Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!
There’s been an awful lot of bullshit written about what women should find sexy and it’s about time somebody put a firm foot on the scrotum of the pedlars of foolish ideas. Budgie smugglers on fat men are not sexy. Muscular development that means a man can’t cross his legs isn’t sexy. Excessive ink isn’t so much sexy as distracting – it’s difficult to concentrate on the sex if you’re trying to read the tattoos. Old men whose necks look like penises aren’t sexy. Fifty shades of abuse isn’t sexy. And dick pics are just sad. No – if you want to be really pant-wetting practice your stand-up comedy and learn where the clitoris is located.
The priestess poked disdainfully at the mangled tiara at her feet. In a quite ordinary voice she remarked to nobody in particular ‘Tiara of office, what in the name of all the seven hells is that about…’ One of the brown-clad monks spoke softly; ‘It was intended to symbolise the leather thong with which the holy Mahabaratma tied up her hair when she worked in the fields to grow food for the son of man, but I think its meaning got lost in translation’. ‘Indeed, brother Abram, you could certainly say that. But this is neither the time nor the place for theological discussion, we have a lot to do in ten short days. Take your brethren, and a detachment of burly soldiers and do your duty in the temples. There is to be no gold, nor silver, nor precious gems left in any temple in this city. No priest is to be dressed in silks or satins or cloth of gold; simple monkly habits and austere lifestyles are to be the order of the day. In order to achieve this, you will need to remove from office all those you deem to be greedy, or venal, or licentious, or otherwise unsuitable to serve our Holy Mother. If you cannot find sufficient simple pious men and women in the city – and it is my thought you will not – then you will need to bring in priests and priestesses to serve.’ Brother Abram bowed. ‘It shall be as my lady decrees.’ As the monks left the square accompanied by a detachment of husky soldiery, the priestess said something in a very low voice to the eagle who perched motionless on her shoulder. It lifted its head and gave a harsh cry before hopping to the ground and picking up the mangled tiara in its talons. As it lifted off from the cobbles the priestess said ‘fly well, Farsight, my friend’. She turned to the general, who awaited her orders with no sign of impatience. ‘Shall we assay the palace then, my father?’ ‘I suppose we must, although I’ll leave the Sergeant at Arms and half the army to maintain order in the streets. I hope your stomach is feeling strong, my dear, because unless somebody in there has done something about the bodies it is going to stink in there’. As it happened somebody had done something about the bodies. The young commanding officer had put his faith in Sergeant Gandy and Corporal Bilwil, who put their heads together and set the palace guard to bring up some of the hundreds of barrels of brandy wine from the palace cellars. Each body had been carefully identified, and, when the exact cause of death had been determined by the military surgeon, placed in a labelled barrel to be preserved by the spirituous liquor therein. By the time the church soldiers sought admission, there had even been time for the palace guard, and those servants who had not run away, to scour the walls and floors of blood and other bodily fluids. Thus the Priestess of the Sky and her entourage found themselves faced with some thirty barrels, each with a piece of parchment nailed to it. The priestess walked over to the first barrel and read aloud; ‘Prince Olof, aged four years and three months. Decapitated.’ She moved to the next; ‘Empress Anaya, aged fifty-two years. Tortured. Beaten. Raped. Hacked to death. Somebody didn’t like her majesty, although from what I hear that doesn’t narrow the field by much. Who is in charge here?’ The young commanding officer stepped forward. ‘Is this all of the bodies?’ ‘Yes, my lady.’ ‘And are all the minor members of the Imperial family here?’ ‘No, my lady. The princess Ana isn’t among the bodies. An extensive search of the palace and the grounds has yielded no trace of her – and we used the bloodhounds when they returned to their kennels. We can only conclude that either she escaped, or the assassins took her.’ The general stepped forwards; ‘There are thirty-one barrels, and our information is there were thirty-one minor members of the Imperial family, and now you say we are missing a princess. So who is the thirty-first body?’ ‘A young person who was believed to enjoy His Majesty’s sexual favours. He was marked with the traitor’s brand before having his throat slit. Which would seem to explain how the assassins found the secret tunnels.’ The priestess frowned. ‘How very tidy. But possible I suppose. Who was the young person?’ ‘His name was Wei, and he was one of the C’hin, although his mother was born to the Schiapetti.’
Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!
I thought I had seen every possible eyebrow, but boy was I wrong. Plucked, arched, thick, thin, fine, winged – pale into insignificance beside felt tip brow. The brown or black scrawl halfway up the orange face. It’s as if somebody appended a couple of slugs to a persimmon and managed to persuade the young and clueless that this was attractive. It’s not. It even frightens passing birds. I have been sighing sadly, and putting it down to the folly of youth. But wait. A (forty-plus by the neck) makeup ‘designer’ actually claims to have invented ‘the brow’. Ye gods…
Seeing Avilon’s eyes open, the old woman smiled at him showing off a single, broken tooth. She said some words which he could not understand, at the same time raising the spoon towards his lips. For one jarringly irrational moment, Avilon wondered if the blow to his head had caused left-brain damage, affecting his ability to understand speech. But as she continued in the same reassuring tones, he realised that she was just speaking in a language he did not know. And that was strange. More than strange. Coalition Standard was the common tongue from the most highly advanced planets of Central to the most far-flung, under-developed and over-exploited worlds of the Periphery. As far as Avilon was aware there were only a handful of places which had, by chance – or choice of their colonists in centuries past – developed or adopted a separate separate language, taking Standard as a second tongue. The few such he had ever heard of were outposts in the Periphery, so it was not entirely bad news. At least that meant he was likely to be somewhere his enemies were not going to find him quickly. The old woman smiled again and clucked encouragingly as if she were trying to feed an infant, pushing the spoon against the barrier of his teeth. He turned his head away and struggled to sit up, his body feeling strangely unwieldy and reluctant to obey. The effort induced a wave of vertigo. He fought down a renewed surge of nausea and forced himself up, freeing his arms from the restrictive blankets. “No more.” Avilon had wanted the words to sound assertive, but all that came out was an indistinct rasping sound. Still holding the spoon in one hand, the old woman tried to press him back down on the pallet, chattering excitedly in a loud whisper as though she did not wish to be overheard. He raised a hand meaning to push her arm away, but the movement was sloppy and ill-coordinated, catching her shoulder with more force than he had intended and sending her toppling over backwards. She started to scream then, calling out in a high pitched wail of fear as she wriggled out of his reach to cower on the far side of the shelter. Almost instantly a flap of cloth was flung back at the other end of the tent and a young man burst in – more child than man, perhaps in his mid-teens. His head was shaved and he was wearing a strange looking outfit, with a band of small wooden boxes slung over the one shoulder, some kind of projectile firing pistol jammed into his belt and a whip held in one hand. His eyes fixed on Avilon with a contemptuous look and he snapped some words at the old woman. She promptly stopped wailing and started to crawl towards him, speaking all the time in an ingratiating sing-song whine. Avilon kept very still. Under normal conditions, he could have easily dealt with the boy and disarmed him, but he was still half-drugged and his body was both weak and dangerously slow. Besides, he had no idea of where he was, who these people were or what was going on. He tried again to speak, but the words came out as a meaningless harsh croak. The youngster ignored him, silenced the old woman with a word and gestured for her to retrieve the bowl and spoon. As she did so, he looped the whip back at his belt and strode over to the pallet, making a grab for Avilon’s wrists, presumably intending to restrain him whilst the old woman forced fed him with the drugged slop. Summoning what little of strength and agility he could muster, Avilon rolled himself aside and drove a fist up to meet the young man’s throat as he leant forward. It was much too slow to make effective contact, but the youngster jerked back in surprise, breath hissing between his teeth. Using this brief advantage, Avilon kicked out, hampered by the blankets, but pushing the boy off balance and bringing him down. The old woman had started to scream again, but there was nothing he could do about that. Ignoring the light-headed giddiness that threatened from the borders of his mind, Avilon worked free of the blankets, diving into a forward roll, coming to his feet, breathing hard, already feeling what little strength he had was gone. The young man was up in the same moment. Unbelievably, his eyes now held the cold focus of someone looking to destroy and a knife flashed in his hand. Avilon had to let him come close and as the knife hand moved to strike, he was neither fast nor agile, only just succeeding in deflecting the blade, turning his body as he did so. But the counter strike went home and the youngster gasped once then collapsed heavily, temporarily immobilised. Dizzy now, Avilon was reaching for the pistol, his reactions slow and perceptions distorting. He had barely started to turn towards the new threat he heard from behind, when fresh black stars of agony exploded in his brain. The pistol slipped from his suddenly limp fingers and he felt the floor catch him as he fell. For a moment he was sure he was going to pass out but somehow he remained vaguely conscious, if incapable, as he was dragged back onto the pallet. This time he was unable to resist as his mouth was forced open and the foul tasting liquid was spooned in. Someone held his nose forcing him to swallow it, then they released him. He was dimly aware of the arrival of a third man and of an angry exchange taking place, but he could not understand what was said. Gradually, the drug began to numb his senses and he felt himself drifting into unconsciousness once more.
