Nobody wanted to travel on the Philip K

In Echo, I introduced the concept of the Visionary Ship - colony ships that carried hundreds of thousands of people in suspended animation across the galaxy to found a new civilisation. The Ships were the Bradbury, the Wells, the Heinlein and the Asimov. All named after authors who could, arguably, be called visionaries. Book two revolves around the search for the lost Visionary ship, the Clarke.

There wasn't a ship named after George Lucas. Although he was the saviour of science fiction, there are not many people who would think of him as a visionary. However, there appears to be a fine line between making stuff up in a subject that you clearly know nothing about - the Kessel run in 12 parsecs makes plenty of people shout "No!" - and being a visionary.

Something that's mentioned in passing in the films (although it's developed more in the written cannon), is moisture farming. On a planet with two suns, water is obviously going to be critical. Most rational people would dig boreholes, but no. Lucas decided it's extracted from the air. Yeah, right.

There's a place in Peru where it hardly rains and water is a real issue. They've built an advertising billboard and installed equipment that will condense water vapour from the air. It produces 96 litres of pure water a day.

Perhaps we could forgive the Kessel run. But we can never forgive the other crappy changes. Don't forget. Han shot first

The shape of things to come

One of the good things about writing science fiction is that I can just make stuff up. The down side is that I'm not really that good at it.

Echo is set something like seven or eight thousand years in the future but, leaving aside the spaceships, it's not that different from now. A couple of chapters ago, Echo shot somebody with what is effectively a Glock Model 18, she wears clothes that wouldn't look out of place now (OK, the jumpsuits would probably need to hide in 1982), and, until recently, reusable spaceships went up and down to orbital platforms. The world / galaxy of Echo is reasonably recognisable.

I've got round this in a couple of ways. I mentioned the war with the artificial intelligence race, which effectively bombed humanity back into the dark ages and a lot of their technology was presumably lost and they had to start again. Also, different planets have different technology levels. At first I presumed that all planets in the Empire would have the same level, but then I realised how dumb that it. I live in a house with electricity, central heating, and reliable utility supplies (although crap Internet speeds) and, in some parts of the world, people live in dwellings made of corrugated metal and plastic sheeting. Economics is likely to be no different across the Sleeper Empire. The world of Sangekar, which was resource poor, wet and mountainous, invested fabulous amounts of its meagre coffers in bringing in the best software technology and has prospered, although the taxis are still motorised rickshaws. Asimov, the capital, has unsupported bridges that span kilometres although, to avoid having to design a futuristic city, I set my two scenes on buildings that were old.

How quickly does stuff change? I don't watch Heartbeat, but the world of the 60's isn't that different. Their cars were small and poxy, their telephones were few and far between, and computing involved either your fingers or a pencil and paper. But they had cars, they had phones and they had a couple of computers in a building in Manchester. It's not really that different. Everything is smaller and faster and more reliable (apart from the Internet here), but has it really moved on so far?

It's not just me that struggles to see the future.The Head of IBM famously (supposedly) thought the world would need only a handful of computers. From where I sit I can see four and that's not counting the myriad ipods and smartphones.

It's my ambition to write steampunk, but the level of imagination and detail needed is probably far beyond me. For now I'll stick with Echo.

All she wanted was the sax

The bar was dark and unadorned with any sort of decoration. The Vrgrr weren't an ostentatious race and the whole orbital station was stark and functional. It was cleaner and in better condition than many orbitals that I'd set foot on. Imperial stations on the edge of the Empire were old, grimy and lucky if they could maintain an airtight seal. The air in here was thick with smoke, particles twinkling through the beams of the handful of lights. I supposed that, when you fought other people's wars for a living, lung cancer wasn't high on your list of worries.

Although we had docked the day before, I was yet to see a Vrgrr. There were several companies worth of private military forces on reserve rotation and most of them were crowded into the handful of bars. The uniforms were similar shades of green-grey fatigues, differentiated only by the outlandish and mythical creatures on their unit badges.

Acre pushed her way through the crowd, holding a tray high and trying not to spill the drinks. With her free hand she pushed drunken mercenaries out of the way, sneering at a half hearted attempt to put an arm round her waist. I knew that the Bad Girls looked down on mercenaries but, although many of York's missions were on behalf of the Empire, they had effectively operated as a private military unit themselves.

