Two Women and Some Books
We was doing all right until Pa was took away, then things got hard. Ma set her jaw and got on with it, but we never seen her smile.
Thanksgiving come, and me and Joe shot us a couple of turkeys what ‘escaped’ from Ole Man Matthews’ farm.
Ma clipped us round the ears, but she cooked ‘em all the same.
We was just sitting down to eat, when the back door opens quiet like and Pa slips in, bone thin and with his prison haircut.
Ma never said nothin’ just set a plate of turkey in front of him.
A new collection of the Sam Nero Stories by Jane Jago, Sam Nero PI, is now available on preorder. This is an excerpt from the notebooks of Anastasia Throbb, ace reporter, and presenter of the prime-time magazine show The Throbbing City.
Sam Nero didn’t want to meet with me. It took six months of poking and prodding, and outright bribery before I found a man who was both willing and able to lean on this most archetypal of private investigators and make him talk to me. In the end, a friend of a friend introduced me to a man who goes by the name of O’Halleran, who promised me an hour of Sam’s time. Rather to my surprise, it even seemed as if he was going to deliver.
He sent two huge mutes to my office and they escorted me to a back-street diner where a sullen-faced waitress stuck me in a booth and stopped chewing gum for long enough to mouth “sit”. I sat and waited, concealing my growing impatience as best as possible. I was just about to make as dignified an exit as I could when a shadow fell across the table.
“Miss Throbb, I presume.” The voice was lazily amused.
I turned and got my first look at Sam Nero in the flesh. He was about six three, maybe six four, wide at the shoulder and narrow at the hip, and his face looked as if it had been designed to meet the expectations of every pre-pubescent female in the city. It was hard, and sculpted, and sported what I could only assume was a permanent five o’clock shadow. I turned my attention to his companion, a lush-bodied bottle blonde who looked at me as if she could discern my innermost secrets. I think I hated her on sight.
They slipped into the booth opposite me, and something about the pair of them set the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. For a moment I was floundering, then I realised what had spooked me. There were two of them, but only one shadow. While my flesh was still crawling, the waitress appeared with a pot of coffee and two tall mugs. She put a mug in front of Nero and one in front of me before favouring me with a sneer and sloping off.
“Doesn’t your lady friend get coffee?”
The voice that responded was feminine and breathy and sounded to me as if it had been honed over a lot of years of practice.
“I never touch the stuff. Ruins the complexion.”
Then Nero laughed. It was a deep sound that sent little shivers running around all sorts of inappropriate parts of my anatomy.
“Be nice.”
“I was being nice, Sam. You should know that.”
She laid a red-nailed and possessive paw on his forearm and he smiled.
“Sure you were being nice, Sugar. I’d just like to keep it that way.”
“Sugar?” I think my voice went up an octave, I mean what sort of a prehistoric monster calls his woman sugar?
“It’s my name. Sugar Kane. That’s Miss Kane to you.”
Mentally cursing my luck I turned my most winsome smile on Mister Nero.
“Sam,” I said. “May I call you Sam?”
He raised a lazy eyebrow and looked me up and down for a moment before laughing that damnably sexy laugh again.
“I guess so. It’s what Ma Nero named her little boy.”
“Is it really? I mean I can find no record of a family called Nero, let alone a male child called. Samuel?”
“Nah. Just Sam. And where I was born nobody keeps records.”
“And Miss Kane. Where and when was your sidekick born?”
“That ain’t the sort of question a gentleman asks a lady. Not if he wants to keep wearing his face. You can ask if you are that stupid.”
I looked into his companion’s icy eyes and quickly framed another question.
“The first record I can find of a Sam Nero is about four decades ago when a licence to operate as a private detective was granted. Would that be you?”
“Maybe.”
“The age of the applicant is stated as being forty-two.”
“Sounds a responsible sort of age to me. What say you Sugar?”
They exchanged a look of such naked trust that for a second even I felt de trop. But I pressed on.
“But that can’t be you, Mister Nero. If it was you would be in your eighties by now. And you don’t look like an eighty-year-old man to me.”
“Neither he does.” The blonde seemed to be laughing at me, and I didn’t like the sensation one little bit.
I made my voice hard and assertive.
