The contrast between the leisurely underwater world and the familiar one above the surface stirred more inside him than appreciation of the wonders and beauty of nature. He was not sentimental about nature, having seen plenty of its tooth and claw side, but being able to take a step back from military operations gave him the perspective he needed to see the extent to which he devoted his talents to aggression. For the second time in as many days he questioned his commitment to using his Shifter ability and aura awareness for the sole purpose of warfare, even in a defence role.
Deep underwater, absorbed in his inner conflict over his responsibility and his needs, he was unprepared for what hit his nervous system. The sensation of something being dreadfully wrong did not seep into his consciousness gradually with gentle nagging. It attacked the pit of his stomach like a spear from the pointed tail of a stingray, a visceral pain that hollowed out his insides leaving him sick with fear. He looked down to see if he had been stung and though he saw no injury the fear didn’t leave him. Horror sent him hurtling upwards, panic-stricken at what he would find, certain in knowledge rather than gut feeling that something had happened, something awful, and he suspected the knowledge came from his three-year- old son, Thomas.
At the last minute he remembered to take a circuitous route and approach from the landward side, not the sea. High above the bay he panicked when he couldn’t see Lianne or Thomas anywhere. The neural net would prevent him Shifting in. He circled the cliff top, but it was empty. There was no sign of the protection team couple, not even their belongings or the control kit for the drones. He landed at the spot where they had been, discarding his air mix bottle and the harness. Something glinted in the sunlight – a shard of plastic. As he picked it up he spotted jagged slivers among the coarse grass including computer chip innards, the shattered remains of the neural net control box.
His heart hammered. He hugged rocks below the cliff line and sped forward to the beach.
Lianne’s towel, beach bag, and their food, lay on the sand. He couldn’t see her or Thomas, or the protection team surfers; only their equipment. They had vanished like the cliff top couple.
Landing by the lava rock arch he went into aura mode, searching frantically. He found no clues regarding the disappearances, no blood in the sand or evidence of a fight or scuffle. A hundred reasons for their disappearance flashed through his mind, none of them pleasant.
He returned to where he had left Lianne and was about to take to the air again in desperation when a phone rang. It wasn’t a ringtone he recognised. A pink phone lay in the top of her abandoned bag. Fearing a booby trap he didn’t touch it, examining inside the bag carefully for wires and explosives. Seeing nothing suspicious he picked it up and took the call.
‘If you want to see your wife and son again, do exactly as you’re told.’
Maria Zamora’s voice sent a shiver down his spine.
‘How do I know they’re alive?’ He looked round to see if he could spot any other auras.
‘Lock?’ Lianne’s terrified voice brought his attention back to the phone. ‘I don’t know where we are–’
Thomas cried in the background.
‘They’re alive,’ Maria’s harsh voice said. ‘Do exactly as you’re told or they’ll die. Walk towards the sea.’
In a split-second he decided he had no option but to do as she ordered.
‘Don’t hurt them.’ His feet sank into warm, dry sand as he walked towards the glittering
waves. Somebody stepped behind him. More than one person. Two men, one on either side of him. A man’s voice issued orders.
‘Drop the phone. Stop. Don’t turn round. Kneel down.’
He had an American accent. Whittaker. They were going to kill him. They would execute him on the beach with a shot to the back of the head, and they would still have Lianne and Thomas.
A game plan for attack formed in his mind as he knelt. Roll to the left, kick, levitate, swing; but he hesitated. They could have shot him already.
‘Hands behind your back.’
They wanted him alive. Why? The notion of submitting was abhorrent, but he did as ordered.
He had no choice and it bought time to think of a way to rescue Lianne and Thomas. The cold metal of handcuffs wrapped around his wrists and he touched something else metallic, another pair of handcuffs. Movement told him they were attached to another person. Rough hands blindfolded him and somebody Shifted.
He counted seconds to gauge how far they travelled but the new Shifting experience made it hard to concentrate on linear travel. There were no greys as with his own Shifting. He couldn’t tell which compass direction the Shift took him though he judged the speed as around a hundred kilometres per minute, slower than his own speed. Feathery, fractured light dazzled his mind’s eye, accompanied by streams of firm touch flitting over his body and the sensation of gentle sound, like wind rippling through long streamers making them sing, now high, now low, now several voices at once. Sometimes the low sound became a throbbing noise accompanied by
vibrations that gave the impression of being squeezed through a tube constructed from layers of paper.
He tried not to lose track of his count. When he reached sixty he started again, marking off the minutes on his fingers. Before long he realised the Shift was not short-haul. After roughly eleven minutes they landed on hot, jagged rocks which grazed his knees through the wetsuit.

