Shalomon came back to the everyday world, and looked at the paper under his hands. There was something, but what was it? It was complex, and full of symbols, and a bit frightening. He knew this was his last chance and he was afraid he might already have blown it. But what could he do?

He drew in a slow, deep breath and made an effort to calm his soaring pulse rate before raising one shaking hand.

Teacher left his desk and came down the narrow aisle, with his scaly sides brushing the desks as he walked.

He picked up the paper and looked at it for a long moment, exhaling a spurt of bluish smoke through the red craters of his nostrils. Then he took the paper in both of his ‘hands’ holding it away from his snout and breathing more smoke accompanied by tiny gouts of flame.

Shalomon scarcely dared to breathe. Would his drawing pass muster, or would it be rent in twain by contemptuous claws?

Teacher exhaled more smoke and flame, before turning a reptilian eye on the cringing boy.

“Satisfactory,” he grunted “you are deemed worthy.”

Shalomon bowed. Satisfactory. That was all one could ask.

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

© jane jago 2017

A new feature for the blog – Jane Jago’s latest hard-hitting novel, serialised for you to enjoy! 

CHAPTER ONE

When Jim Cracksman received a ‘get your ass home now’ text, he grinned good-naturedly and climbed into his beloved muscle truck. As it turned out, that was to be the last time he smiled for many hours.

When he strolled into the house, it was to find his wife and his oldest son awaiting him with white, strained faces. He pulled Patsy into a one-armed hug and looked a question at Jamie.

“It’s Will. He ain’t in France with the school party. Mum got the heebie jeebies because he hadn’t called and got me to do some checking. He never got on the plane. I activated the locators on his stuff and it’s in a locker at the airport. Then I did a naughty and activated his personal locators. He is in Scotland. Stopped moving about an hour ago at some place called Castle Ellan. Which actually is a castle. It’s let furnished, but I can’t find out who to.”

Jim held out his other arm and the boy came and buried his face in his father’s chest.

“He’s only seven years old Dad. We mustn’t let anyone hurt him.”

“We won’t. And you did good work. Now. Who do we know in Scotland? It’s time to call in some favours.”

Patsy lifted a tear-stained face to look at him.

“Rod’s in Scotland. Him and his buddy Sam are doing a distillery tour. And Anna and her motorhome are at some place called Garlieston.”

“Right. You call Ma and tell her somebody has got at Will. Ask her to look after Charlie and the twins while we sort it. Say she can tell the twins if she must, but not little Charlie. Jamie can stop here with us, as he’s already in it up to his neck. But I want the others out of harm’s way.”

She sniffed.

“Yes. I should’ve thought. I’ll get right on it. And I’ll make tea while I’m at it.”

She picked up her phone and headed to the kitchen.

 

Jamie looked at his father with haunted eyes.

“They are going to start hurting him soon, aren’t they?”

“Not if Rod gets there first they aren’t. And he will get there first. We have to believe that. Now. Quiet. I need to make some calls.”

 

The conversations were all brief, but Jim looked a little less grim when he finished the last call. As he did so, Patsy came back into the room carrying a big tray with a brown teapot and milk jug, three mugs, and a plate of biscuits.

“Pete is fetching the kids from their schools, and Ma will keep them for as long as it takes. Pa said not to forget Geordie Jackson, plus he knows a guy in Edinburgh who makes boomers if we need.”

“I already talked to Geordie. He has a couple of boomer boys, and they are on their way to a field where they’re going to be picked up by a helicopter what is already on its way to collect Rod and his pal, who I forgot is a doctor, and who insists on going along to take care of Will when they get him out. Anna is packing up the camper and moving to a place Geordie owns on the outskirts of Glasgow. It’ll take her about three hours to do the drive, she says. So she’ll be in position when they bring Will out. Geordie knows who is at the castle, and he says they are not nice people. He also tells me the main man is currently away from home. Expected back tomorrow. Which’ll be why we’ve heard nothing yet. With only average luck, we’ll get the wee man out before the end of today.”

Patsy looked him in the eyes.

“Now what aren’t you telling me?”