Acre put the tray on the middle of the table and passed a glass to me.
"Vodka and something that passes for orange for the Domina." She actually smiled at me. Most of the crew were subdued, particularly York. Acre was more cheerful than I'd seen her for a long time and Cavendish appeared quietly satisfied. She was sitting next to York, occasionally speaking to him, although he wasn't saying much in reply.

The others took their drinks. Acre raised hers in my direction and nodded. I returned the toast. It shouldn't have taken a murder to raise my spirits but Acre's respect and acceptance took away a huge cloud. I had longed to be accepted by York's crew but she had been the one marine that had never overcome her initial reservations.  The death of the Empress had removed a major impediment to York's mission and anything that supported him was good for her. Not York's mission. Our mission. I was as committed to finding the Clarke as any of the crew.

I thought about something Professor Helms had said.
"Doctor?"
He glanced my way. I hadn't spoken to him much during our voyage, tiring of his hypocrisy, of the way he judged me for what I had done. I couldn't be bothered to point out that he was the medical officer on a warship, patching up troops who had, between them, killed many more people than I had. Cavendish had carried a thermonuclear device onto the Imperial barge. Over a thousand people died alongside the Emperor.
"Mistress?"
"Am I human?" Most of the crew had undergone medical scans at some point over the last few months. The ship had a state of the art diagnostic suite attached to the sickbay. I'd been in the scanner several times and Chakrabarty had drawn enough blood to refill my veins if I was ever sucked dry by a giant space leech. Perhaps I needed to slow down on the vodka.
He thought about his answer for a few seconds.
"Mostly."
"Mostly?" What sort of answer was that?
"Yes."
I waited. In a few seconds he would go into teaching mode.
"A gene is a code. A collection of four different chemicals in a certain order. By manipulating the order we can create a new code. We can create DNA with any code we choose to create an infinite number of genes, most of which will do absolutely nothing. Therefore I say you are mostly human. Somebody knew what genes were necessary to create your abilities. Your myelin sheathes are much longer than normal, which means nervous impulses travel faster. Your bone structure is completely different to mine making it stronger. You can produce endogenous chemicals at will. The scientists who constructed you did not start from scratch. They took these genes from somewhere. Cosmetically you are human but I would say that up to a quarter of your genome is alien."
"Is that why I was told I could never have children?"
"Almost certainly. Your DNA was selected so that it would not effect the viability of the embryo. Reproduction is an act of chance and there is no telling what would result."
Although the experiments must have gone on for years, I knew that there were only a handful of successful outcomes; Helms had said ten. I dare not think what monsters had been created to get those ten.