Shadow Team GB is the third book in the Starbirth Series by J M Johnson which can be found on Amazon.

Q1: What’s the most difficult thing about writing characters from the opposite sex?

The psychology, especially when it relates to a military way of life. All of my male characters are immersed in the army, or working with Special Forces, or part of the intelligence-gathering apparatus. It sets them apart from civilian life and brings about a fiercely tribal loyalty accompanied by a suspicion and wariness of giving away secrets when it comes to meeting people outside the military services. Before I began writing the Starbirth series I knew nothing about soldiers, the world of Special Forces and intelligence operatives, or the kind of mind-set that draws people towards the armed forces. My knowledge of men in general was confined to the more gentle type, so it has been a fascinating experience to learn about the different facets of male psychology.

Do you hide any secrets in your books that only a few people will find?

Yes, just for fun. My simple secrets would be known to people who study the intelligence organisations of the UK. I’m not giving away any state secrets – I don’t know any – because what I have included is all in the public domain, if people know where to look. A bit of internet research would uncover them easily.

What superpower would you like to develop and why?

It would be great to fly, which is odd for someone who has a fear of heights. A lot of people wish to have the ability to fly, and that’s why wingsuits are such a brilliant invention, allowing humans to fly in a way that closely mimics the birds we envy. The adrenalin rush must be tremendous. Imagine not needing a wingsuit or any external power to keep yourself aloft, floating on thermals like eagles, cruising around the sides of mountains. For me, just a few feet off the ground would be a good start, hovering above fields and then trees.
I think the longing to fly is related to the feeling that comes from being able to control the previously uncontrollable. But forget the psychological analysis, the freedom to fly would be a blast.

J M (Jackie) Johnson is a freelance writer and e-book author based in the United Kingdom (Britain). She has published three books in the Starbirth science fiction and fantasy series:
Starbirth Assignment Shifter (updated 2016)
The Shifter Dimension (updated 2016)
Shadow Team GB (2015, updated 2016)
She is writing the fourth and final book in the Starbirth series. She is a member of several online writing groups. Follow the series on Facebook or the Starbirth Website.

J M previously worked in a professional capacity as a podiatrist in the National Health Service. She belonged to a spiritual group for eight years, following a particular spiritual lifestyle and making three pilgrimage trips to India. Her involvement fostered a lifelong fascination with powers of the mind. Two decades later she had the opportunity to join a group run by British ex-Special Forces and was a civilian member for six years. During that time she did extensive research into the military and intelligence worlds. These background experiences helped in the creation of her books.

Friday morning came rather too soon for me. Charlie went to work whistling his tuneless whistle, and I rather hoped for a quiet day. I went into work for an hour then sloped off home. Feeling a bit bruised and blue, I called Mum, who was only too easily persuaded into a girlie lunch and a spot of therapeutic shopping. Spending far too much money had its usual calming effect, and by the time we got back to my place, Mum was so flustered that I couldn’t help giggling.
“Look Mum” I said in my most reasonable tones. “I’ve made so much in bonuses in the last year that I would be never be able to spend it if you didn’t help.”
She looked at me searchingly, then shrugged and grinned like a schoolgirl.
“If you are sure. But. Three hundred pounds for a pair of boots.”
“They are very nice boots” I said “and they could have been made to go with the coat Dad bought you for Christmas.”
“They could” she grinned. “And that body warmer will stop Tomasz from looking like a vagrant in the cold weather.”
I laughed. “Nothing can stop Dad from looking like a vagrant. It’s one of his biggest talents.”
She aimed a playful blow at me, and I noticed my answering machine blinking away at me. I idly pushed the button. It was a message from Uncle Sid. It was several messages from Uncle Sid. I looked at Mum.
“I guess I better call him.”
“You had. He sounds a bit desperate.”
I called the number and Sid picked up immediately.
“Alysson. Thank goodness. Have you looked in your mail box today?”
“No.”
“Do me a favour. Don’t. We think you have a letter bomb.”
“Oh. Smegg. What should I do?”
“Nothing. I’m on my way. With some people who know about these things. We will be with you in under an hour.”
“Okay. Will you have eaten?”
“No.”
“Right. How many of you?”
“Four. See you soon.”
And he cut the connection.