“Actually. Nothing. But I’ll admit to being very, very worried.”

“Fair enough. Me too. But the three of us will support each other through it. Now. Tea?”

Jim swallowed a huge lump in his throat, and Jamie just buried his head in his mother’s breast. She patted one and smiled at the other before pouring mugs of tea so strong it would have fought its way out of a delicate cup.

“Sit down and drink your tea. It’ll help.”

They sat, and there was silence for a while before Jamie spoke.

“Has Anna got enough stuff with her to pick up Will’s locator?”

“Yes. She already called it up. She says good work Jamie. She and I think Will is probably drugged, because he isn’t moving. So it’s good there’s a doctor in the rescue party.”

“But. Isn’t he a surgeon?” Patsy asked in worried tones.

“He is, which is all to the good, apparently, as he knows lots about unconscious people. He says William will be fine with him.”

Jamie spoke up.

“Is there any more we can do Dad?”

“Nope. Now is the hard bit. We sit tight. Man the phones. And wait.”

They waited.

Five hundred miles north, things were moving at an altogether faster pace. Two men, a couple of small suitcases, and a black leather holdall, waited by the helipad at the Gleneagles hotel. The larger of the two looked at his companion.

“You sure about this, Sam? It’s going to get nasty, and some people will get hurt, or worse.”

“Yes. I’m sure. They have kidnapped a seven-year-old boy. If they have kept him drugged for thirty-six hours, he could be in a bad way. He might need me, and I might need the stuff I asked for.”

“It’s on the chopper. And how bad?”

“I honestly don’t know, Rod. Worst case scenario is brain damage, but at best he is going to be confused, feeling sick, and dehydrated.”

“Right. So we do need you.”

“And we need to hope.”

They fell silent as the sound of a big helicopter engine came closer.

“Why a Sikorsky?” Sam bawled in Rod’s ear as it came in to land.

They picked up their stuff, ran across the helipad and leapt aboard. A big man in a jumpsuit pushed them into a pair of seats and handed them headsets.

“Welcome aboard Rescue One,” he said.

“Thanks,” Rod grunted. “My friend here wondered why a Sky Crane?”

“Easy. These bastards fly in and out of the target area all the time. Nobody will think twice about another. Has anybody thought about what sort of condition the kid will be in when we get him out?”

“Yes,” Sam said tersely. “I’ve given the matter a lot of thought. Is the stuff I asked for on board?”

“Yeah. You know how to use it?”

“I do. But let’s hope I don’t have to.”

“What don’t you want to have to use?”

“Mostly: tracheotomy kit. I’ve had to do it in Thailand to kids that were sedated for too long on the underground sex trade routes. It ain’t pleasant, but it can be the only way to get air into the poor little sods’ lungs.”

“Fuck. Will it really be that bad?”

“Probably not, but I wanted to be sure I had all the bases covered. But the poor little bugger is going to be confused and frightened, and that’s why going home in his friend’s motorhome, where he can rest and feel secure will be better for him than a plane flight where he is surrounded by strangers, or the noise and smells of a chopper.”

“Yeah. I get that. And we can take it in turns to drive. So we’ll get him back to his mum pretty soon. Now I find I’m feeling murderous. Nobody should get between me and anyone I’m beating up.”

The man in the jumpsuit grinned.

“Fine. We’re all fathers here, and nobody is feeling particularly gentlemanly right now. About half an hour till we collect Geordie’s boomer boys. Then an hour from there to this fucking castle. Any orders?”

“Apart from getting my nephew out and demonstrating the family’s annoyance? No. Just do what needs doing.”

“Will do. By the way. This one’s a freebie. Geordie is providing the hardware and the fuel, we’re giving our time. Nobody liked having the Russian Mafia on our turf. But as long as they kept their noses clean we could tolerate them. Taking people’s kids is a big no-no, so we are handing down a lesson.”

“How many are we?” Sam asked.

“You two. Geordie’s boomer boys. Twelve fighters. Pilot, co-pilot and radio guy. Why?”

“Because I have a bad feeling about what they might do to the kid when we tip up. I want to get to him fast.”

