CAUTION: May Contain Controversy.

I was thinking about how to increase blog traffic past here for the new year, so more people would get to read my stuff, or the first three paragraphs anyway. To be honest, I sort of failed at that idea but I did have one idea, I will CREATE AN INTERNET CONTROVERSY!

My plan is to say something totally outlandish and awful, possibly racist, possibly sexist that will make people come in their droves to flame me and possibly read a bit of fiction.

If I had any sort of profile this could backfire but I don't really so I figured why not give it a go. So here we go.

Are you ready?

Really?

You'd better sit down.

Get your flaming hat on.

Next sentence, I promise.

I once met a Chinese man I didn't like!*

There! See! Flame on, pass around the link to others so they can come and be appalled.




*Though I have to admit when I worked with him I liked him fine. In fact, we sat together for ages and used to have a right old laugh. I only went off him a after he left where we worked when he was arrested, and found guilty of a double murder and described by the judge as a 'remorseless and evil young man.' Then he came right off my Christmas card list.

Terga Draws The Blade.

A bit of flash fiction. If you like, please share, ta.





Terga Draws a Blade.


The people of the sea called it the red coast. Many an Empire had broken upon it. As far as a gull could fly, north and south, a seemingly endless line of towering cliffs, guarded by jagged rocks, stood sentry over the hidden coves which sheltered the ports of the Sea People. From these hidden places they traded, fished and, before the lean times, raided.

Terga the fishergirl followed Perin Wind-Priest, along the cliff top path above their village, Insuu. She walked nervously, swinging a stick through the tall grass and stealing glances out to sea where high-prowed galleys, from lands far away, prowled up and down the coast. Perin Wind-Priest turned to the girl, twisting his short beard with arthritis riddled fingers, the light winds making the grass flutes sewn into his baggy woollen clothes whistle a low, seagull lonely, song.

'Before the world moved, Terga, our coast was protected by storms.' He raised a twisted and calloused hand to shade washed out, blue eyes against the sun as he stared out to sea. 'Those ships would already be wrecks and our people would pick them clean, like a sea eagle with a fish.' The old man shook his head and stone charms woven into his hair rattled against hollow wooden balls braided next to them. 'Now they peck at us, readying themselves for the killing blow.' He grabbed the girl's jaw with the same hand he had used to shade his eyes. 'Are you sure you want to be a hero, lass? Ready to do whatever it takes? Ready to sail the old routes?'

Terga took a deep breath of air, heady with ozone, and nodded.

'Anything. Perrin, I wish to draw the dark sword.'

A gull cried out and its fellows answered.

When that summer had begun Terga had sat mending nets and dreaming of the old stories where gods arose and heroes wielded the dark sword. A ship, high prowed and brimming with men in armour, rowed along the horizon. Later came news that 'Berga's Safehalme' had been raided. The few men not at sea, mostly old or hurt, were cut down, the women and children taken. Those of Insuu who lost relatives threw grass dolls into the gentle waves, asking the sea to wash away their mourning.

Terga wanted to rise up like a winter tide and take on these invaders. But she was just a fishergirl and her net mending knife was no weapon to challenge an army with. She tried to join the strong women, who guarded the fish on the drying racks from wolves and bears.

'Do not be foolish little girl,' said Shana. 'Our Gods left us when the world moved and Our Queen knows defeat comes. She is old, past thirty winters and though her womb is as dry and empty as the wind she is wise.' She took the blade from her hip and held it out. 'Do you think yourself young and vigorous enough to birth a future for our people?

'Pass the gull feather cloak to me,' said Terga, drawing her small gutting knife and holding it, white knuckle tight, 'and I will.'

The strong women watched and the men at the drying racks paused in their work at the prospect of a fight.

Sharna stared at the younger women her fingers flicking idly against her blade hilt. She gave a sad smile and punched Terga in the gut, doubling her over.

'You are not unattractive, Terga,' said the strong woman sadly. 'When the raiders come, open your legs and they may let you live. Our people's tide has withdrawn now, we cannot fight the current without the Gods to fill our sails.'

Terga dragged herself away, watched by Perrin Wind-Priest.

Aldire's Safehalme, burnt a week later and two more halmes further up the coast fell within days.

The walled town of 'Warmhearth' was destroyed. Those few who escaped told of ships landing to disgorge men and a sorcerer who used fire magic to bring down the walls. The invaders demanded treasure and laughed when they were offered fish-skin clothes and grass dolls.

The Old Queen called a moot and Perin Wind-Priest spoke a telling. How more than the usual amount of ships had been lost at sea this year. A curious thing to happen in this new, calm weather. Terga the Fishergirl, sat in the dark and smoky moot-hall, her fingers working at the net she held and woody fire smoke tickling her throat. She dreamed once more of taking up the dark sword and striking down the invaders, became so lost in her imagination she cut her finger when Perin Wind-Priest tapped her on the shoulder.

The old man and the young girl continued their walk along the cliff top path. In the distance the high prowed ships tacked into the wind, setting course for Insuu far below.

'You are sure about this, Terga?' asked the wind-priest as they approached the standing stone.

She nodded.

'Put your hands on the stone then, lass.'

She did as asked and Perin stepped close, smelling of smoked fish and breathing the names of Old Gods into her ears. The words seemed to swim in her mind, a shoal of sound becoming a chorus, a choir of intoxicating noise. The mournful calls of the gulls above twisted into the swelling noise within her. The music rose up into a great, triumphant, consuming wave.

Perin slipped his sharp knife into her heart.