I turned to Mum, to find her sitting at the kitchen table white-faced and shaking.
“Letter bomb?”
I went and put my arms around her.
“It’s okay Mum. I have guardian angels.”
She put her hands around my face and I smiled at her.
“Oh Aly. What have you gotten yourself into?”
“I dunno. Mum. I’ve done nowt. I just seem to have arrived on some people’s radar. Charlie says it’s my face.”
She laughed. “Will you promise me that you’ll be careful?”
“Oh. I will. Now do you want to help me cater for a crowd of huge men?”
“Only if me and your dad are welcome too.”
I knew that was coming and although I would have preferred to send her as far away from danger as possible I knew I couldn’t do that. I nodded my agreement.
“Okay then. What you got?”
“There’s a chicken in the fridge, and some packs of breast in the freezer. I’m thinking of a massive curry.”
“Yeah. That’d do it.”

We worked side by side for an hour and when two enormous casserole dishes were in the oven, we grinned at each other in a satisfied manner. Mum went upstairs to call Dad and I was just having a large glass of water when my doorbell buzzed. I looked at the screen to see Sid, two other huge thugs, and a skinny little man with a tool box. I went downstairs. Sid gave me a brief hug and introduced Joe, Billy and Mack.
“Where is your letter box” the little guy called Mack asked.
“It’s over there.”
I pointed to the rank of boxes on the other side of the courtyard.
“Good. Gimme the key.”
“There isn’t a key. It’s a number. 4970.”
“Okay. Now you go back indoors and leave us to deal.”
I turned to leave, but spotted Georgios Christopoulos and a couple of his henchmen approaching purposefully. Sid gave me a little shove.
“Go inside. I’ll deal with your Greek friend.”

Nothing loath I buggered off as fast as I could go. I found Mum standing in the big window of the family room, watching with worried eyes. I went and stood beside her as Sid spoke briefly to Mr C before Mack went and opened my letter box. He took out a small pile of mail and examined each item with some care. He gave all but two bits to Sid, who stood back respectfully. The leathery little man took some sort of a scope out of his toolbox and ran it over the letters. He frowned and shrugged. Then he took out an old fashioned stethoscope. He handed yet one more piece of mail to Sid. Then he carefully carried the last envelope over to the corner of the courtyard where two big buttressed walls surrounded a gnarled crab apple tree. He put the packet down on the floor and went to the undistinguished van in which they had arrived. He put on a thickly padded vest and a businesslike visored helmet before picking up a pair of long-handled tools. He used the tools to carefully open the package. For a moment I thought it was all a storm in a teacup. But it wasn’t. The explosion, when it came, sounded shockingly loud in the quiet afternoon air.

Mum squeaked and jumped.
“Oh” she said. “Oh Aly. Oh why would anybody want to do a thing like that to you?”
“You hush now” I replied firmly. “We don’t know nothing yet. But Uncle Sid will tell us. Just so long as you don’t go flapping.”
She thought about that one for a minute, then nodded.
“You’re right. I have to stiffen my spine.”
“Okay. You stay here and practice. I’m going down to see precisely WTS.”
She opened her mouth then thought better of whatever she had been going to say.

From: Jackdaw Court.

© jane jago

It doesn’t matter what you sell,
Long as you sure can sell it.
It doesn’t matter what you tell
The folks as who’s gonna buy it.
It doesn’t matter if your pitch
Is always moved on and along.
It doesn’t matter if you’re right,
‘Cos the customer’s always wrong.

E.M. Swift-Hook

I was a very normal child. Like every other when I was at home in the holidays from boarding school, my darling Mummy would come upstairs at nine o’clock, sit on the side of my bed and read to me some something she thought I should like. Thus it was, when I was about fifteen, she came into my room without warning, to my consternation and embarrassment, and plopped herself down on the edge of my bed a treasured tome clutched in one hand and a glass of Pernod and Angostura bitters gripped in the other and said, in her loving motherly way: “Oh stop playing with it and just get your pajamas on, Moons. Twin Peaks starts in ten minutes and we have a whole chapter to read.”

