To celebrate the upcoming launch of A Necessary End, the final book in Fortunes Fools, the first book of Haruspex trilogy, Trust A Few is free to download until 13 March.

If heading up a criminal syndicate in the ‘City was one of the things most people expected to involve some degree of glamour and excitement, the reality, as Durban Chola soon discovered, was a lot less dramatic.
The operational framework had been fixed in place the first day he took over. Durban had been recuperating from an injury, sustained during the change of administration. Reclining on a chair in the master suite of the luxurious mansion that under ‘City convention he had just inherited from the previous incumbent, Sarnai Altan, he had been in discussion with Jazatar Baldrik, his head of security — ironically also inherited from Sarnai Altan.
It had been less of a discussion and more of an instructive lecture from Jaz on how Durban needed to comport himself. Both in regard to his own security and as a syndicate crime lord — known as a Name — in the ‘City. Durban had listened and nodded in the right places. When he finished, Jaz stood by the window gazing out at the sunset over the panorama of the mansion’s grounds and the ‘City beyond.
“So how do we play this, in your view?” Durban asked. “I mean the whole running-the-syndicate thing.”
Jaz turned as Durban spoke and looked as though he was giving the question serious consideration.
“You do your job. I do mine,” he said after a few moments.
“Parallel paths?”
“We’ve got the same basic aim, Blondie, shouldn’t be a problem.”
“We need a bit more than a broad direction of travel in common if we are going to make things work in the ‘City. You know that.”
Jaz gave an offhand shrug.
“I don’t mind what you want to do with the business side of things, Blondie. I’ll keep the ‘City scared enough of us for it not to matter, long as you can keep the money coming in to pay for it. You need me to lean on anyone, you let me know. It should be pretty straight forward.”
“And what about Avilon?”
“He can carry on with me as he has been. I can’t see as how he would be much use to your side of things.”
“I meant what about the memories?”
Jaz’s expression darkened.
“Well now, that’s an interesting question. I’d not noticed them featuring in too much of your decision making so far.”
The memories were Avilon’s, of his past life — his life before he and Jaz had served as convict military conscripts. Memories Durban knew could be restored, to make Avilon the person he had once been, instead of an individual with no more than six years of conscious life lived. It was through the intention of restoring those memories that he and Jaz had first been drawn together.
“There hasn’t been a lot of opportunity,” Durban said. “So much happening that there’s been no real opening for us to even discuss the matter, let alone take any action on it and you’ve not been exactly approachable the last few cycles.”
“Yeah. It’s all my fault. I can see that.”
Durban smiled in a conciliatory way.
“Don’t be so sensitive, Jaz. I’m not worried about the past — it’s where we are going now that matters.”
Jaz moved away and looked back out over the gardens for a few moments before replying. His tone was flat.
“I don’t know, Blondie.”
“You’re still committed?”
“To Avilon? Of course.”
“Then what don’t you know?”
Jaz let out a breath and shook his head. “You’ve not even told me what it involves — where we need to go, what we’ve got to do, things like that. So how can I know? Right now I can’t see we can go anywhere or do much about it anyway — I’m tied here. The CSF have me pinned here. They’ve made it very clear if I try to leave, I make the top ten bounty chart and we’d get locked out of the ‘City for life. Until we can get that under control, it’s a bit —” he broke off, searching for a suitable word. “It’s just a bit unrealistic to talk about it right now.”

The opening of Edge of Doom, book two in Haruspex, a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook

The cover is designed by Ian Bristow, you can find his work at Bristow Design.