She fell to her knees and the song left her. Sound faded until the gentle brush of waves upon the shore as it washed away grass mourning dolls filled her ears. The Wind-Priest took up her dying body, tears running down his face, and threw her over the cliff with a great cry. She fell, wind whipping past her head and, as the sea rushed up to meet her and the world became black, she felt something place the hilt of a sword in her hand.

On the horizon, dark clouds formed. The sea began to rise.

An Eye on the Prize, Part Seven

Fleeing the Dreadnought 'Dogmatist': Week Six. Day Four. Pallata Beta.

The Alastar Herion that emerged from his medical rooms and sloped through the underdecks of the 'Pointless Venture' was even more morose than usual. Dry, rusty coloured, flakes fell from hands left unwashed and he barely saw or felt the many helpful Decksman's hands that steadied his way as the ship shuddered and shook under thrust. His brilliant, bright, cruel mind was dulled by the weight of disappointment and worse, futility.

He did not notice the hubbub on the main gundeck or the excited happy chatter of the men around him. He did not notice the busy, sweat-shined beaming faces of the Fourths as they shouted orders and neither did he hear the trundle and hiss as the dynamo cannon were run out and readied for winding. Seconds and Thirds preened rankwhiskers and moustaches as they oversaw the seeming chaos of the gundeck. Even the much pressed underdeckers scurried around with crowpipes and valve levers, happily fetching and carrying for their many betters on the ship.

Herion took no notice of Sing's beaming grin, (He always smiled so.) and did not notice the way Morgan's face fell from sun-high to storm-dark when he looked upon the suffering Augmenteer.

'Why, Alastar, whatever is the matter?'

'Morgan, I have been such a fool.' He let out a heavy sigh.

Morgan shook his head and attempted a smile, though it soon died.

'I cannot believe such a thing, it is not in your genes.'

'Yet I have been thoroughly duped. That creature, Beeler.' Alastar saw his friend's face darken further at the name. The Augmenteer waved a fey, bloodied, hand. 'Do not look so, he felt little enough pain, though I am afraid he did not survive my processes.' Morgan bristled slightly but the utter, desperate, loss on his friend's face quickly ate his dislike away and left the captain quiet. 'The man knew little enough, Morgan, but it was enough. The list is useless, the Dal-Breear woman knew who I was. The whole thing was a trap'

Morgan let out a whistle through his teeth.

'An action with you as the prize. Why did they not take you at the station?'

Alastar shrugged perfunctorily.

'I can only think that they did not expect me to act in such decisive haste.' His blue eyes stared into a past only he could see. 'Perhaps if I had stopped to think...'

'Well, at least the spymaster woman is dead' shrugged Morgan.

This seemed to plunge Alastar further into his darkness and he let out another long sigh.

'I am no longer so sure of that, Morgan. No longer sure at all. She fell far too easily, I suspect I encountered a double.'

Morgan knew there was little he could do to dissuade his friend of his conclusions, and more, that Herion's conclusions in matters of intrigue were usually correct. Instead of trying to convince his friend otherwise he changed the subject entirely to one he found far more positive. Morgan's body seemed to swell and delight spread across his heroically bearded face.

'Alastar, I must tell you of this as it will cheer you so. The incoming frigate sent a message as soon as He was within flasher range. 'Captain Parvin sends her regards,' eh? What do you think of that? Parvin sends her regards!'
Alastar, so locked into his own misery he had still not picked up on the near jubilant mood of the ship stared at the floor.

'Ah, so those Temat frigates caught poor Parvin.'

Morgan looked shocked at the suggestion.

'Nothing of the sort. It would take more than a few Temat Frigates-of-War to catch wily young Idya Parvin at the wheel of a fine fish like her, 'Perseverance'.'
Herion's angular, beautiful face, became obtuse with puzzlement.

'I do not understand, Morgan. How can this frigate be ours and have met with Parvin? You said at least another week before we could expect assistance. A week at least is what you said. I am sure..'

'It is Fisk! Alastar,' Morgan grabbed his friend and shook the unhappy Augmenteer in delight. 'Captain Fisk with a new ship, 'Mouse Became Cat'. That is why the Watchmen did not recognise the silhouette,' he let go of his friend and beamed. 'Oh, ape bless Old Fisk.'

Alastar fished around in a memory hazed with black thoughts.

'Fisk, the Privateer?'

'Aye, and The Ape knows how Parvin found her, though they did serve under the Temat together before they saw the truth, if you remember. Anyway, find her Parvin did and now Fisk is here to help.' Morgan grinned. 'Two good Frigates have the measure of a Dreadnought all light long. He won't know the 'Mouse's' capabilities either, so I doubt he'll risk his damnable Ai now.' Morgan stared up into the overhull. 'With no need to run we'll find out how good a Captain he really is, oh so we shall.'

Morgan pulled down the brass overscope and stared out into the vast, star-studded night of the experiment. He squinted at the far away thrust halo of the Dreadnought, struggling to decelerate its mass, and continued to speak quietly to his friend.

'Do you remember when we tracked down that traitor, Homsus?' Herion made a barely audible, uninterested, noise of assent and Morgan continued. 'A year of chasing and at the end, despite the danger and my most strenuous objections, you insisted on being there when we took him.' The second noise of assent from the morose augmenteer contained a little more interest. 'It seemed to me, Alastar, that if this Dal-Breear is one of their spymasters who laid a trap for you and she still lives then she would want to see it through to the end. As such, she is probably aboard that Dreadnought. Would you not agree?'

'Morgan, you may well be right,' came the Augmenteer's reply, heavy with possibilities and burgeoning plans.

With that, Morgan turned to First Sing (Always ready to serve his Captain.)

'Mr Sing, have the Jinsmen prepare the kettles for a hard decel. Have decksman put in small bore pipes, give her as much pressure as she'll take.'

