I am old, and I worship the sun
A snooze in the heat is such fun
I lay like a lizard
With a sign on my gizzard 
‘Turn me over when you think I’m done’

©️ jane jago 2018 

Tally Ho Yoiks!

It’s holidaymaker hunting season, and one disposes oneself decoratively in one’s hammock whilst idly listening as Mater offers increasingly incomprehensible directions to passing motorists. She seems to revel in giving minor misdirections which she knows will have them fully engaged on the ring road for at least a couple of hours before they find their turn off.

Though, truthfully, any time after 11am and the woman is apt to be languishing under the influence of a summer cocktail of Brandy, Pernod, Fernet Branca, and Cab Sov. So it might well be the misdirections are far from intentional. One has not asked. She is utterly incorrigible and it’s too warm to squabble with her – so one merely giggles and fans one’s heated cheeks with an exquisitely painted pleat of Chinese paper.

However. To one’s muttons.

It is one. Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. Author of the acclaimed and lauded ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. Raconteur. Lover. Adventurer. Bon viveur. And beloved tutor to a whole generation of putative writers hoping to touch the coattails of one’s literary skill and share a glimmer of one’s outrageous genius. The first, one strives to impart in a manner that even the dullest brain may access. The latter is unique to oneself and is what sets apart the truly great from the merely aspiring.

So listen up mes estudas. Today we have a Very important lesson.

How to Write Right – Lesson 3. It’s Very Upsetting – or The Write Way to Write Bigger

Today we assault the word ‘very’. We make of that little quatrain of letters public enemy number one. We hurl it screaming from the rooftops never to be seen again. Or to paraphrase my particular friend Stavros:  ‘Don’t say ‘very’ Moony my love-button. It’s boring and undescriptive. Just don’t fu****g say it.’

‘Very’ is like the colour grey. It is flat and flaccid, sucking the vibrancy from whatever luxurious descriptor you use it to modify. It pales your prose and dampens down your descriptions. It takes the very depth from dialogue and can make of your writing a desert.

I hear, with the acute sensitivity of my mind’s ear, as you – my poor pupil – cry and scream and declaim it to be ‘vewy diffy’. With what can it be replaced? What other word so succinctly sums up the notion of ‘very’? Do not struggle and rant against the way of the world, dear disciple. Acknowledge the truth. Accept the challenge. Of course it is ‘diffy’. Which is why I am here to offer you a modest list of synonymous sayings to help you on your way.

Very hot: Volcanoesque
Very angry: Viragoesque
Very beautiful: Venusesque
Very fat: Junoesque
Very stupid: Moronesque
Very ugly: Gargoylesque
Very sexy: Marilynesque
Very fast: Ferrariesque
Very graceful: Ballerinaesque
Very humble: IVyesque
Very talented: Moonyesque

And if you, my little cupcakes, have yet to fathom your way through the maze of very hunting, then one despairs.

Think carefully, and for homework write your own list. If you are proud of your novice endeavours, then make good use of them in your writing and banish the vile word to the ‘very’ pits of hell.

One has a date so. Au revoir and ecrit bon

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans Facebook Group

Sol sat hunched in front of his computer. His sister, Sal, stood behind him, her impatience was like little needles in the back of his neck.
“Back off sis. I can’t afford to make a mistake now.”
She moved away with evident reluctance.

When Sol rolled his chair back, Sal pounced on him.
“Have you done it?”
“I hope so.”
“What do you mean, hope? Have you done it? Will it work?”
He grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Be quiet. Watch. We’ll know soon enough.”

She wriggled in his grip and he turned her to face the screen.

The figures had stopped and the screen was blue.
“Good,” he mumbled, “so far so good”.
He watched intently as the blue started to bleed into green, then yellow.
“Come on,” he whispered, “work”.

For about fifteen seconds the yellow held and Sol sighed. He opened his mouth to explain that he had failed, but the yellow gave way to a blank screen.

He leaned forward and touched the shift key. The printer at the other side of the room started to chatter and he ran to look at the sheet of paper it was spewing out. The loopy handwriting and random crossings out made his heart swell with pleasure and pride.
“There it is,” he exulted, “the algorithm we wrote has created the first chapter of the next Inspector Evans novel. We don’t need Mother, she can carry on drinking herself to death and we won’t starve.”

Jane Jago

Midwinter Miracle by E.M. Swift-Hook.Tegwyth used to receive gifts at Midwinter, until she became one herself. Alone in the snow, she will do anything to survive because of the one thing that matters most to her...