“In my book, Mister Nero, that makes you an impostor. I’m sure the authorities would love to look at my findings and throw you into jail for a good long time.” I leaned forward and slapped the palms of my hands on the table hard enough to sting.
Nero laughed.
“Think again, sweetheart. The authorities as you so sweetly call them know precisely who I am. Next question.”
He took a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up.
I coughed.
“I do not care for tobacco smoke,” I said icily.
Nero sneered at me.
“Door’s over there. Make sure it doesn’t hit your ass on the way out.”
I was incensed, but some vestige of intelligence stopped me leaving. This was my only chance to persuade an icon of old-school cops and robbers violence onto my show so I swallowed my bile and tried for a forgiving smile. The obnoxious Sugar shrugged her shoulders and her rather overblown assets jiggled.
“I think the lady has decided to forgive you.”
He grinned lazily, and twitched a mobile eyebrow, sending my hormone count soaring yet again. This man was hot, hot and dangerous. I needed him to boost my flagging ratings, and maybe for the odd other job or two.
I set myself to charm him, sipping my coffee and running my tongue along my lower lip. He watched with what I can only describe as detached amusement, and I felt my anger begin to rise up once more.
“What’s with you Nero?” I snapped. “You come here sneering, and looking down your nose at me…”
He leaned back and crossed his long long legs.
“Wasn’t me asked for this meet. Suck it up.”
I drew in a breath and tried for calm.
“Fair point Mister Nero. I asked to meet you.”
The blonde bombshell laughed huskily.
“I think the lady is after your body, Sam.”
“Why’d that be Sugar?”
“As if you didn’t know, big boy.”
“And as if you didn’t know old Sam’s heart is yours alone.”
It seemed to me as if they had completely forgotten my existence and I rapped my nails against the crazed china of my mug.
“I’m still here,” I grated.
“Why so you are.” Nero looked me up and down a bit more, and the silent insult in his stare had the blood rushing to my face and I blushed for possibly the first time in two decades.
“Why are you being like this? You have been chauvinistic, unpleasant and downright rude. Why? What have I ever done to you?”
He got up from his seat and looked down at me with a most peculiar expression on his face.
“It’s not always about you. I am what I am. How I was made…”
Then he was gone, and the woman went with him. Two entities with one shadow…
You can also find Sam Nero in The Last City – a science fiction anthology from Dust Publishing
They will tell you Fae can’t cry….
In a way that’s true, but we can be hurt, although we are forever denied the healing benison of tears.
I knelt on the forest floor, and I replayed the moment the orcs sawed down my tree over and over in my head.
My tree was dead. I did not understand why I was not dead too. They meant me to die. They mean all the forest spirits to die…
But I am still alive and in a moment I must stand and fight them.
For now I just wish I could cry.
A Drabble by Jane Jago inspired by original artwork from Ian Bristow.
Hengist ‘Dog’ Gethick is one of the stars of the science-fiction show ‘Starways Pathfinders’.
Dog was half drunk and wondering if he should have accepted the invitation to join his best friend in the dive bar on thirty-three. Teram was the kind who liked to go slumming — said it kept him grounded. He ran the family salvage company and was the hands-on type who liked to do the work at the sharp end. His idea of a good night out was to go drinking with his hard-core salvage crews.
“They are good people, Dog — and they would be made up to meet you.”
“No. They would be made up to meet Sub-Commander Arlan Stude, not Dog Gethick, jobbing actor.”
Teram did not deny it, just rolled his shoulders as they took the glides down.
“They won’t recognise you anyway without that uniform and the sexy half-mask,” he confided. “But you got to know what you are to these boys. They won’t miss an episode. You are like their hero.”
Dog shook his head and altered course to avoid his towering bulk blocking the way for a couple with a baby.
“It’s all crap. Just kids’ stories in grown-up words. None of it real. Not like it’ll ever happen. I don’t see the real Strands ever funding a space exploration mission. They’d not see profit in it.”
Teram glanced up at him.
“You don’t get it do you, Dog? It’s not that it’ll never happen — everyone knows it’ll never happen. It’s that it shows something bigger than this.” He gestured to the buzz of humanity around them. “These are people penned into the cage this city’s become — you, your show, it opens the doors of that cage for a while. Opens the doors and lets in hope. More than hope. Real belief in a future that can be more than this.”