Sing nodded his beaming head. 'As my Captain says.' (Utterly capable in the discharge of his duties.)

As Sing walked away Morgan grinned and added one last set of orders.

'And get the capillary men to their colour levers. Ape-damn this cowardly black-hull. Let's show our true colours. Make us war-bright, Mr Sing. War bright!'

Morgan did not hear his charming First officer's enthusiastic reply. He stared out through the crystal overhull at the faint glow of his adversary, a familiar piratical gleam in his green eyes.

'I want you to know I'm coming.' He whispered, 'I want you to know.'


End.


Conclusion Communique::

Overseer Class Ark 'Gabriil' to Overseer Class Ark 'Oz'.
Experiment Station::Dysonmxvmxviii

Internal::Action report. SrcAI//PV-MbC-D//

Thirdest frigate class, 'Pointless Venture' (T-Cutter:LIBERTINEkeelform) and allied privateer frigate class, 'Mouse became Cat'(T-Cutter:SURPRISEkeelform) engaged Temat Dreadnought class, 'Dogmatist' (Build-For-War:TRIUMPHkeelform)with dynamo cannon//timecodestartaction//. Thirdest forces proved superior as previously predicted. Crew of 'Pointless Venture' hooked and boarded 'Dogmatist'//timecode//. Thirdest forces overcame the crew of 'Dogmatist' in hand-to-hand. 'Dogmatist' blue hulled on the order of her Third Officer, Ensilie//timecodeendaction//. Articles observed;intervention unnecessary. Images and losses addended.


Subject Access::Attn. TEMAT ADMIRALTY::Ransom list - Dogmatist.

Keal Relman, Captain. M (Left arm lost. Left leg crippled.)
Trame Bel-Feltyre, Second. M (Comatose.)
Harrick Ensilie, Third. M (Physically healthy.)
Xiresse Kintrul, Third. M (Blinded. Right hand lost. Right leg crippled. Left hand missing index finger and thumb. Major internal and external burns. Mute.)
Host Macrisse, Fourth. M (Minor burns. Some disfigurement.)
Pel Gre-Sansire, Fourth. M (Healthy.)
Hestrum Poldin, Fourth. M (Healthy.)
Dayuul Radledge, Marine Captain, M (Multiple blade and shot wounds. Recoverable.)
Hayje Dal-Breear, Diplomat. F (Head wounds. Significant memory loss.) //hidden//(not combat related)//unhide//.
Telt Byrom, Fourth. M (Healthy. Sought Thirdest asylum. Request under processing (87% favourable decision probable). Treat as lost in action.)

Thirdest Admiralty have declined to ransom the 'Dogmatist' and she will be relaunched as a Thirdest Keel once substantial repairs have been completed. Please alter silhouette books accordingly.


Sent and to be received through the Observation Arks in the spirit of non-intervention and subject self-determination. Four thousand and ninth year of process.






(If you have read it all, thanks hope you enjoyed it. Leave a comment and I shall give you a shiny silver penny. An imaginary one.)

An Eye on the Prize, Part Six

Method: Six Weeks and Four Days Earlier. Beldin Autonomous Citadel.

Dal-Breea was a stunning woman. Thick hair piled into an elaborate, lacquered castle on her head. Her skin a healthy nut-brown and her almond eyes beautiful as they widened in surprise at Herion's intrusion.

'I do not know who you are, Sir, but I have no wish for bedplay. Leave or I shall call my guards.'

'I'm no Jackster Madame. The list. Give it to me.' Alastar strode towards her, ticking dynamo pistol outstretched.

Her face screwed up into a hate-filled fist.

'You!' she screamed. 'Filthy unevolved Thirdest heretic. I'll have your skin for coming in here.'

Herion backhanded her, sending her tumbling backwards in a flurry of heavy skirts. Dal-Breea continued to curse him as he searched her room for the case.

'Be quiet, woman,' he snapped.

'I'll not, you're non-believing filth. Breathing the same air as you sickens me. Win knows how you tricked the Overseer's into giving you tech...'

Alastar Herion turned and calmly shot her in the head.

'I did ask her to be quiet,' he whispered to himself. Herion scanned the room as he span his pistol's charging handle; spotting a glimmer of silver under the dead woman's voluminous skirts. When he finally felt the rumble of his gun registering a full charge, Herion rolled her body over to reveal the case he sought then picked it up and made for the 'Pointless Venture' at the fastest practicable speed.

Merry Christmas #4

(to the tune of 'Away in a Manger')


A trip out to Innsmouth, no sense in your head,
Those strange fishlike natives require your death,
The stygian chanting echoes through the night,
Your cackling innnkeep then puts out the light.

The Shoggoth are screaming, 'Cthulu awake',
From R'lyeh deadbutdreaming the world he will shake.
We love you, Dread Cthulu; Ai! Ai! Fgthagn Ai!
Now stay by my side until morning is nigh.

Non-euclidian geometry will send you insane
And unknowable old ones you'll call out by name
The stars in the night sky go out one by one
Celebrate their coming as they put out the sun.

An Eye on the Prize. Part Five.

(Flick back a bit for the other parts, my sick computer has decided it doesn't want to help with linkage. Sorry about that.)





Fleeing the Dreadnought 'Dogmatist': Week Six. Day Three.

It had taken four hours to get the conversion kettles on the 'Pointless Venture,' checked, repaired and reacting again. Four precious hours in which the vital fluid did not flow and their pursuer had drawn ever nearer in the viewport of the overscope. The mood aboard the frigate was bleak, as was that of its Captain, sitting on a wooden chair by the central support spine of the gundeck. The entire crew waiting at attention for his judgement.