The loaf was within reach now. But so was the coat and it was that Tegwyth slid carefully from the stool first, looping it around her and under her cloak out of sight. Then she reached out again for the bread.

“I really wouldn’t do that if I was you.”

It was the bearded man. He had moved away from the fire, perhaps so the other two could get to know each other – or perhaps, feeling simply not wanted there anymore. Either way, he now stood on the far side of the table. His face hard, although his voice sounded more as if he were offering her friendly advice than any threat. But she had just become a thief – she had stolen his coat, its warmth so good around her, the warmth of life in the bitter cold of winter. And the price of theft, even if she had been free and not hunted as an escaped slave, was death.

For a moment she thought to run. To flee. Break away. Rush for the door and out into the snow. But as if he could read her thoughts, the bearded man had taken a step to the side so she would have to pass him to be able to leave. His hand curled on a strange looking item clipped onto his belt.

Now out on Audible, A Midwinter Miracle is also available in both ebook and paperback and can be purchased from Amazon, Kobo, iTunes and Googleplay. This special edition has typographic art and cover design by Zora Marie.

Autumn 1642

“This is witchcraft!”

The man they called ‘Dutch’, which was strange as the furthest east he had ever been was Whitby, picked up the gruesome object and studied it. The dead eyes of a ginger cat stared back at him from its severed head.

“You are certain, Master Fanthorpe? There can be no mistake?”

“No mistake.”

Dutch looked from the cat’s head to his dead sheep and sighed.

“So we have feared, Master Fanthorpe, though we have prayed it was not so – I mean to think that in our community we have such a person… I -”

“You never find a witch alone!” Fanthorpe said sternly, sounding like the Puritan preacher he had been until recently. “There will be a coven here. All the signs are plain.”

Privately, Dutch thought Fanthorpe looked like an overgrown crow. Clad in fine, black wool from head to knee, his sharply angled face, gaunt beneath close cropped grey hair and a black hat. The only concession to ornament was an oddly shaped buckle on the front of his hatband. Even the linen of his cuffs and collar was plain, unadorned by any lace – strangely at odds with the quality of his dress. He also looked the kind who would enjoy pecking at dead things.

“A coven?” Dutch echoed the words, doubtfully.

“Of course. This is the third case you tell me – so there must be a coven.  But do not fear Master Sawyer, the Lord is watching over us and has us in His keeping. Let us pray for deliverance from this evil”

Dutch bowed his head and let the sonorous drone wash over him, his mind entirely elsewhere. The loss of the sheep was going to be another blow to his struggling small farm, one he could very ill afford. The family had clung to the land against the odds over the last two generations, now it was a struggle to make ends meet enough to keep food on the table. But serious as the loss of livestock was, in that moment another matter clouded close upon his thoughts. He was wondering how he was going to break it to his youngest lass that her favourite ginger tom, the one she had raised from an orphaned kitten, had died.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Body Count by D.R. Perry, has just been released! The second book in a series called Supernatural Vigilante Society it tells the story of a good Italian boy from Cranston, Rhode Island starting his career as a PI. Oh, he also just happens to be a reluctant and brand new vampire...

“Get him!” I raise my voice for the first time tonight because there’s no other way any of us will catch the bastard if I don’t. Unfortunately, that means the prey Scott, Esther and I are stalking gets spooked. 

“Aoooo!” Scott can’t talk right now because he’s a six foot tall wolfmanthing. He swings and misses. Yeah, my little buddy Scott is a teenage werewolf. 

“Waffletwat!” Esther’s right leg goes out from under her. She’s a magician with no four-letter filter. And apparently a klutz. 

“Fine.” I burn blood to turn on some speed. 

Right now you’re wondering “blood? What the hell does he mean? Who is this guy, anyway?” 

I’m Valentino Cripso, PI. And I’m the newest vampire in Rhode Island. So yeah, I’m using blood to boost my speed because that’s one of the things we can do with it. And it’s one of two powers I actually have the hang of. So, I’m using my powers to finish my case. You got a problem with that? That’s what I thought. Keep reading. 

Dashing past Esther and Scott is the easiest part. Pouncing on the bastard isn’t hard either. But getting a grip, man, that’s damn near impossible. Because he’s one slippery customer. 

But that shouldn’t have surprised me. I knew what we were getting into when we took the job. I’m speedy enough to get around and corner him so that’s what I do. He looks up at me, blinks, and starts climbing up the wall. I see my chance and take it.

I whip off one of my gloves and scoop the little guy up in it. 

Said guy is a missing pet. Salamander, to be specific. And I’m holding him captive in an article of clothing that I wear to keep people from noticing that I don’t show up in mirrors. This victory wouldn’t have been possible if I were still human because nobody wears gloves in Rhode Island in June. 