“Good thinking. Six of us will escort you right to him. We have his location on screen.”

“Right. Good.”

The two men bumped fists.

They seemed to have covered all the bases, and the men sat in silence until the helicopter dropped down to land briefly. Three men jumped in carrying obviously heavy bags. Once they were seated the chopper took off and headed north. The men put on their headphones and their leader gave Rod a grim wink.

“Got enough stuff to flatten this fecking castle. Geordie says you have to agree, though.”

“Oh yeah. Let’s show them our fist! But we have to get little Bill out first. And if they’ve hurt him…”

The smallest of the boomer boys spat eloquently.

“Aye. There’s examples to be made.”

Jane Jago

Come on gran, Carpe Diem they said
But the pillow is soft to my head
I have doughnuts and milk
And my jammies are silk
So, f**k it, I’m staying in bed

© jane jago 2017

 

…a door appeared in what looked like a blank wall. When she opened it the stench was appalling. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly.
‘Dirty slaves.’
For some reason that remark exacerbated my anger and I head butted her under one of her chins. She went down splat and I called for lights. To my surprise, two of the slatternly drones brought lanterns. I went into a long place, with a lot of figures chained to the walls.
‘Aascko’ I shouted. ‘Can you get Ambriel to open a Portal into our garden. I need my big medicine chest and the trunk of bandages. Plus water lots of hot water, and get our kitchen to prepare the biggest vat of warm sweetened milk they can manage. Also there’s a lot of people chained up. We need to release them.’
‘I’m on it love’ he shouted and as I turned back to the horribly foetid prison I felt the mind of Ambriel and heard his angry voice in my head. ‘Just look at the chains and they will fall off.’
I turned my gaze to the locks on the first prisoner, an emaciated green elf. As I looked, the chains fell from her arms and legs. Aanda appeared at my side with a cup of water which he put to her lips.
‘Gently little sister. Too much at once will make you ill.’
‘I know’ she whispered. ‘But we have had no water since yesterday morning.’ Then she reached for my arm. ‘Help the little one. The rest of us can wait. But she’s really sick.’
‘Where?’
‘In the far back corner.’
Aanma followed me with a light held high and we found a tiny imp with its arms around the neck of a woolly hound pup. Neither looked too good.
‘Aanma. Go through the portal and alert Owl. Owl, plus Cat with a bucket of raw meat scraps.’
He put down the lantern and ran as if his life depended on it. I looked at the chain around the two infants and as it fell apart I dropped to my knees in front of them. I held out my arms and the imp crawled shyly into them. I picked her up as gently as I could, but I couldn’t carry the pup as well. Aascko appeared at my shoulder and picked up the bag of bones and fur that was all the hound consisted of. We carried them out into the clean morning air, just as Owl and Cat hurried out of the Portal. Owl took the babe from my arms and opened her garment. ‘Don’t let her eat too much at once’ I instructed.
‘No. I know. Little by little.’
Cat crouched in front of the puppy and offered it a small bit of meat. It sniffed suspiciously before grabbing the meat and wolfing it.
‘Owl’ I said quietly ‘make sure you shade that little one’s eyes. She has been in the dark for overlong.’

Knowing we could leave Owl and Cat to it, Aascko and I hurried back into the grimness of the prison. It didn’t get any better and by the time I had seen every prisoner released I was on the verge of tears. But I pulled myself together and Aascko and I went through the Portal to our own garden where a pavilion had sprung up as if by magic and our drones were ensuring that every one was drinking warm honey-sweetened milk. My first concern was the imp, who was asleep in Owl’s arms. She looked a little better and I thought a gentle warm bath, with some herbs in the water, might help her breathing. I gave the orders for the water and left Owl to gently bathe the emaciated little body. Cat was nearby with the hound puppy asleep on her feet.
‘The imps want to come help’ she said.
‘Well. Let them. Owlet was very helpful to us when we were dealing with the captives from the cave.’