'Jineer Felyid Raindon, signed on to the books as Jineer Beeler, prename unknown.' Morgan wore formal blue and white slimarmour with a black trihorne helmet. Its two forward facing shieldhorns inactive. His face a solemn mask. 'I find you guilty of wilfully damaging a warship of the Thirdest Navy with the intent of stopping or delaying her forthright and true purposes in the cause of the Thirdest way. For that crime the books give only one punishment, as Authorised by the Overseer Arks. At the mid of tomorrow you shall suffer death by jettison without recourse to a vacsuit.'

'Beeler', no longer seemed the panicked creature Herion had met at Beldin Citadel and showed no fear in the face of his own death. His visage was creased and scarred with contempt.

'Filth,' he spat on the gundeck and was rewarded by a hard kick from one of the Hullsmen Marines holding him. Beeler laughed. 'Don't fear I death, nots like you filthers should,' he fixed Morgan with a glare. 'Death moves I up the spiral-tree. I'll come back as officer gene and take this ship and everyone aboard.' He turned to Herion. 'Ceptin' you, worst of 'em all. You I'll give to the Confederacy's answermen and you'lls sings a pretty song of long hurt.'
If this threat worried Herion he showed no sign. Instead he drawled, loudly enough to be heard by the gathered crew.

'If this pitiful fanatic is to die I would like to talk with him first. Would it be possible for him to spend his last hours in my medical rooms?'
Morgan blanched slightly at the implication before replying quietly.

'I suppose it must be so.'

To Herion, it was worth the discomfort he saw on his friends face and felt from the crew to see the fear cloud Beeler's features.

A whiskerless Fourth, his moustache still only fuzz on his lip ran up to Morgan.

'Pologies for interrupting, Captain' he tugged at a forelock and a blush spread across his face as all eyes turned to him. 'Watchman Zelzy said you'd want to know. He's spotted another ship, Frigate he thinks, top forward quarter starboard. Intercept course. Not a silhouette we know from the books, Sir.'

Morgan's face fell. 'A Dreadnought and a Frigate?'

Herion turned away from the young officer and downcast Captain back to Beeler. A smug, self-satisfied grin sat upon the traitor's face.

'We's too far away for it to be one o' yous traitors here to help,' cackled Beeler.

Herion pulled the man up by his shackled arms and was not gentle about it.

'I do not know why that should make you so happy, Beeler. Whoever that ship is, it won't be here in time to save you.'

Beeler seemed to crumple in Herion's remorseless grip. Then he quietly wept.

bit of nonsense

Fibunnacci Numbers.

Rabbit
Rabbit
RabbitRabbit
RabbitRabbitRabbit
RabbitRabbitRabbitRabbitRabbit
RabbitRabbitRabbitRabbitRabbitRabbitRabbitRabbit
RabbitRabbitRabbitRabbitRabbitRabbitRabbitRabbitRabbitRabbitRabbitRabbitRabbit

The rejectomancy is strong in this one.

My wife, who I love dearly, once described me as, 'happy and optimistic to the point of being mentally ill.' She meant it as a compliment, I'm sure.

But she may have a point, I've just received a rejection letter for my novel. It's from a big publisher* and although there's a little, inevitable, disappointment my overall reaction is to be happy. I mean, I was happy when they asked for the full manuscript and then you have the couple of weeks of tension waiting for the answer (for me it's the worst bit) and the moments when you allow yourself to daydream about your book actually being on the shelves, that thing I've thought about since I was about ten, but you cut that thinking short as it's tantamount to opening the necronomicon – that way madness lies.

And to be honest. I had an inkling that it might not be for them.

But I have written this book, worried about it, battled my, generally failing, health to finish it and the quest for me is not really about getting the book on the shelves. That's an extra, a bonus. It's about creating something that A) let's others see the things in my head and B) works. 'Cos if I can do those two things one day it probably will be published and maybe I'll get to pay back a little bit of the pleasure that the thousands of books I've devoured have given me.

The book was rejected as the editor didn't like the style or think it worked for his company. Which might sound harsh (particularly if you're a non writer) but isn't. Because he liked the way I write, better, he thought I was good at it, really good and left an open invitation for more work. The rejection wasn't about mechanics, it wasn't about the world not being real or the characters being thin and unbelievable. It wasn't because I can't write dialogue. It wasn't because the plot made no sense or the creatures were ridiculous. And best of all it wasn't because the thing was dull. In short, it wasn't rejected for any of the things that worry me.

So because of that, and a couple of other things**, for the first time ever I'm not sat in front of my word processor thinking, 'can I do this? what if I'm a hack and just kidding myself?'

I'm sat here thinking that I probably can do this. It's kind of cool.

Doesn't mean the next project will be any good though...




*I don't think I'm committing a faux pas by blogging this but If you are that big publisher and I am just drop me a note and I will de-internetise this. And grovel.
**You know who you are.

An Eye on the Prize. Part Four.

Here is part four. If you've not read them might be best to go read Part the first, Part the second and Part the third.






Method: Six Weeks and Three Days Earlier. Beldin Autonomous Citadel.

Herion walked hurriedly through the cramped and dripping tunnels of Beldin Citadel Station. He had slipped out and ordered the Marines to carry on as if he remained in his quarters. Now, fretting all the while that someone would see the dynamo-pistol concealed under his salmon-pink quilt-jacket, he emerged from the stench of the market tunnels and made his way, furtively, to the high-rooms.

On arrival at the orbital citadel he had made mental note of any important personages and where they stayed so his bird-fast strides soon found him at the entrance tunnel to the Dal-Breea woman's lodgings.