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

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

It was a two-hour drive to Virconium, given a speedy vehicle and a reliable driver. Having both, they arrived without incident. The city was gearing up for next month’s Saturnalia with bright lights and sparkly tinsel in every shop window to lure in gift-buyers. Julia felt an odd pang of nostalgia as she caught sight of a display of sigillaria in one. There were candles moulded or carved into fantastic and beautiful wax sculptures, beside a shelf of grotesque and amusing ones. She wondered how it would be to spend her first Saturnalia away from Rome.
The navi system took them straight to the dance studio, where Julia followed Dai and Bryn as they made their way to the reception desk in a cool quiet portico. The elaborately coiffed young man behind the white and gold edifice recoiled visibly.
“Members only,” he snapped.
Bryn stepped forward.
“The Submagistratus wants a word with Bont.”
The receptionist opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no sound emerged.
“Sometime this week, sonny”
“Not possible. Ulysses is busy right now.”
“Well un-busy him.”
“I don’t think I can…”
Bryn smiled and leaned over the desk, cracking his knuckles. The receptionist swallowed audibly, then he thumbed a button.
“Ulysses Bont to reception. Immediately please.”
Bryn rewarded him with a wolfish grin.“Now you’re being sensible. Got somewhere we can talk uninterrupted?”

They were soon ensconced in a pleasant room, which Julia was delighted to find came complete with beverages and cake. It wasn’t long before they were joined by a lean man wearing a sardonic expression.
“You wanted me, dominus?” he said a waspish bite to his tone.
Dai looked him up and down slowly.
“I think wanted is an exaggeration.”
Bont coloured, but Julia could see he wasn’t brave enough to argue with a man whose blue eyes were as bleak as a winter morning. Bont shut his mouth and cast down his gaze.
“Better. Now. Talk to me about Tales from the Mabinogion.”
“What?” Bont looked up in surprise. “The dance troupe?”
“Yes.”
“We were contracted for a three-month school tour. Then disbanded.”
He met Dai’s stare defiantly for a moment, then looked at Julia. She schooled her expression to stone. Something in her face seemed to get to him, though and he sighed. “Okay, it was more than a bit odd. We were paid well over the going rate and our paymasters were a bit creepy. Too interested in kids. Always girls and always the petite ones. Not that I ever saw them actually do anything, I’d have reported them if they had.” he broke off for a moment as if thinking about what had happened. “You have to understand, they really weren’t the sort of people you question. But…”
“But indeed. Do you have any names?”
“There were two of them, a couple of men, called themselves Smith. Can I ask what you think they have done?”
“Eleven of those girls have gone missing.”
“Oh no. Please, no.” Bont looked truly sick. “Look. I don’t know much that could help you, I really wish I did. That’s – just horrible.” He broke off shaking his head as if trying to deny it. Then he looked up directly at Dai. “Except that there’s this female dancer, I never liked her. Her name is Katya Czesny, she was right in with the Smiths. And she is still working In Viriconium.”
“Where?”
“A nightspot. The Scarlet Letter. She’s cage dancing now. Calls herself Lubricia.”
Julia spoke for the first time.
“Thank you,” she said softly.

From ‘Dying on the Tide’ one of the bonus short stories included in ‘The First Dai and Julia Omnibus‘ by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

Ramesh is gorgeous!
The first date was pants. He took me to a bloody museum. I had to pretend to be interested. The second, we went to some boring music thing. Four women scratching bows over different sized violins.
But the third date was dinner – except he took me to this god-awful place where I ordered steak and they looked at me like I was demented.
Three bloody dates and no kiss?
So when we left the restaurant I pulled him around, closed my eyes, pouted my lips… When I opened my eyes a minute later, he’d only bloody gone!

E.M. Swift-Hook

To celebrate the upcoming launch of A Necessary End, the final book in Fortunes Fools, Trust A Few is free to download until 13 March.

“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. Vane 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 made the responsibility he now held a heavy one, weighing up all the factors to consider if Revid should be discharged. Revid might have a legal right to be considered for release, but that was not the same as having the right to be released. That decision ultimately lay with Vane and it was one he was not finding at all straight forward.
“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.

Trust A Few is now free to download until 13 March. It is book two in Haruspex, a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook

The cover is designed by Ian Bristow, you can find his work at Bristow Design.