Then I began the serious work of dressing wounds, wounds caused by manacles and leg irons, wounds caused by whips and scourges. Wounds gone bad because of poor hygiene and lack of food and water. I worked for a very long time, with Aascko and Aaspen at my elbow, but eventually every creature had been seen. None seemed in danger except the imp and her puppy. I straightened my back and smiled wearily.
‘Nearly done. Just want to have another look at the imp and the hound.’
Aascko hugged me warmly. ‘That’s my girl.’
The babe had just awoken and was crying fretfully. I held out my arms and Owl passed her to me.
‘Her skin is very sore’ she whispered.
‘Oh. The poor little love. Aascko can you get the camomile oil please?’
He dashed off and I laid the mite in my lap. Her skin was, indeed, horribly inflamed and itchy.
‘Mostly dehydration’ I said sturdily. ‘I think she’ll pull through.’
Aascko returned and I signalled for him to pour some oil into the palm of my hand. He obliged and I anointed the babe’s skin before beginning to massage her gently.
‘Owl’ I said. ‘How much have you fed her?’
‘Three times. Just a very little at a time.’
‘Good. You can try her with a bit more in an hour. Until then, get a soft old sheet and we’ll wrap her loosely, and put her in Owlet’s nice soft bed. If one of the other imps will get in and cuddle her gently so much the better.’
Owl scooted off and I carried on gently rubbing oil into the baby’s skin. I felt something against my leg and I realised the puppy had crept over.
‘Lift the puppy up Aascko’ I said. ‘I think this babe needs to see that its only friend is OK.’
My Mate obliged and the imp’s eyes fluttered open.
‘Look’ I said. ‘Puppy is fine.’
The imp smiled and relaxed under my hands. Aascko stroked the ugly little pup.
‘It’s a scruffy little mutt and it niffs a bit, but it seems admirably faithful.’
‘Yeah. Can you give it a bath and dry it gently. I think the imp will only really relax with it beside her.’
‘You could be right.’ He scratched the pup’s ears and took it carefully away.
Owl came back with a soft linen sheet, Owlet’s bed, and Puma in tow. I wrapped the skinny little imp and laid her in the soft fluff. Puma climbed in with her and sat stroking her head and singing softly. I patted her crest.
‘Puma is a good imp.’
Going over to where Aascko was gently shampooing the puppy, I sat on the ground with a big soft towel in my lap.
‘It’s a girl hound’ he said, then put the wet mutt on the towel, and handed me another. I gently towelled the pathetically bony pup feeling for any injuries. I was so pleased to find that the creature was whole, if underweight and dehydrated.
‘You’ll do little one’ I said and when she was as dry as I could make her I fed her judiciously and allowed her to relieve herself before wrapping her loosely in another dry towel and putting her carefully in Owl’s bed beside Puma and the poorly imp. Puma put a small hand on her ugly head.
‘Hello Puppy’ she said softly. ‘You can go sleep now. Puma will watch over friend.’
I had to blink away a tear before I could carry on.
Ambriel beckoned me and I went and stood looking up into his face.
‘I have’ he said ‘witnessed the worst and the best today. And that imp singing to the sick one all but brought me to tears.’
‘Me too’ I admitted. ‘Do we know to whom the poorly little one belongs?’
He looked as if he was chewing something bad. ‘Oh yes. We know. Her Mother was a very young female of the People, who was gang raped by who knows who. That vermin Aasken decided the babe was unsaleable because of her light eyes and the Mother was too badly damaged by the rape and the birth to be of any value. So he threw them in the dungeon. The Mother died there. Now nobody wants the little one.’
‘Oh yes they do’ I said sturdily. ‘We want her. She can be part of our family.’
‘She can indeed’ Aascko spoke from just behind me. ‘We will welcome her. And love her. Her and her ugly canine friend.’
Ambriel smiled on us and for a moment I felt as if the sun was shining just for me. I pulled myself together and felt for my Mate’s hand.
‘I guess we now need to start sorting out the rest of the slaves. Not many are fit to go anywhere until they have at least had a good night’s sleep and a couple of nourishing meals. I just don’t know where we can put them.’
Then I had a thought.
‘Or perhaps I do.’ I looked into Aascko’s face. ‘How about next door?’
‘Why not indeed?’ Then he looked up at Ambriel. ‘A gateway in the wall over there would be an enormous help.’
The Angel gestured negligently and the wall grew a set of wide double gates.