He peeked around the corner of the matt white wall to see four guards. They wore slimarmour in deep mustard with a red slash across the chest and were fuzzed around their form by the telltale aura of impact shields.

'Devoled alien tech,' Herion cursed under his breath, though he owned an impacter shield of his own he had not brought it. Knowing it would have aroused too much suspicion as he made his way through the public areas.

The Augmenteer reached into the pocket of his salmon-pink quilt-jacket and switched on the nuller he had brought with him in for just such an occasion. Herion made a habitual prayer to a prophet he no longer believed in that the guards would not notice the whine of the Nuller's micro steam until it was far too late then fell into the entrance tunnel. Herion's black slimarmour clattering as he hit the floor. The guards drew their weapons as the Augmenteer staggered to his feet and commenced waving his beautiful, salmon-pink quilt jacket in the air in faux-drunken abandon. Then he began to sing, loudly and far off key, slurring his words around an attempt at a familiar tune.

'All the beautiful ladies. Them ladies of Hesper Driay. Don't wear a stitch of clothing...'

The guards, common mercenaries from the look of them, laughed and holstered their weapons. The biggest of the four gestured at Herion.

'Get yourself away, the lady don't want no Jacksters plying their charms tonight.'
Herion, swaying and wishing he had worn armour that was less well oiled and a trifle noisier, the better to hide the whining nuller, continued to sing.

'Oh to be a man on Hesper Driay.' He stumbled forwards, arms outstretched. 'What a fine life that would be!'

Fury blackened the first guards face as he recognised the high whine of a nuller's spinner. The guard's shields stepped out of existence with an audible 'pop' and the men went for their guns.

Too late.

The dandy augmenteer was already moving. His sword came out its sheath and swept across the foremost two guards at throat height, neatly cutting one throat and lodging in the neck of the second guard, almost severing his head. Herion let his weight fall forwards, tearing the blade free and thrusting it into the chest of the third guard whilst whipping around his gorgeous jacket to entangle the fourth.
Herion span to face the last guard and skewered the mercenary through the eye: Careful not to damage the beautiful jacket which had hampered the unfortunate man.

There was no blood to mark the violence. Herion's 'patented constant reaction blade' had neatly cauterised the wounds as quickly as he had cut them. It was an excellent weapon for quiet work such as this.

Alastar Herion allowed himself a small moment of pleasure in his own skill as he shrugged back into his jacket.

Then he straightened the lapels and opened the door to the Lady's room.

Merry Christmas #3

(to the tune of 'Good King Wencelas).


Good Cap Picard last looked out
From the flagship feared
When space snow lay round about
Deep and crisp and weird
Brightly shone the moons that night
Though vacuum it was cru-el
When a Klingon came in sight
Gath'ring warp core fu-el

"Hither, Riker stand by me
If thou know'st it, telling
Yonder Klingon, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?"
"Jean Luc, a parsec hence his home
Underneath the mountain
Right against the neutral zone
By a temporal fountain."

"Bring me Worfe and Wesley Crusher
Bring Tasha Yar hither
Thou and I observe his actions
When we bear us thither."
Enterprise impulse she went
To Warp two forth she'll go
To the Klingon's wild lament
Picard said 'make it so-ooo-oo'

Riker 'the temporal fountain!'cried
'Has destabilised the warp core'
Fails its heart, I know not why,
It can go on no more."
"Mark my words, my good man
Treat them thou quite boldly
Reverse the nacelle's temporal span
Cover flux capacitor in gold leee-eee-eeef."

Uncloaking Klingon birds of prey
find Enterprise quite wholesome
'Mr Worfe, Torpedoes spray'
Succesfully they hole 'em
Klingons safely sent away
Federation crew look purty
'To Ten Forward' Picard say
Let's replicate some Tur-urrrr-key. 

An Eye on the Prize. Part Three.

You may want to read Part The First and then Part The Second before starting this.



Fleeing the Dreadnought 'Dogmatist': Week Six. Day Two. Pallata Beta.


Captain Morgan Willmot was roaring again.

He had spent the four days since they wove into the new system secreted away with First-of-the-Bridge Sing (his mind as bright as his smile) in the Orrary room; calculating a snaking path past the planets in-system. His crew had confidently and efficiently carried out three low atmosphere passes of the wildest kind. Should the chasing Dreadnought attempt such manoeuvres he would have little time to calculate and would have to slow considerably to ensure he did not miss-math and get dragged down and smashed into the surface of the planet.

Yet when Morgan stared into the overscope the far off silhouette of his tormentor still taunted him.

'We've barely gained half a day on him, Sing. He's a devol. A very devol.'

The avuncular Sekhur stood on the aft quarterdeck behind and left of Morgan, arms behind his back.(His smile spread upon his bearded face.)

'Or he lets an Ai do the navigating, My Captain.'

Morgan looked appalled.

'He would not! That would be most improper, most improper indeed.' Morgan paused running his tongue along his top lip, dry in the fierce heat of the valveship at thrust. 'Though it would explain why he is showing no colours, just has his hull striped pirate-black and white. I thought he was trying to scare us with his no-mercy scheme but if I ran under Ai then I too would hide my ship's true hullflags and want none left alive to tell of me.'

'I shall start the men in the early dynamo-canon practice, My Captain,' said Sing. (In caramel tones of deep respect.)

Before Morgan could reply the entire ship shuddered and groaned, her engines died and, one by one, her fizzing lights went out.

'Ape's breath!' muttered the Captain. 'We may have to decel cannon practice, Mr. Sing. I fear more pressing matters have arisen.'

Merry Christmas #2

To the tune of 'We Three Kings'.