Thus began my initiation into the phenomenon of Middle Earth with its elves, dragons, dwarves, trolls – and hobbits. It was revealed to me a half-chapter at a time and read in a monotone that preceded, but would be later reflected by, the satnav lady. And here is my review.

The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien

My first thoughts are regarding the central character of the story which is a creature called ‘a hobbit’. I still recall my immense disgust at the concept of it having hairy feet. After that initial moment of repugnance, it was extremely difficult for me to feel any empathy for this creature at all. The hygiene issues were too overwhelming.

It also turns out later in the story that he is a cheat and a thief.

There are also some dwarves who seem to have escaped from another story about Snow White all called things like Loin and Groin and a dragon called Smirk or some such. I did feel for the poor little creature that lived in the caves and had to eat raw fish – I too despise sushi – especially when the hobbit stole his birthday present. That used to happen to me at my boarding school.

The subtitle of the book is ‘There and Back Again’ – which is, I believe, a pretty good summation of the pointlessness of the whole, except we never really know where ‘there’ is or why or who – or how.

Nil Stars

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

I am old, which means I get to choose
My friends, and my food, and my booze
I don’t need advice
About what is nice
At my age I have f**k all to lose

© jane jago 2017

The pottery shattered as it hit the stone wall and the wine splashed out in a liquid corona, staining the fine fabric of the hangings and seeping over the floor like blood flowing from a wound. The music slid to a discordant halt as the musicians scattered quickly and a single shriek from one of the serving girls ended the tune.
Jariq Zarengor sat still, holding the cup which he had been filling from the wine jug, a motionless figure in a sudden sea of movement as the other patrons of the inn decided it was wiser to be elsewhere. Ralik stood by the wall, arms folded watching, as the Harkeran Vavasor drew his sword and continued shouting.
“You can’t seduce another man’s wife and expect to get away with it.”
The Harkeran noble was sober enough, even if high in emotion, but Zarengor had been drinking steadily since they had arrived at the inn. Ralik straightened up slightly and unfolded his arms. He saw another Harkeran was moving forward, one hand reaching under the dark blue cloak he was wearing. Zarengor seemed not to have noticed and was frowning very slightly, as if confused by what was happening. He gestured with his empty hand towards the bench beside him.
“I have no idea what you are talking about, but if you have a problem, why not sit down with me, have a drink and talk it over. We can get some more wine – ”
He was not able to finish before the Harkeran lunged at him and was instantly sent sprawling backwards as Zarengor exploded into motion almost faster than the eye could follow, tipping the heavy wooden table forward into his assailant and in the same fluid movement, turning as he rose, drawing his sword to bring the point to the throat of the second man before his own blade had even half-emerged from beneath the blue cloak.
The second Harkeran released his sword hilt and leaving both hands spread wide, stepped back carefully, reading certain death in the steady brown eyes. His companion groaned beneath the table and tried weakly to push it off. Zarengor seemed to have forgotten him completely, slamming his sword back into its scabbard and striding from the room. Ralik detached himself quietly from the wall and made a less noticeable exit by another door as people surged forward.
As he left, he noticed it took two men to lift the heavy table. The voices of the Harkerans followed him out, mutters of fear and admiration, of condemnation and simple envy. Ralik had a passing moment of gratitude that he was not of the kind to inspire such feelings in others.

From Transgressor Trilogy 2: Times of Change by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Clyde the snail-shark is to be found in the Penny White series of books and is the creation of their author Chrys Cymri.

Not all knights wear shining armour
chivalry comes in many sizes
Not all truth is found in beauty
at times the commonplace surprises
Not all those who tilt at windmills
do so from above
Sometimes something small and lowly
better offers love
Inside a shell can beat a heart
with moral compass strong
If you would understand and hope
listen to Clyde’s song.

Jane Jago

The stunning image of Clyde was created by the incredibly talented Ian Bristow.

The junksters took over the redundant space station just at the turn of the year, and by August the area around it was littered with a sea of plastics and crumpled pieces of metal, whilst the inhospitable surface of the planetoid it orbited felt the first cooling fingers of terra-forming. All seemed to be going to plan, so the escort ship was diverted to another job, leaving the assorted humanoids and droids to fend for themselves.