York said something to Cavendish and she wrapped her knuckles on the table. I wondered if she was able to smash straight through the composite surface. I could probably punch through it if I pumped suitable volumes of combat chemicals although, even with my modified skeletal structure, I risked fracturing bones.
"If I may have your attention." He paused for a moment. "I am aware that divisions have been created between us and not everybody is convinced of the value of the mission that we are undertaking. I will be continuing the course we set and, to that end, the ship will be leaving during the next optimum launch window, which is in nine standard hours. Those of you that do not wish to accompany me, please use that time to collect your belongings. Your share of the profits will be available in the currency of your choice.
"That's a lot of chocolate, Marianne." said Acre. Nansen was well known as the primary raider of the chocolate stores. We carried more than a tonne in the hold. Real chocolate. In some systems it was worth more than its weight in gold as it was far rarer. A small bar, judiciously gifted to the right official, had smoothed our way across several difficult systems. I wondered if they had eaten it or sold it.
York stood, but put a hand on Cavendish's shoulder to stop her following him. So this was why we were here.   Not to hand me over to whatever authorities existed, but to offload any of the crew that didn't want to go any further. He wasn't making a case, he was just giving us a simple choice. A risky strategy and I wondered what was in his mind. As far as I knew, leadership was more than saying 'Follow me.' and 'Follow me, if you want to.' was just bizarre.
In reality, the only one of his crew he actually needed was Dr Chakrabarty. I'd looked at the files on the passengers and there were engineers and a full command crew, but he needed a medic to bring them out of cold sleep safely.
Nobody spoke until York had gone. Everybody stared at their drinks or watched the chaos unfolding around us as the mercenaries loaded more alcohol. There would be a fight soon.
Ash broke the silence.
"How much is a share?"
"Fifteen million credits." replied Pearce.
Hemingray's head snapped up. "Bloody hell, I never realised I was a rich woman. Does that make me more attractive, Marc?"
"Oh yes. So much more." said Dryden, getting a sharp elbows in his ribs in retaliation. "How much is my share?"
It appeared that nobody had worked that out.
"Five." said Cavendish.
"Based on what?" demanded Ash.
"Based on the fact I said five." Cavendish glared at Ash, daring him to object again. He wanted to ask who put her in charge, but didn't dare.
"So I'm wealthy in my own right. Don't need you any more, Grace." He got another elbowing.
I glanced across at Cromwell. She was looking worried. I wondered if she wanted to continue, but was expecting me to jump ship and, having risked her life to get me off the Stobo, didn't want to abandon me here.
In the lull that followed, I weighed up the likely outcomes. Cavendish, Acre and Cartier would go with York and Gregory would go with them. Now that the Empress was dead I couldn't see a reason for a split in the Bad Girls. Although Hemingray and Dryden were worth twenty million credits between them, they were actually no wealthier than yesterday and I knew that she was desperate to find the Clarke and figure out where it had come from. She had been building an algorithm to calculate the Clarke's course between systems based on the trajectory of an intact hull. She had purchased every database she could find that detailed the position of every documented star and their relative shift in position. If Pearce went, Keyes would go with her, bringing us back to two engineers, but we could thaw out another. Ash wanted to take the moment and jump ship, but I suspected that he wouldn't go if he was the only one. I had no idea what the doctor would decide.
I was about to announce my decision when I was distracted by something across the bar. A group had gathered on a slightly raised platform. It was clear from their dress that they weren't troops. As they opened what appeared to be weapons cases I realised that they were actually a band. Their efforts would be wasted tonight on this crowd that was steadily getting more drunk.
Cavendish opened her mouth to speak then stopped. She was focussed on the door to the bar. Her eyes followed somebody who had just arrived.
"Trouble?" asked Nansen, who was sitting near me. We both had our backs to the door and couldn't see what had attracted Cavendish's attention.
"Possibly."
We were all carrying weapons. Firearms law varied between systems in the Empire but, on all but the most lawless and newly colonised planets, a bar like this would have required patrons to secure their weapons at the door. Here there was a half hearted request to leave long weapons outside. I had a short bodied submachine-gun strapped to one leg, my combat knife taped to my forearm and my stiletto hidden in the folds of my kilt. We knew a bar full of mercenaries would be dangerous and we were ready.