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

You are old. Let me give you a tip
Your body’s too saggy to strip
It shouldn’t be you
Showing off your tattoo
At the head of a mass skinny dip

© jane jago

Symphony Under Siege by Stephen Hall, is a rollicking, fast-paced sci-fi novel.
Five centuries from now, ex-navy officer Diana Singh commands the monumental luxury spaceliner the Symphony of the Stars. None of her crew knows that their ship is smuggling a treasure worth millions.
None of them knows which one of them is the serial killer.
As Captain Singh pilots the mighty cruise ship back to base, she races to unmask the murderer in their midst before they can kill again.
So, not the most convenient time to be attacked by pirates…

According to the ship’s manual, the Symphony of the Stars is equipped with 20 lifeboats:
LIFEBOATS
The Symphony of the Stars is equipped with 20 lifeboats
See?
Each of which has a capacity of up to 150 persons. There are 10 lifeboats amidships on the upper deck: 5 to starboard and 5 to port. Another 10 lifeboats are in the stern: 5 to starboard and 5 to port. A designated safety officer has been assigned to each lifeboat. Once passengers and crew members are safely aboard, the lifeboats may be jettisoned remotely (from inside the ship), or manually (via the controls of the lifeboat itself). Once jettisoned, the lifeboat’s emergency distress beacon will engage, as it starts its scan for the nearest ship, station or outpost.
If none are found, it will begin a sweep for the nearest habitable planet or moon, and lay in a course.
Each lifeboat is equipped with SPR, and so has a theoretically infinite range. The lifeboat’s AI features scaled-down versions of the Symphony’s navigation, communication and entertainment systems, with additional survival information.
Each lifeboat has 10 water synthesizers and four lavatories. Seven days of A-rations are supplied for each person aboard, available once the 10 replicators have been depleted.
Other equipment includes one C-level SLS spacesuit per person aboard, fire extinguishers, first aid kits, blankets, multipurpose tool kits and additional distress beacons, and of course, towels.
For further information, see Chapter 16 of this manual: ‘Relax, You’re Not Going To Die; It’ll Probably All Be Fine’.

---

Devereux and Mr Abara sat on the stateroom’s gigantic couch, watching the infinite starscape slowly gliding by. Their shoeless feet rested on Gotmund’s back, as it gently rose and fell.
“War is hell,” Devereux declared, draining her second glass.
“Hear, hear,” agreed Mr Abara. “Bloody awful. More champagne?”
She held out her empty glass. “Oh, just to the top thanks, darl.”
“You’re funny.”
Devereux smiled. She couldn’t remember the last time someone paid her that compliment.
She stretched comfortably and took a sip.
Mr Abara wanted to tell her how he felt. He needed to tell her how he felt. He took a swig of champagne and put his glass down.
“Devereux, there’s something – ”
He was interrupted by the door opening and five maitbots scurrying into the room.
“Oh great, the maitbots are here,” he said flatly.
They hurriedly lifted their feet off Gotmund, as the maitbots maneuvered into place around him.
The little droids deftly raised the sleeping pirate from the floor, took a moment to steady themselves beneath his enormous bulk, and started slowly marching towards the door, on their mission to deliver him to the Shifting Sands.
Devereux stood up, clapped her hands and said decisively, “Right! Now that he’s on his way, we can get back to what we were doing!”
She put her boots back on. “Oh, and thanks for the drink,” she added.
“You’re welcome,” Mr Abara responded quietly.

A Bite of… Stephen Hall

How much of you is in your characters? Maybe the dashing hero is you. Or the devious villain. Or the quiet one who watches and winces a bit.

There’s bits of me in all of them, but I tend to write various characters as exaggerated embodiments of my own traits.
My optimism = Ms Pepper.
My brute male abstruseness = Gotmund.
My respect for the dignity of sticking to the rules = Captain Singh.
My mischievousness and (would-be) dashing wit = Salazar.
My gooey-hearted romanticism = Mr Abara.
My joy in telling old jokes = Marie.
I love having all these vehicles to express various aspects of myself.

Having created a fictional world for your novels, is there any moment in the process where you actually find your brain inhabiting that place?

Absolutely. When I’m writing, I find paintings or illustrations online that suggest the bizarre, exotic locations I’m playing with, and have those images open in the background as I work. Later, I find myself drifting off into these worlds, dreaming up new adventures and scrapes for the characters to get into. I’m not trying to go there – these imaginary places pull me towards them. It’s a powerful, wonderful thing.