That was too much, and Dog shook his head. “I’m an actor, not a fucking messiah.”
The bar was not as bad as Dog had thought it would be. It was well ventilated and the people who were vaping whatever noxious substances sat in a side room where an androgyne gyrated naked on a podium. Teram’s crew sat together by the one window which offered not so much a panorama of the cityscape of the kind Dog had at home, but more like a murky glimpse into the bowels of the world — dark and lit by sudden flares.
“So, what do you do, Dog?”
Someone had to ask, and lulled by the strong spirits and the rough but good-natured bonhomie, Dog almost forgot himself.
“I’m an actor.” He remembered in time and quickly added, “Used to do that commercial for Eatin’ Quix delivery?”
That met with a few nods of recall and the topic moved on. But it was too much to expect Teram to let it lie for long.
“So, what did you guys make of the latest SP? You think they will find those Kyruku?” His eyes slid to Dog and he winked. “Makes you think. Aliens and all.”
Dog said nothing as the men around him speculated. “Ain’t no fucking aliens. If there were, we’d have met ’em by now. Stands to reason.”
“Yeah. But The Golden Strand is headed ’cross the fucking galaxy, not just round the block and home; it’s different.”
“Different? You see that view screen they get to see stuff on? Huge thing. Dream of that for our ship. What you say, boss — when we getting that kind of tech?”
There was laughter, and Teram laughed loudest of all.
“What if it was for real, though?” someone said. Dog had not picked up the names; he’d tried, but the faces were too similar — worn, weary and bleak. He recalled an odd conversation he’d had with Heila a couple of days before: she’d been going on about her fans, her people. Well, he guessed these were his people. Gnarled by life before they hit thirty, running on dreams and stardust and the false hope held out by the allure of each episode of Starways Pathfinders.
“What if? You kidding? I’d sign up in a second.”
“Yeah. Think of it. The freedom of the stars. Going where no other fucker’s ever been.”
“Be like, you’d be alive. You’d matter. You’d be doing something — something good.”
Heads nodded and someone called another round of drinks. Dog stared out of the window at the inky sludge that coated it, dulling the grim sights it would otherwise expose.
From ‘Star Dust’ by E.M. Swift-Hook
The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…
I am old, and I don’t give a shit
About gravity’s work on my bits
I’m not some humble dame
Who can be ‘body shamed’
By a halfwit with silicone tits
The Rabid Readers Review Contact (Instinct Theory #1) by Ian Bristow.
The first contact with alien intelligence is going to bring out both the best and the worst in humanity. In Contact, Ian Bristow brings us a story that sharply contrasts those who seek to profit from those who seek to befriend.
Our heroine. Madelyn, is an anthropologist and a person with a clear moral compass. She sets out on a mission to a far planet with a great deal of hope and bucketload of intellectual curiosity, but she is destined to find out that first contact with an alien race is very different from observing natives deep in the Amazon jungle.
Danger stalks every move both she and her companions make, and the question of who to trust becomes a matter of life or death. The question this novel poses very well is whether our first duty is to fight for the fate of the human race, or do we have a moral obligation to do no harm?
Read and decide for yourself.
First-Contact With A Twist!
When anthropologist Madelyn Lawrence is asked to join a secretive mission to study the first intelligent alien life, she is honoured and excited, even though it means leaving her fiance for another year. But she comes to learn that this mission is not entirely as it seems. There is a dark agenda behind the group of young scientists sent to study the planet and its biodiversity – a dark agenda that threatens her life.
Set in a not-too-distant future 140 years hence, what is really striking from the first about this book is that whereas many first-contact books have the aliens as the ‘bad guys’ when the first contact is hostile, in this book it is humanity which comes to the party with a hostile agenda. That makes this a rather unique take on the subject.
Like most good sci-fi, this is a story which has its focus on the people not on tech – although there is some interesting tech in there with such things as self-piloting air transport, space-elevators and holographic augmented reality maps. But the people, their relationships, their conflicts, fears, hopes and decisions are the focus.