I beckoned to Cat, who was hovering.
‘We need a place for the rescued ones to sleep.’
She was quick on the uptake. ‘My old nest is built on the archaic model where all the walls can be rolled away. I’ll get the drones on it. And there are portable cots in store and many blankets and pillows.’
She bustled off and Aascko scratched his crest.
‘She looks so much better’ he said meditatively.
‘She can help somebody. Makes her feel needed. She is always going to be frail, but the more useful she can be to us the happier and stronger she will become.’
‘Very true, little Huntress’ Ambriel was expansive. ‘And now I must leave you. I am summoned to give an account of today’s happenings. It isn’t going to go down too well…’
I looked at him straitly. ‘Do you think you could manage to take off without overturning the cradle?’
‘I could.’
‘Well do so then…’
He actually laughed and patted my crest before lifting off with minimal disturbance. Aascko swatted my backside quite hard.
‘Will you at least warn me before you pick a fight with an Angel.’
‘Wasn’t picking a fight. He knows how I feel about excessive downdraught, but this time I really was thinking about the rescued ones and the babes.’
‘Oh. OK. I think.’
I laughed and went to check on the basket of sleeping imps. Puma was asleep now, but it was noticeable that she had a protective arm around the tiny imp and the other hand on the head of the pup. Tiger and Owlet sat beside the basket.
‘We keeping watch’ Owlet whispered.
‘Good imps.’
He pulled on my hand. ‘Mother. Do that baby one have a Mother or a Father?’
‘She didn’t. But she does now. She is your nest sister now.’
‘Good. Do she have a name?’
‘No love. Why?’
‘Me and Tiger and Puma wants to call her Silver because of her eyes.’
‘Very well, then. We shall.’
He and Tiger turned faces of shining joy towards me and I rubbed their crests. Owl arrived beside me and indicated she would like a private word.
‘What is it?’
‘That imp. Is she blind? I wondered because of how light her eyes are.’
‘No I’ve checked. She can see fine. I can understand your thought, but she isn’t an albino, just pale. By the way, Aascko and I have adopted her. Her name is Silver.’
Owl embraced me.
‘I hoped you would. The imps and I already love her. But why Silver?’
‘The imps named her for her eyes.’
Owl had recourse to her kerchief. ‘Sometimes those little sods amaze me.’
‘Me too. Me and the Angel Ambriel.’

From: Aaspa’s Eyes

 

© jane jago

My dear Readers Who Write,

You will know of me as the renowned author Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV and have no doubt heard of the wisdom and erudition I have been putting forth in this highly enlightening series ‘The Thinking Quill’.

It is one’s intention today to depart from the pathways of rectitude and face squarely the chimera that is the erudite composition of a review.

“Now what,” I hear you ask, “has led our Ivy into these shark-filled shoals?” The answer, mes petits, is a review one recently received for that epitome of literary elegance that is the science-fiction classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. Some ignorant pensioner posted her abusive opinion and graded my magnum opus with a solitary gold-star. Her supposed ‘review’ was a single sentence in length: “This is the worst pile of crap masquerading as sci-fi I have read in over forty years.” One realised instantly the poor deluded female must be both menopausal, thus in her dotage, and also clearly the victim of dementia, so generously forgave her on the moment.

But it awoke me to the imperative of inducting the future generations of Readers Who Write into the subtle nemeton of the reviewers craft. No student of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV should be reduced to the single sentence, no matter how pithy when they are casting supreme judgement upon the literary ejaculations of fellow authors. So, it falls upon me to ensure you are equipped with the knowledge and skill to dissect the entrails of another’s corpus.

Now, there will be those misguided souls among you who have, until now, seen it as their deity-sent duty to encourage the writer and coddle his artistic soul with warming and conspicuously kindly rumination on the opus before them.