“Case closed.” 

A Bite Of... D.R. Perry

Q1: Is it important to include all shades of belief and sexual orientation in a book?

It’s important to let the characters be who they are. This means I do research by reading and talking to people who are similar to my characters in some way. Valentino is Roman Catholic and I’m not. I learn so much more about the human condition by writing with diversity and I think it’s made me a better writer. 

Q2: Would you rather be James Bond or Batman?

Neither of these. If I could pick any fictional secret agent to be, it’s Peggy Carter from the MCU. 

Q3: Have you ever written somebody you love into a book?

Yes. I do this all the time. The most difficult one was in Wiser Guys. Gilbert Edgewood is so close in demeanor and life outlook to a friend I lost decades ago to a drug overdose. The easiest one is Stephanie McQueen from SVS. She’s not based on a real person, though, not exactly. Instead, I took most of her personality from a character I played for nine years in a vampire LARP. If you’ve never been in a live action role playing game, I’ll explain that there’s no way to keep a character that long without loving them at least a little bit. 

D.R. Perry is an author from Rhode Island who has fifteen publications and counting. She was a Dragon Award finalist in 2016 with her Alternate History novel, A Change In Crime. You can find her on Twitter, Facebook and her own website and support her through Patreon.

When everyone had eaten their fill they sat with their chosen beverages before them.
“That,” Danny said, “was just one of the reasons for my life’s biggest question. Would I like to live with my sister? I would because she’s kind and funny, and sweet. I wouldn’t because she sees through all my crap, and because I’d be as fat as a pig on her cooking.”
“Well,” Sam grinned, “it don’t arise now. She’s living with me. And I’m not sharing. I’ll just keep going to the gym to keep the weight off.”
“You do that mate.” Rod recommended. “And keep the kick boxing up. You might even be half decent one day.”
“Why thank you most to death.”

Jim drained his bucket-sized cup of tea.
“We better be off. It’s quite a long drive home.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, “I guess it is. Which has just made me think of something. You wanna stay over after the party?”
“You got room?”
“We do don’t we love?” Sam grinned at Anna.
“We do indeed. And what a good idea. You most certainly don’t want to drive home after the party. You wouldn’t be able to have a drink. We can put you in the annexe. Three bed two bath, so Pats won’t have to climb over your sons if she wants a wee in the night.”
“I dunno what to say,” Jim rumbled.
“Say thank you, we will,” Rod recommended.
“Okay. Thank you. We’d love to stay over.”
“Me too?” Rod asked.
“Yeah. If you promise to be a good little boy,” Anna giggled.
“Now we really do have to go.”

The assembled company went out to the truck, and there was much back slapping and joshing as Rod got into the driving seat. Sam opened the gate and waved them out.
“See you on the thirtieth,” Rod grinned and gunned the beefy engine.

