stand shivering in your wellies in someone’s muddy effing garden and a drunk man in shorts sets fire to some stuff.
In November. In the cold.
Drinking iced strong lager and usually served some burnt offerings from the BBQ or break-teeth chestnuts thrown on the fire. And then you wind up with a jacket potato that’s raw in the middle, ditto a sausage…
Meanwhile your nextdoor neighbour’s cat has scratched someone in panic and your great-nephew little Oliver has singed his sister’s hair with a sparkler.
And then it always rains just as the fireworks begin.
I swore off the whole thing years ago and now me and Gyp turn the TV up and settle in on the sofa with a decent boxed set.
The sheer waste of money and effort beggars belief – not to mention you have frightened pets and toddlers all across the country whose idea of fun is not loud bangs and flashes.
And it’s not even as though it all gets over and done on the one sodding day!
Remember, remember the fifth of November…
Not the fourth, the third, the seventh or the ninth!
If you must set fire to your money please at least confine your efforts to one day so the rest of us don’t have to endure a whole bloody week of it.
Get a grip or granny will shove a riprap up your arse.