I miss my old bookshelf, he sighed It reminds me that time passes by That the books that I read Now exist in my head Though no more in front of my eyes
Sergeant Lian Gorfan propelled himself along the line that stretched between the shuttle and satellite base station. When he’d been a child his grandmother had always said, disparagingly, “That lad don’t know which way’s up!” Well now he did. Forget about the universe, up is defined by the airlock you are leaving. Another thing he’d learned in the marines, quality was shown in little things. It was the care taken by the tech who serviced your vac suit, the care taken when ‘throwing the line’ between two vessels. In this case it was the care the shuttle pilot had taken to align the shuttle airlock with the base station airlock so both were the ‘same way up’. Indeed the SRCC team which had placed the base station in orbit had made sure that its ‘top’ was aligned with the north pole of Tsarina. It seems a little thing, but it meant that as he moved along the line, he didn’t have a vertiginous feeling that he was about to plunge a thousand miles down to the planet surface. No, the planet was hanging there ahead of him, just to the left of the base station. He glided along the line, the momentum of his first jump carrying him smoothly along. Ahead of him, it must have been early afternoon in Kaunas City; he couldn’t make out the city itself but could see the straits of Farrant. Akin was moving through evening, great swirls of dark cloud covered it, thickening toward the north. He turned his attention to the station ahead of him. The hull plates were enamelled, another useful indicator that someone was taking care. The enamel coating wore better than steel. So if you expected the installation to last into its second century, enamelling was a cost-effective process. He reached the airlock, swung down, punched the ‘open’ button and waited for the door to slide open. He unclipped from the line and stepped into the airlock. He put down his tool chest and stood at ease, glancing around while waiting for the air pressure to equalise. Above the internal door, moulded into the metal was the slogan, “The Sands River Citrus Cooperative: Serving its members for over four thousand four hundred years.” Lian had read up about the SRCC in the shuttle. Formed initially as an agricultural cooperative it had branched out into meteorological prediction and weather satellites. From there to providing ‘intra-system traffic control services’ was a small step. Now the SRCC had a presence in well over a thousand systems, and insurance premiums were lower if you were shipping in an SRCC-monitored system. The inner door of the airlock opened, and Lian could see two men waiting for him, each wearing nondescript grey overalls with SRCC badges on the left breast. Lian unfastened his helmet. “Good day, gentlemen. I am Sergeant Lian Gorfan of Tsarina Marine Division; I believe you have a problem.” The older of the two men stepped forward. His head was shaven and tattooed extensively. Lian put him down as a Hubwards Initiate from Kraft. “I’m Taf, the Meteorologist,” said the man. “This is Aran, my colleague and intra-system traffic controller. I’ll try and explain while you take your vac suit off.” Lian gave him a casual salute and nodded to Aran. Aran too, had his head shaved, but Lian noticed that his overalls were short-sleeved and that on his arms and hands sections of the skin appeared to be covered with small mirrors. These mirrors were flexible; Lian could see that they conformed to the movements of the skin. Lian started to remove his gloves. Taf, with the air of a lecturer faced with students of uncertain intellect, began. “What do you know about computers?” Lian looked up from unfastening the seals on his torso plate. “Well, I hold the standard naval qualifications.” “So you know that no one in their right mind links one computer to another so they can communicate electronically.” Lian parroted the answer from one of his training manuals. “This is Standard Operating Procedure to stop some bright twelve year old producing a virus which can disrupt banking systems or send power stations off-line.” “Exactly,” Taf sounded like he was trying to encourage one of the slower members of class, “and so we communicate with computers through a keyboard, voice, hand-signals or by having them use optical recognition software on printed documents. Except that, at SRCC, we don’t. Because of the sheer volume of meteorological data, we have to use electronic transfer as well.” Lian felt he had to prove he wasn’t out of his depth here so interjected, “Some warships use linked systems as well, but obviously they are sealed from outside contact.” Taf smiled in a slightly patronising manner. “And obviously we make sure that software is securely hardwired into the computer. This reduces the risk of problems introduced from outside.”