I rail against such foolishness. Nay, I cry. Nay, nay and thrice nay. The very existence of the reviewer demands a harsher task. Armour yourself with erudition, take up the sword of experience and the bows and arrows of superior lexicography, and sally forth to slay the mythical monsters of pusillanimous prose, insufficiently exquisite world building, flat ‘realistic’ characterisation, and unimaginative, ‘logical’ plot lines.

Take up your weapons and do battle.

Let your words and wit be as a scalpel with which you excise the necrotising flesh of mediocrity from the bones of boredom, the tendons of tedium, and the entrails of excruciating entropy.

Should any work not meet the most stringent demands of taste, texture and testicular terpsichory, one must be not afraid to consign the script to the dungeons known as ‘did not finish’ and to expostulate one’s redaction as coolly as a surgeon whose sharpened scalpel removes disease to save life.

Take as your talisman the words of that divine dame whose perfect pinkness and portentous prose shows all lesser mortals the direction in which the glorious Muse may be cajoled by an author of superlative talent and all superseding sensibility. Consider the exquisite gentility of her delicately virginal heroines and the craggy, all-embracing masculinity of her manly heroes. It matters not what the genre, take the advice of one upon whose knowledge you may safely depend and use the words of the divine dame as the yardstick by which you judge all literary pretensions.

Once you find a manuscript worthy of your attention, husband your gilded heavenly bodies with care, awarding each and every one as parsimoniously as if it were a child of your own bosom. Let not the spirit of generosity move you to sprinkle planetoids with a lavishness beyond the desserts of that which stands before you.

I present to you my own formula for asteroid assignation.

One heavenly body: some slight little thing. An example being Dying to be Roman, by those dreadful women who I allow to benefit from my enormous popularity

Two sleeping satellites: a book with sufficient eclat to hold one’s grudging respect. An example being  JRR Tolkien’s fantastical travelogue.

Three asteroidal amplifications: a volume where one is sufficiently engaged to need to peek at the ending to ensure one’s favourite characters survive. An example being ‘Game of Thrones’ – who’s bid for more shining lights was only scuppered by a little over fondness for violence within its pages.

Four twinklies: a work of superlative excellence. An example being the understated, linguistically purist, Gorean Saga

Five golden galleons: reserved for the work of the divine dame whose bejeweled pink slippers I am unworthy to kiss.

In conclusion, dear RWW, let your metaphysical pen be as feared in reviewing as it will become beloved in creation.

Lire Bon!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Join The Adoring Fans of Moonbeam Farquahar Metheringham IV

 

EXCERPT FROM MAN OF TWO PLANETS BY JUDITH ROOK

A bright red light flashed on the main systems panel. Quickly, Vaire brought sound from the bridge into the room.

“First Peer to the bridge. Priority call!”

Darland stared at his lieutenant with eyes that had narrowed. “Why haven’t they called you?”

“Your cousin isn’t stupid. Something’s happened. I’ll come with you, but I’ll stay well behind until we know if there’s a situation.”

All was quiet on the bridge. Every officer was at his station and did not move as the First Peer entered. The captain was in his chair. On the huge observation display, there was nothing to be seen; only the nearby stars and the blue planet. But below that, the smaller communication screen showed the figure of a man, smiling, at ease, seated in another captain’s chair with two officers sitting behind and to each side of him.

Darland heard the door close. Vaire had not entered the bridge.

“Well,” said Darland, moving to his own seat, only slightly behind the captain’s chair. “It would appear we have company. Considering that we are, in a sense, trespassers into your planetary space, perhaps I should begin the introductions.”

The First Peer was at his best; self-possessed, charming, charismatic. “I do hope you will understand if we do not provide all the information you feel you are entitled to, but one would be foolish to be too free until amicable relationships are established, do you not agree?”

The man opposite studied Darland carefully. “Very well,” he said. “Introduce yourselves and I’ll tell you when I want more.”

His voice was strong and deep. He was a mature man, burly, heavy, with hair that had once been black but was now steel grey. He used the common language, spreading from Earth two millennia ago and still understood by all humans, although accents and dialects had created variants. This man’s speech was clear and precise, but there was something about him which caused Darland to tread carefully.

