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

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

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

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

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

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

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

E.M. Swift-Hook

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

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

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

©Jane Jago

The door of the staff dining room banged open and the handsome figure of Launcelot Gribble stood in the doorway with his romantically tousled head held high.
“I think I’ve just broken my geek,” he announced. The Bursar sighed and looked up from the column of figures she was conning. “Again? And what makes you think this one is broken?”
“He’s just sitting staring into the middle distance and making strange sheep-like noises.”
Matron gave the dramatic figure in the doorway a look of deep dislike before grinding out her evil-smelling cheroot and heaving herself to her feet. She headed for the door, and as she passed Gribble she smacked him solidly across the back of the head with one large red hand.
“Ouch. That hurt.”
She didn’t even bother to answer him, just stalked along the dusty corridor like a vengeful leviathan.
Gribble dropped his pose of romantic ennui and ruefully rubbed his head.
“Why’d old iron tits decide to smack me around the head?”
Democratic Runes looked up from the volume of arcane verse he was studying and regarded his colleague in disbelief.
“Why wouldn’t she? You break geeks and she gets to fix them. How many is it this year?”
Gribble studied his feet and muttered something unintelligible.
“Come again?”
“This one is number thirteen.”
“Who else is egotistical enough to break geeks at that rate. Thirteen down and it’s only the ninth moon. You are a fucking liability, my friend.”
Gribble hunched a shoulder and turned his startlingly green gaze on the sturdy figure of the Bursar.
“I’ll just go choose another geek then, shall I?”
“No. Indeed you will not. There have been complaints. The University has generated a memo. Allow me to read it to you. ‘It has come to our attention that the Chair of Ancient Scrolls is somewhat careless of the technicians who assist him in his work. This is unsatisfactory. Should any more instances occur, the choice of assistant is to be removed from his remit’.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that you don’t get to choose. You will be assigned a geek. And proper contracts will be signed.”
Gribble bridled. “I don’t sign contracts. It’s an honour to be chosen to help me.”
“As of now you do sign contracts. Because if you don’t, you don’t get a geek. And shut your mouth – you look stupid with it half open.” The Bursar got up and jerked a thumb at the gaping professor. “My office. Now.”

From Gribble’s Geek by Jane Jago which is only 0.99 to buy throughout November.

In leaving it, the earth was lost to me.
My heart twisted back and forth, between anguish and hope, anxiety and excitement. Yes, I was abandoning friends and family forever, but that was in order to embark on the greatest adventure humanity had ever undertaken.
The thrusting acceleration marked the moment I departed the womb of humankind and became isolated, cut off. Drifting in infinity, regrets and doubts whispering their woe to my innermost being.
Then the screens filled with images of the world we were heading to, beautiful beyond belief, and I fell in love with my new home.

E.M. Swift-Hook

It was a ‘click’ moment.
You know what I mean, we’ve all had a ‘click’ moment. A moment when something happens in an instant that changes everything in your life forever. It might be as transformative and huge as love at first sight or as destructive and small as breaking a front tooth. It might be the moment you hear you’ve won the lottery or the one where you get that diagnosis.
But the thing with a ‘click’ moment is it changes you, your perception of who you are and your ability to deal with things in life in the way you did before.
If you fall in love you have the instant burden of another’s happiness to maintain and if you broke that tooth it’s dealing with the fact your smile is no longer so attractive and people will look at you differently and treat you differently from now on because of it.
So why am I telling you all this?
Well, because of my own most profound ‘click’ moment in life, one that changed not just how I saw myself, how I dealt with things in life but – well – everything and forever. It kind of puts all the other ‘click’ moments, you, I or anyone else ever has into perspective.
It was the moment I realised I’d met an alien…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Something went wrong at splashdown and the capsule sank like a boulder. Tender ‘hands’ pulled her from the wreckage, and when they understood she could not breathe they lifted her to the surface, making noises of pity.
She found an inflated life raft and crawled aboard. The communicator was squawking like a demented parrot, but she ignored it looking instead at the pale sea and the faces of the kindly ones that watched her.
The rapacity of her own species became repugnant. Setting the dials to read unbreathable air, she dived overboard. Her new friends mourned her as she drowned.

©Jane Jago

Imagine waking up one day unable to recall who you are or where you came from – only to find you are serving a sentence as a convict conscript for crimes you have no memory of ever committing…

“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 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’.

From Trust A Few – book one in Haruspex, the second Fortune’s Fools trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook – which is only 0.99 to buy throughout November.

Brother and sister.
Supposed to be there for each other. Family. Closer than friends.
But Adam and I missed the memo.
We fought even as toddlers. Sibling rivalry on steroids.
He trashed my farm set so I trashed his comic collection. He mocked me at school so I spread rumours about him.
Until dad died in a crash. Somehow we grew up overnight. Mum needed us both and that brought us together.
Before, we’d turned our backs on each other. But dad’s death taught us what really mattered – who really mattered.
Now we stand back to back against the world.

E.M. Swift-Hook