On the drive back to Brighton, Jim wondered what sort of a reception he would get, having left home in the early hours of Saturday morning, right in the middle of a row with his wife. It was full dark before Rod dropped him off and he walked into the glorious noise and chaos that was a home full of large sons. Patsy bustled over and kissed him.
“Sorry about yesterday morning,” she said looking him in the eye bravely.
“It’s all right Pats. I do understand you know.”
“I do know. That’s what made me mad. I really do miss Anna. Not the free babysitter. Just Anna. Anna to talk to. The unrestrained giggles. The way you don’t have to explain things to her. The way she never judges. I may not always have been a good friend to her, but now I’m worried because I don’t know if she’s well and happy or not. You could find out, couldn’t you? If she’s OK I’ll even leave her alone.”
She knuckled a tear from her eye in an irritated manner. Jim took her heavily ringed hand in his.
“Come and sit down. Let’s talk about this.”
Patsy allowed herself to be led into the sitting room, where Jim jerked a thumb at the twins.
“Out. I want to have a private chat with Mum.”
The boys left, closing the door quietly behind them. Pats turned into her husband’s huge embrace. He lifted her face and kissed her tear-wet cheeks.
“Right. Anna’s OK. I saw her today. Unexpectedly. She’s got a bloke. Just moved in with him.”
“What’s he like, Jim?”
“Seems like a good guy. Obviously nutty about her.”
Patsy looked dubious and he grinned down into her face.
“He really is OK. Bonnie likes him.”
She still looked worried.
“You’ll like him too. In fact, you already like him.”
“What do you mean, I already like him?”
“Well. He’s a doctor. Lives near Cheltenham. Knows Rod.”
She still looked puzzled and he grinned.
“He’s one of Bill’s best friends.”
“You mean it’s Sam Henderson?”
“It is. And Anna looks a different woman. Got a glow on her. Sporting a darned great emerald – engagement ring I reckon. We knew Sam was divorced, but I asked Rod about it on the way home. He tells me wife number one was a bitch who treated Sam like shit. Reckon he’ll appreciate Anna all the more because of it.”
Pats relaxed against him.
“That’s so good to know. Poor little cow deserves a bit of happiness. But how come you saw them today?”
“Oh. Rod got it into his head that we’d go and drag Sam out for a pub lunch. But when we got there Anna and Bonnie were in residence, and Anna had cooked roast lamb. Danny and Paul was there too. We had a blast.”
Patsy smiled, but there was a trace of sadness at the back of her eyes.
“Would you like to see them?”
“Course I would. But I ain’t sure she wants to see me.”
“She does. They are having a party for his birthday on the thirtieth of next month. The whole family is invited. And we are asked to stay over afterwards.”
“Isn’t that just like her. But are you sure she wants to see me?”
“She says she does.”
“Yeah. But she’s so kind she’d say that anyway. And I know I  haven’t always been a good friend to her.”
“I dunno about that. Yes, you took advantage of her good nature, and yes you bullied her sometimes. But you always had her back. And she knows that.”
“Oh Jim. I’d love to go, but what will her new friends think of me? I ain’t exactly classy.”
He hugged her very tightly.
“I do love you, you silly old bat. And I know Anna won’t give a flying fuck what anyone else thinks of you. She wants you there. So stop worrying and say yes. Are we on?”
“We are. Cheltenham. That’s a bit of a drive.”
“Is. That’s why I said we’d love to stay over. Plus we can have a drink if we ain’t driving. So. If the party is boring we can get pissed.”
She howled with appreciative laughter.
“I love you a lot Jimmo. I just don’t tell you often enough.”

Jane Jago

Listen in on what happens when Sam Nero Meets Tony Mandolin, thanks to Tall Tale TV!

It’s just a bar, like any bar, on any street corner, in any universe. It’s perpetually twilight, and the bartender nurses a sawn-off ten gauge should he venture out from behind his bulwark of scarred mahogany. The mismatched tables are a little sticky, and the barstools may not all have the requisite number of legs. In one corner of the room, a skinny old guy coaxes something approaching a melody from the stained keys of an ancient upright piano. Even the waitress has seen her best years and she walks as if her feet hurt, but she still manages a smile for the long, tall drink of water sitting in a booth alone. He smiles back showing two rows of excellent teeth.

“And one for yourself beautiful,” he says genially as she brings him his bourbon (straight up).

The waitress knows better than to outstay her welcome and she shuffles off just as the street door opens to admit another man cut from much the same cloth as the one in the booth. The first man stands and holds out a hand.

“You must be Tony Mandolin. I’m Sam Nero. Pleased to meet you.”

Mandolin, dressed for the weather in a well-worn trench coat with the collar pulled up to meet the brim of his dark brown fedora, looks down at the hand and then shrugs, as if throwing off an impulse of habit.

He takes the hand and shakes it, squeezing enough to let the other man know he could go further if needed, and then releases the grip, “We’ll see. Frankie didn’t say what this was about, only that it was important. I’ll let you know up front, I don’t do cheating spouse cases, regardless of the down payment. If it’s one of the weird ones… well, that can get expensive.”

Mandolin looks down at the table and sees the drink. “How’s the scotch in this place?”

“Foul. It’s either bourbon or beer. Neither of which are too bad at all. And now I have a confession. I have no idea what the job is either. I’ve just been paid a big fat wad of credits to come to this bar and have a chat with a guy called Tony Mandolin. I wasn’t gonna do it, but Sugar said I should.”

He looks Mandolin in the eye for a moment then comes to a decision.

“Nice handshake Tony, but I’m mostly ‘droid so I never felt a thing.”

He holds up one big hand and the waitress shuffles over.

“Mostly droid, huh?” Mandolin sits and says to the waitress, “Beer, Anchor Steam if you’ve got it.”

Then he leans back and looks Nero over, “Hmm…” He murmurs, “Whoever did the work, it doesn’t show. So, you don’t know either, but you got paid. All I got was a rushed shove out of my door by an agitated drag queen,” Holding up a hand, he added, “Don’t ask. You know…” He shifted slightly exposing the butt of a highly efficient and illegal hand gun, “You may want to have whatever you’ve got ready just in case. I don’t know the bar, but I know the neighbourhood, and I’m getting that old itch.”