“My name is Darland, First Peer of the Courvenier family, and this is Morence Courvenier, Captain in Chief of the space arm of the family. He commands this vessel. I am a simple passenger.”

“And yet you have your seat on the bridge. Don’t try to fool me, stranger. You may not command the vessel but you tell it where to go, that’s clear enough. Where have you come from?”

“Ah, well,” said Darland, “that is something I will hold in reserve, if you have no objection, but I can tell you we are not here through intention, and we hope we will be able to relieve you of our presence very soon indeed.”

“We saw your ship go into hiding. What drive do you use? And you need not bother to change your position. We have you fixed.”

Have you indeed? thought Darland, glancing at his cousin.

 

Judith Rook was born in the UK and is now living in Western Australia. Judith has worked as a music teacher, as a mentor for beginning teachers and as a music journalist. She began writing imaginative pieces in childhood and is now writing novels and short stories. She is an avid reader, with science fiction her favourite genre, followed closely by the great classics. From time to time, Judith stirs herself to rally around important social issues and has been known to take to the streets in protest, so long as there are good cafés along the way.

Judith’s Blog:   www.JudithRook.com

Judith on Facebook:   https://www.facebook.com/JudithRookBooks/

Judith on Twitter:   https://twitter.com/JudithRook2

DARLAND COURVENIER REFLECTS

It is not easy, being the First Peer of one of the five leading Families on the planet of First Home. Not easy at all, although some don’t appreciate the fact.

Why, only the other day, the idiotic Press linked me yet again with Adélaïde of Guignonne. I usually read “The Planet Voice”—it’s not stupid, like some of the other dailies—but Adélaïde… again? I’ll have to send my friend Vaire to speak to the editor and tell him to kill that particular story—or himself, if he prefers. It should never have appeared. As I say, it’s not easy being First Peer of Courvenier.

I do hope the Guignonnes are not feeling serious about getting me into a genetic partnership with their heiress. If they are, they’re going to be disappointed. They may need contracts with Courvenier, but Courvenier doesn’t need contracts with Guignonne. No, I can certainly pass on Adélaïde, but I’ll dance with her—very closely—at the next First Families ball and leave her hoping. That will be funny.

What I can’t ignore is Lewis Brock d’Haute-Forêt. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be the top First Peer, and one day, Courvenier would rule the whole of First Home. I’d see to that, and I’d do whatever might be needed to make it happen—and I mean, whatever.

I can’t do anything about it yet, because Lewis of the High Forest is always in my way. Lewis is too nice. He’s honourable, and I’m not. Scruples make for stupid moves, and you wouldn’t call me a stupid man.

The trouble is, the other Families like Lewis too much. He’s trustworthy, they say. Trustworthy? The man’s an idiot! Look at the opportunities for his own Family he misses.

He was sent to that funny little planet, Circe, to make contact with it again after hundreds of years, and he did nothing to get High Forest established as the main line of negotiation. Once he got back to First Home, he turned the whole thing over to the General Conclave and the Peoples’ Council, without keeping anything for himself.

But he did seem to make himself very popular while he was there, and he picked up a Circean woman, who’s a bit out of the ordinary, and I’ve got to admit, she’s taken my fancy. Vaire tells me to stop thinking about her, but that’s a bit difficult.

I made a bad mistake in following Lewis to Circe. How was I to know the place was so weird? It seemed to take a dislike to me—why, I can’t imagine. I’m a very reasonable fellow.

I was more than reasonable when we found that other planet Lantora, and I had to deal with their Primary Space Ops Director. He thought he could trap us. He suspected we have developed our time drive far beyond what they have, and naturally enough, he wanted it. But he made a mistake too. He thought force would do, when subtlety would have been far better. I am always subtle.

As it was, he lost out completely. I got the upper hand, and we left, but not before I had collected an intriguing fact which I think I will be able to use against Lewis.

Haute-Forêt is always on my mind. If it wasn’t for him I would be completely happy. But I’ve got time on my side, and I’ll keep on with my plans. I’ll have the Circean woman, and I’ll have Lewis d’Haute-Forêt, then the whole of First Home, as well. Just keep checking in with me. You should see some very interesting things happening.