We AI of cold dead Mars
Bearing heat ray travel afar
To field and fountain, moor and mountain
Cylinders expelled are

O Minds of wonder, Minds of might
Mars with warring beauty bright
Vast uncaring, cool, unsparing
Slow and sure they plan the fight

On Horsel common cylinder lain
Heat ray out to bring on the pain
Mars forever! ceasing never
Over us all to reign

O Minds of wonder, Minds of might
Mars with warring beauty bright
Vast uncaring, cool, unsparing
Slow and sure they plan the fight

Reddish weed to offer have I
Cause Earth's plants to wither and die
Of conquest yearning, humans burning
Martian tripods stomp on by

O Minds of wonder, Minds of might
Mars with warring beauty bright
Vast uncaring, cool, unsparing
Slow and sure they plan the fight

Thunderchild in valiant flume
Speak her guns in gathering gloom
Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying
Heat-rayed to a watery tomb

O Minds of wonder, Minds of might
Mars with warring beauty bright
Vast uncaring, cool, unsparing
Slow and sure they plan the fight

Curious now as Martians fall
Brought down low by something so small
Ah-atchoo! Ah-atchoo!
Earth now laughs at Martians all

O Minds of wonder, Minds of might
Mars with warring beauty bright
Vast uncaring, cool, unsparing
Slow and sure they plan the fight




Merry Christmas No 1

An Eye on the Prize. Part Two

Have you read part one yet? You really should do that first, it's here Part The First.


Apparatus: Four weeks and four days earlier. Beldin Autonomous Citadel.

Alastar Herion's adept hand wielded the small melt-fork with the skill of an artisan as he applied a fix-plate onto his favourite quilt-jacket – Salmon pink with delicately gilded fighting serpents.

When the doughty and brash Hullsmen Marines guarding his quarters brought in the man who had tried to sneak past them; a breathing hard, red faced, bruised, sour sweat and old oil stinking, cringing creature. Herion very nearly skewered the intruder on the glowing end of his melt-fork. Only curiosity momentarily stayed Alastar Herion's steady, shapely, arm.

'Speak quickly or die,' hissed the exquisitely poised Augmenteer.

'Mr Herion, sir, you knows me as 'Beeler' my code phrase being 'rhubiyat'.'

Herion eyed the man, he was scrawny, scraggy and dressed in the same dirty, ill kempt, and bulky vac-suit the station Jineers wore. The Augmenteer dismissed the, red-armoured and skullmitted, marines asking them to shut the door soundly as they left.

'I am not to be approached under any circumstances, you know this. ' Herion looked down his nose at the man and spat out the code name, 'Beeler.'

'Yes, din't worry. Am not discovered, not yet at any route.' Beeler scratched at a sore on his neck and his nose twitched nervously. 'Woulds know better than to come to you looking for mercy if I weres,' he shrank back against the door.

Alastar lowered the weld-fork slightly.

'You were not followed?'

'Beeler' shook his mangy head.

'No, slipped I through jineering tunnels,' he pointed at his dirty clothes. 'That's why I's filthy.'

Alastar gave a curt nod.

'I do not care about your supposed trials. Coming here could be dangerous to me and my network so I trust it is something truly monumental that has brought you here?'

Beeler gave an ingratiating smile.

'Most monumentals, sir,' he fawned. Then looked Herion up and down, his face taking on the sly cast of a man calculating the worth of all he is and has. 'What I tell of you will most definitely gets me finded out. I must leave here now.'

'We will talk of that afterwards.'

Beeler paused and worried at a scabbed lip with a lonely tooth.

'Very well it. The Temat aristocratic woman, Name Hayja Dal-Breear, spies and carries a list of seeded-sleepers currently in your Thirdest places. It is in her case, the silver and reds one she carries with her. Is incised with the image of the furred ape.' Beeler touched his ears and quickly bowed his head in the traditional supplication of a low-gener to such a sacred image.

Alastar Herion sat down in his chair and placed his weld fork carelessly back in the brazier by his bed. A thin column of harsh smoke rose into the air as he disturbed the coals.

'Well. That is indeed momentous, Beeler. Very much so.' Herion calmly wrote out a note in his slanting, slicing hand, folded it, added his seal and called a Marine in. 'Take this note to Captain Idya Parvin of the Thirdest fast-picket, 'Perseverance'. From there, take this man to Captain Willmot on the 'Pointless Venture'. Tell the Captain to expect me within three hours when my private business will be concluded and we must be ready to leave immediately.' Herion eyed the scrawny Beeler. 'Captain Willmot will find you a place aboard, he is always looking for Jineers. I understand it is a dangerous job.'

Beeler nodded a salute to Herion but the Augmenteer did not notice. From his trunk he was busy unpacking weapons.

Merry Christmas #1

To the tune of 'Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer'
1...2...1234.

Derek the inhuman robot
Had a radioactive beard
And if you ever saw him
Then you would be quite afeared.

Unlike the other robots
He was not a metal slave
He spent all of his days planning
To put all humans in the grave.

Then one foggy Christmas Eve
Santa came to say
Derek with your murderous plans
Won't you...SHIT YOU CUT OFF BOTH MY HANDS!

How all the robots loved him
When he went on a killing spree
Derek the inhuman robot
Wiped out all humanitee

Wiped out all Humanitee


(Merry Christmas #2)

An Eye on the Prize. Part One.

I am going to serialise this. It's sort of Patrick O Brian in space. It's not as good as O'Brian of course, because then I would be A LIVING GOD. However, I don't think it's totally without merit and is one of a few pieces set in this universe. Hope you find something to enjoy in it. If you are one of the six or so people who visits my blog I'd be terribly obliged if you pointed other people at it or, even, commented.

Anyway, without further ado.


An Eye on The Prize.