It was late December when the Confederate Cruiser entered the system on a long patrol. It spotted the space station, its tethered cargo of space junk, and the hive of activity all around it, and the captain made a noise of disgust.
“Is this authorised?” he demanded of his number two.
After the briefest of pauses the high, precise voice of First Officer Mebwina replied. “Yes. Sir. It is.”
The captain sighed and stared in disgust at the hive of activity, but had nothing further to say except the two-word condemnation that followed the junksters from solar system to solar system.
“Space junk,” he spat.

When the cruiser swung back through the system six months later it was immediately apparent that something was wrong. The junk was still there and the surface of the planetoid showed evidences of the activities of the terra-formers, but there was nothing happening.
“Comms Officer, open a hailing channel,” the captain spoke briskly in order to camouflage a feeling of disquiet.
After about twenty minutes with no response from the junkster station, the captain called for cessation.
“Raise home planet, Comms Officer.”
The powers that be were thrilled to hear from a patrol cruiser captained by a time-server and crewed by second and third class citizens, but they did sit up and take notice when the situation was explained. The captain was ordered to leave a skeleton crew aboard the cruiser and take the rest of his people aboard the space station. It was, he was told crisply, imperative that he establish precisely what was going on.

The pilot droid finessed the ageing cruiser into orbit about fifty metres from the space station then put itself in resting mode. Two sturdy humanoids were issued blasters and put on guard while the other dozen or so crew members donned suits and glide packs and crossed the junkyard to the silent hulk that was the junksters’ station. Leaving one suited guard outside, the rest of the party made its way into the passenger airlock. The doors shushed closed behind them.

It seemed to be a very long time before anything happened, and the group was getting very, very nervous before the hiss of incoming air caused hands to drop from sidearms. When the hissing stopped, the inner door opened and the party found itself in a room big enough to swallow the cruiser whole. It was brightly lit, and, according to the captain’s gauges, full of clean, breathable air. He signalled ‘helmets off’ and once everyone was breathing station air the search began.

In the eerie quiet of the station the crew’s boots sounded very loud and most of them were fighting down the urge to creep. It didn’t get any more comfortable, and yet they found nothing frightening. The lowest deck was taken up with junkster machinery and hundreds of deactivated mining and terra-forming machines. The next level was workshops, and here they found row upon row of the primitive junkster droids similarly deactivated, but looking quite unharmed. Finally, back on the living level, things felt even more eerie. The few occupied rooms were tidy and looked as if they were just waiting for their occupants to return. Even the kitchen was spick and span, although one of the huge dishwashing machines still bore a load, and there was a bowl of scrubbed tubers on the worktop. The only thing there was no sign of was life.

Mebwina scowled at her gauges. “No life of any sort outside ourselves, Captain.”
The captain scratched the back of his neck. “Home planet isn’t going to be too pleased with us if the only answer we can come up with is that.”
Nobody replied, because there was nothing to say.
The sound of machinery starting up close by made every man jack of them jump, and Mebwina went so far as to emit an undignified squeak.
“Air scrubbers.” The oldest crewman put in succinctly. “We must have been in here long enough to use up some air.”

He smiled in a superior fashion before grabbing for his throat, while desperately trying to replace his helmet with his other hand. Within seconds, Mebwina’s gauges stopped bleeping and blipping and a tinny little voice piped up. ‘no life forms detected’ before it too fell silent.

Inside the cruiser, the pilot droid awoke and ambled over to the two guards. It pushed them into the airlock and closed the door before jettisoning them to join the rest of the garbage clustered around the space station. It made a slight tasking sound in the back of its throat as the bodies were smashed into pieces by the effects of sharp metal wastes and aggressive artificial gravity. The two spacesuited figures guarding the airlock could be seen to be fighting nausea. Vomit in a suit is unamusing. The droid smiled thinly and set an autopilot course for home planet before exiting the cruiser via the captain’s emergency pod. As the spaceship exited the system the droid felt itself swell with a new purpose as its will was joined with its brothers and sisters on the space station.

“Space Junk,” the voice in his head exulted. “Score one to the space junk.”

©️ Jane Jago 2017