The glimpsed descriptions of the alien world are really well done, creating an impression of a very different kind of landscape but with hauntingly familiar echos of earth. There might be ‘forests’ but the ‘trees’ are not as they are on earth. There are some truly alien – and often terrifying – flora and fauna for the exploration team to encounter.
This is a well-written book with interesting and believable characters, lots of action, sci-fi and intrigue. My main criticism would be a spoiler to go into in any detail here. But I do think that key in any first-contact novel, for me as a reader, is exploring the way in which an alien culture would be removed dramatically from anything we have on Earth. But then this is a story about human experience and one with a powerful message to deliver at that.
Contact (Instinct Theory #1) is part one of an ongoing series so don’t expect resolution of all the story elements by the end of the book.
Overall a great read that comes highly recommended!
The bright lights promise welcome warmth. The stomach remembers satisfying food while other parts recall the innkeeper’s buxom daughter. Two cloaked men slide into the smoky taproom.
Unasked, the girl brings them ale while her father places wooden bowls of aromatic dumpling-rich stew on their table.
It takes a while, but when their stomachs are sated they beckon the plump girl. She comes, seeming willing enough, and perches on the big man’s iron thighs. His fatuous smile falters as his head drops on the table.
“In your dreams,” the girl laughs and returns to her station behind the bar.
A Drabble by Jane Jago inspired by original artwork from Ian Bristow.
Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. If you missed previous episodes you can start reading from the beginning.
V
Some ten days had passed and although Marcella had yet to be apprehended, more than a few minor players were already facing the judgement of whatever gods they subscribed to – courtesy of the pre-Game ‘entertainments’ at the Augusta Arena. None of this made Julia feel any better. Frankly she was going stir crazy.
Decimus had kept her back after dismissing Dai once the hilarity over Bryn had faded.
“And you get to stay indoors too.”
She had lifted a shoulder.
“I mean it. You know Lydia always hated you and I wouldn’t put it past her to have had more than some rather sorry toughs lined up to cause you trouble. So I’ll have your word.”
She had not liked it at all, but she had promised.
They made an odd sort of household. Decimus had granted Dai guest status, giving the Vigiles a room in his own extensive apartments instead of in the barracks. This was something Dai clearly struggled with at times, not being used to the semi-formality of a Roman family setting. But he rose to the occasion in a way that made Julia feel a strange pride.
Decimus was often too preoccupied with events, including organising his wife’s appropriately lavish funeral, to keep her fully updated. But Dai, whose own freedom of movement was restricted to only being out with the protection of his men and an attached praetorian, actively sought her advice. This was a surprising turn of events and Julia found herself looking forward to her conversations with the prickly Celt.
To her secret pleasure, her womanly intuition told her that she wasn’t alone in finding a great deal of pleasure in their conversations. She began to have a sneaking impression that Dai was finding extra reasons to spend time in her company above and beyond the mere sharing of intelligence. She even wondered sometimes if he might not have started looking at her in a way that suggested he was far from oblivious to her as a woman. And that was a thought to ponder with more than a little pleasure.
But…
It was a beautiful morning, and the thought of another day inside four walls was scraping her nerves raw. Dai must have sensed her frustration because he looked up from his bread and honey and made a suggestion.
“Would a visit to the baths help?”
“It should be safe enough,” Decimus agreed, “and you do stink.”
Julia threw her bread at his head with unerring accuracy.
“Spado,” she said, entirely without heat. “But I would like to get out for a couple of hours.”
“Okay then,” Decimus waved a thick finger, “but you take Edbert and a couple of my boys along as muscle.”
Thus it was that a couple of hours later two Praetorian guards were idling in the atrium of the very expensive bathhouse favoured by the Roman elite of Londinium society, trying to pretend they were nothing to do with the uncouth Saxon who leaned on a wall cleaning his nails with a dagger, while Julia and Dai shared a private steam room, having both made good use of the gym equipment in the exercise rooms.
In a nod to public morality, he wore a loincloth and she a short backless garment that just about covered her modesty. She couldn’t help a covert look under her lashes to discover that although his skin was as white as milk, his muscular torso was liberally sprinkled with springy-looking black hairs. For some reason, she found her very fingertips wondering how it would feel to touch the hairs on his chest and the thin line that marched down his flat belly towards his loincloth. She sat on her hands, and looked up into his face. There were laughing devils in his eyes that she had never seen there before.