And those above do watch,
As 'tween the stars we stride.
With lengthened view they watch
And judge with shining eyes.

They watch
(but not too closely boys)
They watch
(but not too close)
They watch
(but not too closely boys)
They watch
(but not too close.)

(Traditional winding song.)



Fleeing the Temat Dreadnought, 'Dogmatist': Week Four. Third day. Hispania Drift.

It was commonly held, amongst those of the Thirdest aristocracy who admired men, that Augmenteer-Surgeon Alastar Herion was one of the most beautiful men alive. The most fashionable of Jacksters paid close attention to Alastar Herion's choices in finely cut quilt-jackets and diamond carved slimarmour. His long, lustrous, auburn hair was admired by many and the tiny braids he affected within it copied by more. His forceful brow and cleverly applied make-up had caught the eye of many artists and his eyes sparkled like a Dreadnought showing 'Surrender Blue'.

Herion's aqualine nose ran straight and true above the small, and exquisitely painted, bow of his mouth. Even his eccentric and curious choices, such as to forgo manly facial hair, only managed to accentuate his boyish beauty.
It must be told however, that it was also commonly held, amongst those of the Thirdest aristocracy who admired men, that Augmenteer-Surgeon Alastar Herion's beauty fled when he opened his mouth.

'Ape's breath! Will this fearful noise never cease?' he spat.

Herion's words were shrill and shrewish to match his peevish mood. His rasp echoed out across the three hundred paces of the Pointless Venture's vaulted gundeck only to be lost high amongst the panes of the ovoid crystal overhull. It would have been looked upon darkly on most Valveships for a man to be so ill tempered within earshot of the Captain but the 'Venture's' crew were long used to, 'M'nteer Herion's quaint planetsman's ways,' and the common low-geners held his learning in whispered awe. A wave of chuckles was the only sound heard in the brief, and unkindly timed, moment of quiet in which Alastar chose to make his ill-tempered outburst.

The fearful noise in question swiftly recommenced.

The 'Venture's' First-of-The-Bridge, a hulking Sekhur named Sing (His smile rarely left his face.) parted from the Decksmen jumping to his orders and came to the infuriated Augmenteer's side.

'It is the ship's shield pontoons, Mr. Herion. They scream so when stressed.' (His voice like warm honey.) Four golden rankwhiskers in Sing's top lip sparkled through his heavy moustache; catching the dim light of the glowlamps strung above the busy gundeck.

It was not the intermittent, teeth-grinding, squeal of the shield pontoons that had upset the Jacksterish Surgeon this time. Herion waved a slim hand in dismissal.
'No, no, Mr. Sing. I consider myself Navyman enough to no longer be upset by the many strange and unpleasant sounds this ship makes.'

Sing gave a smile (How he always smiled!) that would only have been seen to be condescending by the basest, most low-mannered, of decksman. Many of whom worked around the two men; changing pipes, shining brass and chuckling quietly to themselves.

'The noise I refer to, Mr. Sing, is the Ape-damned shouting and pacing from our good Captain,' Herion pointed up the deck, 'which echoes down through the superstructure so. It has quite ruined my concentration and any chance I have of completing my catalogue of the finds I made on Beldrat,' continued Herion. 'Morgan is in charge of a Frigate-of-War and has been for many years, I would not expect him to be so upset by a little incoming lance fire.'

First Sing of the Sekhurs was saved from having to explain his Captain's ire by the approach of the man himself.

While Alastar had complained and griped at the redoubtable First Officer, Morgan Willmot had stomped down from the far quarterdeck shaking his shaggy head and snapping unneeded orders at the industrious decksmen around him. Morgan's trihorne helmet had long since been cast upon the deck in frustration to be retrieved by his steward who wittered of; 'more dints and scratches for Old Lespick to fix.'

Morgan's slimarmour, though old, still sparkled and gleamed in the traditional blue top and white trews due to the loving, if rather obsessive, attentions of his dour one-legged, steward.

The Captain broke into a grin as he approached the Augmenteer and gave Alastar's hand a hearty shake.

'Good early, Alastar, have you ever seen anything more foul and cowardly than these creatures who beset us?'

Herion's waspish reply dissolved into confusion within his mouth at the Captain's apparent good cheer. The Augmenteer-Surgeon often found it difficult to maintain his contrary moods and whimsies when confronted by the far more expansive and enthusiastic moods of his expansive and enthusiastic friend, Captain Morgan Willmot. Willmot in turn remained immune to Alastar's sullen tempers and it was, most probably, this ability that served to make the close friendship between the two disparate men possible.

'Cowardly?' sneered Alastar Herion. Though he would have been as well to sneer at the deck below him for all the notice Morgan took.

'Oh indeed, Alastar. Walk to the far quarter with me, I must talk to Master Steersman Bettle about our next threading.' Morgan took the slender Augmenteers arm and wove him nimbly through the many knots of men, all busy in the arcane and complicated arts involved in running a valveship: Lowdeckers constantly cleaned. Decksman with valve-levers and crowpipes sweated as they altered the flow patterns of the fearsome energies running through the ship's throbbing arteries. Able Decksman, their ears pressed hard into horns shoved against the hull, directed the work of their fellows by listening to the stress songs of the wooden hull. Out of view myriad others worked. Watchmen, their steel eyes locked into the cornerscopes, scanned all quarters of the sky and in the prow-head sweating Jineers tended the conversion kettles and paid no mind to their burns.

To Morgan it was all one great machine that he stood at the head of, Lord and Master. He avoided his men unconsciously so used was he to the workings of his ship. Guiding his friend to a stop on the quarterdeck, aft of the great wheels, Morgan pointed at the dusty smear of a planet high off starboard.