Do you think your political beliefs inform your writing in any way?

Definitely. I think our political beliefs inform everything we do. The story in Symphony Under Siege takes place 512 years in the future.
On a Thursday morning.
I’ve deliberately made that world a more positive place, where, by and large, humanity’s better instincts have prevailed. It’s not perfect, of course (where would be the fun in that?)… but it’s a slightly more Utopian place than Earth in 2021. I think escapist adventure stories are always best served with a dash of optimism!

If you could meet one person (alive or dead) who would you choose? And what would you talk about?

The mighty Leonardo Da Vinci. I’d ask him about his beliefs, his methods…
I’d ask him how he sees the world, how he sees himself, and how he manages to be such an incredible polymath.
Not sure I’d understand all his answers, though.
I don’t speak Italian.

Stephen Hall is an Australian writer, actor, and quiz show enthusiast.  When he turned 50, he decided he’d finally write that sci-fi novel he’d been daydreaming about for years. He lives  in Melbourne with his wife, his daughter and a Staffordshire terrier called Gracie. You can find him on Twitter.

At number twenty-three he was called Soot, at number thirty-eight they named him Shadow and at the big house on Lobelia Drive he was called Jeremy. But the black cat that slipped from house to house bestowing his affection with equal abandon on the Wilsons, the McDonalds and the Fothringtons had no real care for what they called him.

There was fish on friday at twenty-three, milk every morning at thirty-eight and hand cooked chopped chicken at the big house most evenings.

What’s in a name when you are the owner of three human families and three comfortable cat baskets?

E.M. Swift-Hook

The adventures of Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson

The cab skittered and rattled over the uneven streets canting at crazy angles as it cornered with injudicious speed. Bearson grasped the cissy strap and hung on for dear life, while the smaller, lighter Homes was thrown about the vehicle like thistledown in the wind. 

Arriving at the station with time to spare, Homes paid off the cabbie while Bearson dashed to the ticket office. By the time the somewhat corpulent bear arrived puffing at the platform, Homes awaited with his pocket watch in one trotter and a large bag emblazoned with the logo of Mrs Miggs’ excellent meat pie emporium in the other. Mrs Miggs’ pies are undoubtedly the best in the city – even if it is unwise in the extreme to enquire what ‘meat’ precisely one is ingesting. 

Espying the hurrying Bearson, Homes strode forward.

“How fared you old chap?”

“Excellent well Homes. I have procured for us a first class compartment until Dumpshire City, where we have to change to a small local line for the last ten miles. On that train I could only procure tickets for a first class carriage.”

Homes clapped Bearson on the shoulder. “Excellent fellow. And now, if my ears do not deceive me, our train approaches….”

Of course his ears did not deceive him and the Pride of the Westcountry huffed into view with her smoke stack belching out a black miasma as her iron wheels clattered on the track. She braked to the beginnings of an ungainly halt and gave vent to an ear-splitting whistle. 

Bearson watched the carriage numbers as the train slowed to a screeching, rumbling stop. 

“We are coach C. Compartment 26. I wonder how far we shall have to walk.”

“Not far Bearson, old chap.” Homes was reassuring – for a reason as it turned out, as the final resting place of the smoke-belching monster put the door to compartment C26 right beside them.

Bearson smiled a wry and reluctant smile. “How do you do that, Homes? Even without knowing what carriage we are to board, you always manage to be standing in precisely the correct place on the platform.”

Homes climbed onto the step and used the weight of his small body to swing open the carriage door. As he disappeared into the compartment he threw a comment over his shoulder.

“Elementary my dear Bearson.”

Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson will continue their investigation into The Affair of the Dartymuir Dog next week…

Jane Jago

With proud banner daffodils in the wind a-blowing
March marches in
It’s after the winter as the world starts a-growing
When March marches in
First of the spring flowers start brightly a-budding
‘Cos March marches in
Hard rain and spring showers send rivers a-flooding
As March marches in
Bluster days and sunshine, as the nights become shorter
when March marches in
Then comes the equinox at the year’s quarter
For March marches on…

E.M. Swift-Hook