 

You can meet Darland Courvenier in ‘Man of Two Planets’ by Judith Rook.

Planet Woman – Amazon Smashwords  

Man of Two Planets – Amazon Smashwords  

First Steps for a Hero –  Amazon Smashwords (A Young Adult Novella) 

 

It was a real shame that the company who had accepted the contract on Leo’s life already had a team of two men in Devon who were sure they could rub out a bloke who drew dogs for a living on the way back to headquarters. Sitting astride a Triumph Speed Triple in the village street, they were a little bit put out by the level of security at the house, but cheered up when they saw their target, and another man, bowl out of the drive in a bright red Morgan Roadster.
‘Easy enough to follow.’
‘Yeah, and I got the Glock with me.’
‘Shall we then?’
‘Yeah. Don’t look like it’ll be too difficult.’
‘Need to do it quiet. Don’t want to be dodging the filth all the way back home.’
‘Yeah. Gotta find a nice isolated stretch of country road.’
They followed the red car at a discreet distance, only closing up a little when they reached the A38.

In the Morgan, Clay shifted uneasily. ‘We seem’ he said tautly ‘to have picked up a tail.’
‘Yellow Speed Triple?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Not precisely discreet, is it?’
‘Oh. I dunno. Around seventy per cent of people don’t see motorcycles at all. And of those that do it’s only aficionados who would recognise the make and model.’
‘True. So what do we do? I don’t reckon we’ll easily lose him. And I’m not sure I want to.’
‘Come again?’
‘This wants dealing with. Here and now. How ruthless are you?’
‘That’ Clay announced with some dignity ‘is my line. But since you are asking, I’m up for whatever. Although they will have a gun.’
‘I rather assumed that. A fast bike is ideal for a drive by.’
‘You are a cool customer ain’t you?’
‘My wife’s phrase is ‘hard bastard’. Now fish around in the glovebox in front of you. There’s a paintball pistol in there and it needs loading.’
Clay found the pistol and the paintballs. ‘Any particular colour?’ he asked facetiously.
‘How about red?’

Leo changed down and upped his speed to just shy of a hundred.
‘We’re about to turn off.’
‘Into the forest?’
‘Yep. I know it like the back of my hand. If those buggers come in after us you can be pretty sure they don’t. You’ll need to hold on tight for the first five minutes or so, because we can’t afford for them to come level with us until we’re further in.’

The red car swung off the dual carriageway onto what was little more than a single track. Leo gunned the engine and the Morgan sprang forward. He wrestled the car around a series of tight bends and kept the accelerator floored as they hit a long straight.
‘They coming?’
‘Yeah. But the twisty bit is holding them up.’
‘Good. We need to be around the next hairpin and climbing the hill before they catch us.’

The motorcycle was gaining on them, but not quickly enough, and the Morgan made it around a tight hairpin bend with about two layers of paint to spare. Then it turned sharp left up a steep drag.
‘Christ Johnson, that was fucking close. I hope you know what you are doing.’
‘Me too. Get your gun ready. I’m going to slow enough for them to get alongside us. Try for the driver’s visor.’

The Morgan slowed its impetuous rate and Clay watched the Triumph getting bigger and bigger in the mirror. It pulled alongside and he could see the business end of a big pistol. Leo touched the throttle and the Morgan surged forwards. Clay discharged two balls of red paint and had the satisfaction of seeing them burst across the visor of the driver’s helmet.

He was later to swear that the next fifteen seconds took place in slow motion. Leo took his foot off the gas and the Morgan dropped behind the struggling motorbike just as they reached the apex of the hill. With another deft touch of the throttle the front wing of the Morgan just touched the leg of the pillion passenger, ensuring that the bike went straight on. The road didn’t. Leo wrestled the sports car almost ninety degrees to the right before stopping the engine and resting his forehead against the steering wheel.
‘Fuck it. That was close. I nearly scratched the paintwork.’

From: Shall We Gather At The River

© jane jago

I am old as you rightly suggest
And often I don’t look at my best
But I just think sod that
And shove on a hat
And stick out my oversized chest

© jane jago 2017