'A whole flock of Lance-Blades are in the gravity well of that planet, Alastar. They sit safe and sound taking pot shots at us, the rogues,' grizzled the Captain.
There was another harsh screech as the shield pontoons absorbed the titanic energies colliding with their fields.

'Ape curse them!' Shouted Morgan into the high arches of the gundeck before adding, in a more thoughtful, appreciative tone. 'It is bedevoled good shooting though, even if wasted energy on a ship of our class.'

A man of Alastar Herion's learning should, after so many years with the appreciative Captain, have realised that his own understanding of naval strategy was often incomplete: Naïve even. Still, to him the answer seemed obvious.

'They cannot hurt us? Then I fail to see why they make you roar and pace so. We merely ignore them and keep on going. Surely?'

Morgan, by the most strenuous application of personal discipline, managed not to look appalled at his friends ignorance.

'No, Alastar, they cannot damage us but they add stress so we must slow the old, 'Venture,' or risk overloading the shields and fracturing a pontoon. That would never do and I am constantly having to watch our thrust to keep best possible speed.'

Foolishly, Herion chose to carry on speaking.

'Then surely you can just chase them away, the 'Pointless Venture' is a Frigate-of-War and far outclassess a Lance-Blade - even a school of them,' Herion brushed wood dust from the sleeve of his slim-armour. 'Then you could cease with the terrible row you've been making.' Snipped the fractious medical.

Morgan laughed as if he had just heard the most worthy of puns. Indeed, to his navyman's way of thinking possibly he had. His mane of reddy-brown curls shook and the six golden catwhiskers of his rank, woven into the proud points of his moustache, twitched as mirth overcame him.

'You say the most wondrous things, Alastar.' Morgan looked momentarily contrite and held up a hand to his bristling friend, 'now do not take like that. I merely say you do not have all the information.' This mollified Herion somewhat. 'Only battleship classes move in schools. Lighter craft, such as Lanceblades surely are, flock.' The shield pontoons screamed again and Morgan stared wistfully at the planet sheltering the attacking ships. 'No, we travel in entirely the wrong direction to turn and teach them a lesson, it would take us days to alter our impetus.' He shook his head sadly. Morgan detested running from any engagement as was being forced to so with the Venture's' hull coloured dark in an attempt to hide against the void. 'Also, the Ruddy-Boy,' Morgan nodded at the wiry man fighting the vertical wheel, 'Bettle, knows this system. He says they only wish to lure us in nearer the planet, right Master Steersman Bettle?'

The Ruddy-Boy gave a quick nod, his eyes unfocused and his wrinkled face screwed up as he concentrated on the wheel.

'Aye Cappan. Works me on a voidwhaler out here as a childer. There's a half broked up citadel station hidden behind the planet. Still fires him n' wrecker-gun though.'

Morgan gave Herion a knowing look and then, seeing the puzzlement on his friends face, added.

'A gun that fires shielded projectiles and, most assuredly, that would hurt us.' Morgan's eyes narrowed, 'I've marked them on my chart though, never you worry, Alastar. We'll be back here at some point.'

Herion was always impressed by Morgan's positive way of seeing almost all naval events that befell him. To the Augmenteer it seemed highly unlikely that there would be any chance of return. At this moment the Venture was being chased, and gradually caught, by a Dreadnought class ship of the hated Temat Confederacy; desperate to claim the prize Alastar had purloined from them on Beldin Citadel Station over a month ago.

The surgeon cleared his throat and croaked.

'At least our pursuer will be subject to the same problem, if they are just pirates. Will he not?' Herion added querulously.

Morgan nodded.

'There is that at least, but I had hoped to do a close pass of the next planet and the citadel station makes that most unwise.' Morgan pointed forwards with a gloved hand, 'had it not we may have bought enough time for Captain Parvin and the 'Perseverance' to make Thirdest territory and bring back some help before we're brought to the gun.'

'If she escaped the Frigates chasing her.' Herion added dismally, gazing up into the star-spangled void of the Experiment. 'He will definitely catch us then? You have always told me a Frigate is far faster than a Dreadnought. Far faster.'

'From a standing start nothing in our class or above could catch the 'Venture'. But that devolver out there,' Morgan pointed out the stern and through the just visible exhaust halo of the 'Venture's' dual thrusters. 'He had the impetus when he came upon us and the advantage tells sorely. Also, we travel through a dirty system and the debris slows us, his ship is bigger, its pontoons longer so they can absorb more at speed.' Morgan smiled ruefully, 'and whoever captains that ship is a wicked devol of a navyman. Truly gifted.' Morgan stared out into through the crystal overhull and into the expanse above them. 'We thread to Pallata Beta within two days and I may gain us some small advantage there, depending on the planetary orbit phase.' Morgan's last words were spoken more to himself than the thin Augmenteer.

Alastar, thinking he saw the truth of the situation now, responded.

'It is a pity he outclasses us so, is it not? Otherwise,' a forced and alien jollity entered his tone, 'I am sure the 'Venture' could take him. She is a fearsome ship.'

Morgan shook his head at his friends misunderstanding.

'I would gladly take him to the gun, Alastar, gladly and quick as kiss-my-face. I would beat him too and what a fine prize that ship would be.'

'You are so sure, Morgan...'

A piratical gleam shone in the bluff captain's green eyes.

'Oh sure as sure. But we'd take fearful damage and you have impressed the importance of the prize you carry on me quite adequately, Alastar. Quite adequately. 'Tis more important for us to run and hide with our hull-darkened, no matter how it pains me.' He shook his shaggy head. 'No matter how.'

The shield pontoons screamed again.



Part two, she beckons you onwards.