Not one book but four! Basically a long time ago, when I was just a kid, (I think it was in 2013) I got talking to a small publisher. They wanted some SF. I said I could write SF. Anyway in 2014 they published ‘Justice 4.1’. It came out in paperback and ebook and I took it to LonCon and it sold pretty well really. Later that year the second book came out. War 2.2. Already the publisher was fading. Small publishers do this, life is tough and family commitments can crowd out high ambition. So War 2.2 only came out in kindle. Then the published finally closed their doors and I was left with two manuscripts, half a third, and a story arc. Which is fine, just fine. Except I was busy. And, from the point of view of SF, a bit disheartened. Anyway during lockdown I had time. It wasn’t that I didn’t have plenty to do, agriculture didn’t lock down, the food chain is too important for that sort of thing. But all sorts of inspectorates, ministries and quangos all ran off and hid and suddenly all the unpaid work they usually find for me to do just didn’t materialise. So in that spare time that had blissfully materialised I finished the third book and wrote the fourth. Now the fourth was an issue. I’d intended it to be a five book arc, but the fourth book finished the story. Admittedly it did so in a book twice as thick as the others, but there wasn’t a gap. There was no way I could split book four into two without leaving cliffhangers all over the place. Now if there’s anything I dislike more than a cliff hanger in a series, it’s a series that just doesn’t happen. So after the messing about after the first two books I decided that this time the series would happen. I’d make damned sure it happened. I pressed publish on all four books on the same day. So you can buy this series knowing that the author isn’t going to lose interest. Each book has a beginning and an end. So what’s the thing about? It’s set on and about the world of Tsarina. The planet at the edge of the galaxy. A place where they’re sort of holding things together but ‘just getting by’ has become government policy. It’s just the story of the problems that the Governor’s Investigation Office has to tackle. There are starmancers, genetic engineers, brush fire wars, narcotics, expensive furniture, night club singers, and through it all runs a question. What is justice (with the subtext, and can we afford it) and how do we do it?
Sci-fi? How does the master of practical fantasy come to that harbour? And are there any parallels between the genres?
The first SF book I bought with my own money was Jack Vance, the Dragon Masters. After that how could I think that SF and Fantasy were separate genres? There is a broad fuzzy borderland between them where all sorts of fun things get to happen. Perhaps the following year after the Dragon Masters, I bought a copy of the first single volume edition of Lord of the Rings and read it in three evenings! Mind you, I’d been blown away by Peter Pan, years before that, so I’ve pretty much always loved both Fantasy and SF. What do I like? Good stories well told.
What has been the most fun about the genre hop?
-Looks round furtively- “Well in SF I get to shoot people and don’t have to be the nice guy.”
What would Tallis Steelyard and the orchidaceous Maljie think of this venture?
Given this venture started before Tallis Steelyard or Maljie broke into my life, they have to accept that every so often a man must do what a man must do. Mind you, ‘the orchidaceous Maljie.’ There must be a story in there!
For somebody who was first busted for illegal arms dealing back in the late 1960s, the author’s ability to remain at liberty has surprised many. Perhaps it’s his ability to stick with what he knows that has been his unexpected strength. Certainly when asked to invest in dubious business ventures, his answer, “Boy, I trade in land and cattle” may have saved him a lot of grief. Steve Jobs never saw that answer coming. Jim Webster’s married, has three daughters and his co-worker is a Border Collie. He farms in England, south of the Lake District where the sun both rises and sets over the sea. Hobbies? He’s much in demand as a pilot, in spite never having held a pilot’s licence or even flown a plane. When asked this question he’ll instinctive say, “reading and going for long walks.” Then when he realises you’re not interviewing for some sort of dating website he’ll admit to an interest in military history, wargaming and the sorts of things a wise man will never put on a questionnaire. You can find him on Twitter or check out his blogs for life and agricultural stuff, for Tallis Steelyard and fantasy and for wargaming and SF but mainly wargaming.
Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!
On the very occasional ‘special occasion’ one has been known to slap on the razzle and do the whole ‘let’s do it and fuck the expense’ thing. One such occasion arrived last summer, when number one son reached retirement age. A splash was called for and a large table was booked at a suitably expensive eatery. Knowing the family propensity to lateness and disorganisation we agreed to meet in a trendy bar for pre-dinner drinkies. I rolled up and ordered a Negroni, which arrived. In a jamjar. All I can say is What The Actual Fuck. And just NO…
Because life can be interesting when you are a character in a video game…
Milla spun on her heel and picked up the pace into the village, not stopping until she had reached One Eye’s shop. The old ryeshor rubbed at his eye patch as the elf’s armour lit up the rather dingy interior. Ruffkin was happily snarfing some fish guts from a bowl in the corner and Pew looked pleasingly surprised. “You found a tank!” “Better,” Milla told him I found a…” “Blessedknight Gloryjammer,” the elf announced, then her eyes narrowed. “Don’t I know you? You an alt of Pewpowerpewpew? Used to be in Forgotten Order of Lost Souls before it had a drama fest and fell apart?” Pew looked a little awkward. “That was a while ago and it wasn’t me. I didn’t do what they said I’d…” “You were the best Firecaster on the server in vanilla – everyone knew that.” “Well, not really, I was one of the many good…” But Glory wasn’t listening. There was a fervour of hero worship in her words. “You won’t remember me but you gave me my first decent weapon. Said I’d grow into it one day. I was just a newby, and you were one of the greats, but you took the time to group with me.” Pew was looking increasingly as if he wanted to be somewhere else, but Milla was too intrigued by this glimpse into his history to stop it. In the end it was One Eye who came to Pew’s rescue. “It’s what we all do, isn’t it? Pay it forward, they call it. Help the next ones in so they can help the ones as follow them.” “Yes. What he said.” Pew snatched up the backpack he had been filling. “I’ll be outside.” One Eye lifted an eye ridge at Milla and sniffed. “I’ll be looking after your little Ruffkin, but you should know I don’t approve of this. Your a Local not a Visitor. Locals don’t go on ventures.” “I already did,” she protested. “Yes. You did. ‘An’ that were one too many in my view. But you’re as wild as a sandylion, young’un and there’s no point telling you what to not do. So have my blessing for what it’s worth and here…” he held out an old belt that seemed to be made from strips of plaited fabric. “You wear this and come home safe.” Milla took the belt and felt a tingle as she buckled it around her waist, surprised that it seemed to fit perfectly. Then she hugged the old ryeshor impulsively and left him to find provisions for Glory, as she went to join Pew who was sitting on the seawall staring out to sea. “You don’t have to come,” he said. “Thing is, it could be dangerous. I’m not sure what is going on. Someone could really get hurt.” “If what you say about String is true, someone already is.” “I know but…” “So I’m coming.” He gripped her hand tightly, looking into her eyes as if trying to read something there. “I know. I don’t deserve you. And if anything happens to you I’ll never…” She stopped his words with another kiss, then sat back quickly as she heard footsteps on the cobbled street. “I’m not interrupting anything?” Glory was smirking again. Pew pushed himself from the wall and stood up. “Not a thing. We need to get a boat to the Barren Steppes.” And that was the one thing that had been troubling Milla. Locals never went on the boats. She’d not known any to even try because, well, everyone knew you just couldn’t do it. But then, as One Eye had said, Locals didn’t go on ventures either. So she stiffened her crest frills and strode after Pew as he headed along the dock. He stopped by the mooring place where the ship would come in and looked at her with concern. “Barren Steppes is in a different zone. I don’t know what it’d be like for you to move cross zones. I don’t even know if you can do it. I mean for us zoning is just something that happens, but for you… I can’t imagine what it might be like.” “Neither can I,” Milla admitted, pushing out a brave smile, although inside her stomach was feeling queasy. More from the prospect of leaving Wrathburnt Sands, the only place she’d ever known than from any real worry about travelling. “I guess I’m going to find out.”
We will return to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook next Sunday.
Working Title Blogspot 