“Hmm yeah. Me too. You reckon somebody wants the pair of us dead?” Sam’s smile is as cold and vicious as the grin of a swamp alligator and the gun that appears in his big hand is big and rather strange to the eye. “It’s a blaster,” he explains. “Now let’s have a think about who has a hard on for a pair of private dicks. Do we even know any of the same people?” He looks at Mandolin and lifts one black eyebrow. “It isn’t as if we move in the same circles. But what we do have in common is that we chase the bad guys.”

Jane Jago and Robert Lee Beers

The opening of Trust A Few by E.M. Swift-Hook.

“You have no idea what you are letting yourself in for. How can you?”
Commodore Vane shook his head as he spoke, it was beyond understatement and beyond belief. The soldier’s green eyes were fixed on a point some distance behind the Commodore’s left shoulder. Their colour, so brilliant, Vane suspected genetic enhancement and their focus had been unwavering since he entered the room.
“I think I do, sir.”
He stood in a formal parade-ground stance, as ordered by the scowling Legionary Sergeant who had escorted him in and now lurked by the door. Vane had made a conscious choice not to relax him from the rigid posture. He never did with the conscripts. He glanced back at the remote screen he had called up, its contents invisible to anyone else.
“Amnesia,” he read the word aloud and looked back at the soldier. “Total amnesia?”
“Total retrograde amnesia, sir,”
The Sergeant, a big, broad-shouldered man called Hynas, stood almost a head taller than his charge who was not much more than average height, and the ever-present scowl changed to a sneer at the words. Vane ignored him.
“And do you know why?”
“Due to an unknown trauma immediately prior to my arrest, sir.”
“Prior to, not during?”
The way most of his men were brought in to begin their military career in his Legion it would not have surprised him in the slightest to find the injury had been inflicted at that point.
“Yes, sir.”
“I see.” Vane wondered if he truly did, the implications here were so disturbing. “You have no knowledge or memory of anything before your arrest?”
“None, sir”
“And that means you have no direct knowledge or experience of what life is like outside the Legion?”
“No, sir. I do not.”
“Then how can you know you want to leave us, soldier?”
He noticed a slight hesitation then.
“I have no direct personal knowledge, sir, but I have researched a great deal about it.”
Which, he supposed, explained the hesitation. But the idea of researching the complexities of everyday life with zero experience of it, stretched his credulity. Vane tried to keep that disbelief from his voice.
“Researched it?”
“Yes, sir. I have talked to other people in my unit and accessed information through the Lattice.”
Everyday life as filtered through the minds of violent criminals and a military tactical data provider. The Commodore shook his head but let the naivety pass. His job was to confirm that this man met the criteria required and was fit to be released. In fact, it had been made very clear to Vane he should do whatever was needed to speed the process and allow as little questioning as possible.
But this man was no ordinary ex-criminal.
Once – and for many years – his name topped ‘most wanted’ lists throughout the Central worlds and the broader Coalition: the Protectorates and Independent worlds. In Vane’s circle, this man’s name used to be a household word for mindless destruction – the bogeyman of ultimate evil.
Avilon Revid.
Vane found it a curious experience to meet the man behind the myth, but it also made the responsibility heavier, weighing up all the factors to consider if he should be discharged. Vane prided himself on his thorough professionalism and had no intention of giving in to any pressure over a decision of such significance.
That thought made him glance across to where a holofacade wall concealed a watcher from the other two men in the room. The reclined chair, slouched body and movement of the head suggested listening to music, or watching a show on a VR screen, rather than focusing on the interview. But perhaps not, for fingers lifted in a brief acknowledgement. The Commodore ignored the wave and looked back to study his own screens, checking the notes he had been given on Revid.
“Well you passed your orientation course without any problem and have been declared no danger to civilians.”
No danger. A bureaucratic joke even a military man such as the Commodore could appreciate. All the Special Legion were more than just dangerous. All serving a sentence for extremes of violent crime. A sentence that included enforced invasive surgery, implants, and drugs to enhance their capabilities. The brutal training regimens and suicidal military missions were sweetened by the promise of freedom after five years spotless service – a promise almost never fulfilled. In the eight years he had spent co-opted as commander of the Special Legion, perhaps a dozen other men had stood before Vane for discharge approval. Of those, less than half walked out as free citizens. He was not willing to risk any of the monsters he commanded back onto the streets without a very high threshold of evidence to demonstrate they were indeed ‘no danger to civilians’.
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.

If you would like to keep reading Trust A Few is available to download for only .99 this weekend.