I turned slightly and immediately could see what was troubling Cavendish. There were ten of them and, although they were dressed in an assortment of ragged clothes, none of which were standard military, they were clearly a unit. Two formed a rearguard as the eight others formed a wedge to force their way through the crowd. The leader was near the rear of the main group where he could see what was happening and command the squad. Cavendish did something similar; they were professionals, like the Bad Girls. I glanced around my group. The crew were wearing tunics and rank stripes on their sleeves but the troops were not in uniform. Cavendish and Livingston were both in grey fatigues, the others in a variety of casual clothes. Gregory was even wearing a dress, although it clashed with the combat boots and the weapons belt.
"They look like you." I commented.
"Yes they do." replied Cavendish. "They look like us, but they are not us. And that's a good thing and a bad thing."
I knew what she meant. The Bad Girls were disciplined. They'd come in to the bar in twos and threes, quietly and without fuss. The new group had entered in force and arrogantly pushed their way across the the serving area despite the fact it was crowded with battle hardened soldiers. As well as sidearms they carried automatic weapons slung across their backs. They were expecting trouble or they were here to cause it.
"Echo, if it kicks off, you lead the crew out. Cromwell, Hall, rearguard. Acre."
"Red head."
"Gregory."
"Squad leader."
The Bad Girls were selecting their targets. If fighting broke out they would each deal with one, rather than having a free for all and potentially missing somebody, leaving them free to fight back. I blinked each of them into my implant so that, if I was looking at them over the sights of my weapon, the targeting programme would confirm I had selected the right face.
"Who do you think they are?" I asked. "Imperial Guards?"
Cavendish thought about it for a moment and looked at Acre, who shrugged.
"No. Not Guards." said Dryden
"Do tell."
"They don't walk like you. Your movements are smooth. You're..."
"Machines?" offered Acre.
"I was going to say controlled but, yes, your chassis..."
"Internal architecture, please."
"Gods in a row, Acre, let me finish. You're machines. You move like machines. They move like men."
Cavendish looked at me.
"Could they be constructs?"
"I was told there were ten viable constructs. I have no idea if that was the truth. The woman that created us was on the Stobo. I never had a chance to ask her for more details. Why are we looking at such unlikely answers? I can see that this lot are in a different class to the pissheads crowding the bar, but they could be some sort of Imperial special forces."
"We were the Imperial special forces. Have you heard of another unit?"
Actually I hadn't. If it existed, it was likely that I would have been aware of it. The Commission was the embodiment of the Emperor's will and could call on any and all available resources. Special forces would be included in that. The Empire had a large and powerful navy, but its ground forces were minimal. Very rarely did the Emperor need to intervene in the routine business of the constituent worlds. A destroyer in high orbit sent a very clear indication of the Emperor's displeasure and most planetary governments got the hint very quickly. Occasionally the Imperial Guard was involved in small scale, offensive, operations; surgical strikes aimed at removing troublesome individuals but, far more often, that unpleasant task was left to members of the Silent Order. If the Empire required large scale ground forces, it contracted with private military companies to do its dirty work.
"No." I admitted.
"I want those shoes." said Gregory, apropos nothing.
"What?" demanded Cavendish.
Gregory gestured across the bar. "Shoes."
The band were back on the low stage, warming up their instruments. One was stood at the front, a black dress and bright red shoes with bows and the highest heels that I had ever seen. I'd had a pair of dancing shoes and their heels were only three centimetres high. I wouldn't be able to walk in her shoes, let alone run or fight.
I looked at the combat boots she was wearing. "Really?"
She rolled her eyes. "No. Of course not." Everybody laughed.
At a signal from one of the others, the girl on the stage picked up a microphone.
"Good evening everybody, my name is Woz and we are Saxophobia." I wondered what sort of life it was, jumping from system to system to play in complete dives like this one, full of drunk soldiers who didn't really give a damn.
"I don't understand her accent. What are they called?" asked Gregory.
"Saxophobia." answered Cavendish.
"What's that?"
"Fear of sax."
"How can anybody be frightened of sax? I love sax." Everybody groaned.
The woman on stage continued her introduction.
"We're going to play a few tunes for you tonight. I hope you enjoy it."
I knew what Gregory meant. Her accent was quite strong and I guessed she was born out towards the forward edge of the Sleeper Empire, one of the industrial systems where the massive orbital shipyards had built the previous generation of naval destroyers. There was a good chance that York's old destroyer, the Nemesis, had been constructed there. Nowadays the Imperial battle fleets were built closer to the core worlds where they were less vulnerable to cross border incursions.