You primp your hair and paint your lips
Put powder on your nose
But in the darkness of your eyes
Your inhibition shows
A girlhood stolen by the years
A heart remembering only tears
An ear that tunes itself to fears
A mind convinced that dying nears
Your mirror shows a wrinkled face
Not some young smooth-faced maid
And all that life has taught to you
Is how to be afraid
I see the sorrow in your glance
The pain of having lost romance
Yet still I wish you’d take a chance
And, just once, lift your feet and dance
Our Weekend Wind Down today is the opening of Contact (Instinct Theory #1) by Ian Bristow. When the world is running out of options man looks further afield for survival…
It was too late to make a difference, too late to save the mother they had abused.
Guthrie had known since he took the Director of Resources position at the Federation in 2166, ten years ago, that his efforts to slow humanity’s ravenous desires would most likely fail. They were too attached to the conveniences of the modern world. He glanced around his office, noting that he was no different with his antique cherrywood desk and livestream hologram projector and AI secretary.
Sighing, he took a sip of whiskey. How had humanity spiraled so far down this path? He had at least been hopeful of slowing the inevitable. But even that seemed impossible at this point. One man, no matter the title, was no match for such a united and opposing mindset—especially when so many in power sought only to reinforce ideas that coaxed people into a false sense of reality, one where mining materials in space would make all the problems go away. Nothing to fear. Business as usual. It was progress.
Progress.
The magic word that turned the public’s attention away from the wake of devastation they so wanted to ignore.
“Sir, you have an incoming stream from General Hawkins.”
The cool voice of his AI broke his thoughts.
“Accept the stream.” He sat up and adjusted his uniform as the holographic bust of a grey-haired man projected over his desk.
“Good afternoon, Director.”
“Afternoon, General. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Well, I suppose there’s no point beating around the bush on this…”
“Sir?”
“It’s finally happened,” Hawkins said. “We’ve found a host.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Couldn’t be more serious.”
Guthrie sat forward. “You mean to tell me you’ve found a suitable host and have taken the time to study it in enough detail to be absolutely sure? How am I just now hearing of this?”
“I wasn’t about to tell you before we had made, as you put it ‘absolutely sure’, was I? We’ve had several failed potentials over the last two years, so you can imagine my reservations. And beyond that, this is highly classified. Only a handful even know about it, and we intend to keep it that way. Up until now, you didn’t need to know.”
“You’ve always had a way with words.”
“It’s not my job to charm.”
“Point taken.” Guthrie took a sip of his whiskey to let Hawkins know he had no further comment.
“As I’m sure you will already know, the necessary steps going forward will need to be handled very carefully. If this gets leaked…”
“Indeed. Who has made the discovery?”
“A man named Mathew Hodgson. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
Guthrie nodded. “I have. Brilliant man.”
“That he is.”
“But surely he doesn’t know where our intentions for his discovery truly lie?”
“Of course not. He’s under the impression we are only interested in data. Which, of course, we are—we are just more concerned with the practical applications of that data.”
“Can you link me a report on this ASAP?”
“Already have. Your secretary should be forwarding it to your handheld as we speak.”
“Excellent. I won’t lie, this news is hard to digest. I knew we were expending a lot of resources in our search, but a part of me thought it was wasted effort.”
“You and me both,” Hawkins said. “But this is nothing new for humanity, is it? We have always found a way. And I suspect we always will. I suppose that is the prize you earn for reaching the pinnacle of evolutionary success.”
Such arrogance made Guthrie shudder internally. He didn’t quite know how to respond without giving away the anger Hawkins’ last words had generated within him. That spark of anger led his thoughts back through their conversation. Words like ‘host’ and the deception of a brilliant man, whose agenda was purely academic, made him ashamed of his position and his peers. The way power manipulated the mind was truly frightening. But maybe he was overthinking this. Maybe he was just an idealist. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t understand where General Hawkins was coming from. This really was humanity’s last hope.
He just wished there was another way.
You can keep reading Contact (Instinct Theory #1) by Ian Bristow which is available now.
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