The band were good. Although only six of them, they made a sound like a much bigger band. I ran the music through a database on the implant and it told me I was listening to a style of jazz known as swing. I wasn't really bothered about its name and I found myself tapping my foot.
By the third or fourth tune, the space in front of the stage had attracted some dancers. There weren't many women amongst the mercenary companies but several of them had found partners. I could see a blond, probably in her mid forties and wearing sergeant's stripes. I caught Cavendish's eye and nodded in the direction of the dancer. She smiled and mouthed a reply. "If things had turned out slightly differently..." One day I would try and get her story from her although, so far, I'd failed to learn even her given name.

"I know this one." said Acre. I knew it too. It was from a vid I'd seen years ago, when I was still a novice. A scene set in a bar, which was clearly intended by the band. It was probably going to be the last piece before they took a break.
"I like the part where the old man chops the guy's arm off with that laser sword." said Nansen. We'd pored scorn on the weapon for both the scientific impossibility and the complete impracticality.
"The smuggler's more my thing. I love the way he takes the alien out by firing under the table." said Acre.
We were on the verge of the entire crew picking their favourite scene from the film when Cavendish clicked her fingers and, immediately, the Bad Girls were poised for action. She touched her ear with three fingers. My comm set was taped to my forearm next to my knife, under the sleeve of my shirt and I activated it with a tap of my ring finger. It linked through the ring to my implant and I selected channel three.
A scan of the faces in the crowd showed that most of the target team had drifted across to the far end of the room, but two were heading for the exit.
"It's going to kick off as soon as those two are out of the door." said Cavendish, over the comms. "Find your target and prepare to engage." She didn't have to explain. When an armed group lined up, it meant they were taking a position where they couldn't accidentally fire on each other. The other two were either going to stop anybody entering, or stop everybody from fleeing.
I released the retaining strap that secured my gun. In a crowded area an automatic weapon could reap havoc, but my bolt thrower would have been just as dangerous. There was another issue.
"Cavendish."
"Go ahead." She was on her feet, drifting to where she could see her chosen target. The other Bad Girls were also taking positions. I dripped adrenalin and a small volume of Quicktime into my bloodstream.
"If we open fire, everybody in the bar is going to start shooting at us."
"What do you suggest?"
My cartouche was in my pocket. "If..."
"Too late!"
The new arrivals were bringing their weapons to bear. The Quicktime made it appear a relaxed and casual act, but then the one that I was watching was punched backwards, head snapping back and arms flailing as Cavendish fired twice and then twice again.
"Armour." reported Livingston. I'd also noticed that the first three rounds hadn't penetrated but, with the fourth, a spray of blood had coloured the wall.
After a brief pause, made longer by the Quicktime that was circulating round my cerebral arteries, the rest of the Bad Girls opened fire. I turned away; my task was to get the crew out of here, rather than getting involved in the firefight. The crew had all taken cover in the booth. Ash had a pistol up, looking for a target, Hemingray and Pearce were crawling towards the exit, pushed on by Caro Hall. The engineers were with Cromwell, waiting for a clear run for the door. "Chakrabarty, with me!" Where the hell was Dryden? "Ash, don't be an idiot, let's go! Where's Dryden?" Hemingray wouldn't be happy with me if I didn't get her man out.
"The Bad Girls are standing up."
"The Bad Girls are wearing bloody body armour." I took the pistol from his hand and propelled him towards the exit. Just in time as a couple of rounds came our way. By now almost everybody was on the floor and quite a few were bringing weapons up.
The crew were on their way now. Cromwell had taken a covering position, walking backwards. Hall was over to my left, firing a couple of rounds to keep heads down. I could see Dryden now, taking the lead and head butting a mercenary who didn't get out of the way in time.
I trod on a few people in my hurry to get to the door before the others. There were two more gunmen outside, probably waiting in the corridor for the first mercenaries, those with the strongest sense of self preservation, to flee. I pushed a medium dose of QT, along with skeletal stim and some adrenaline, then slid the submachinegun gun out of the harness, pulling the door open with my other hand and rolling through the gap.
I came up, leading foot planted firmly and my weight resting on one knee, weapon up and safety off. They were fast. Already they were adjusting their aim to compensate for me being half a metre lower than expected. The first one took a dozen rounds in the chest, his weapon discharging into the roof panels as he fell backwards. The second one hesitated, glancing at the doorway.
"Drop it!" commanded Dryden, taking a couple of steps to clear the way for Hemingray who was just behind him. Before the second gunman could decide which target to focus on I fired again, pulling a bullet into his lower leg. He howled as he went down, letting go of his assault rifle, although it was held close to him by the sling.
I could hear automatic weapons fire as I jumped up and, carefully keeping out of Dryden's field of fire ran to the fallen men. The first got a single round to the head, in case my bullets had only impacted on armour. The second I slammed into unconsciousness with the sole of my boot.

All the crew were in the corridor now. Hall was at the back of the group, her weapon pointing down the corridor, covering our backs. Cromwell was stood in the doorway to the bar, presumably covering the retreat of the other troops. I could hear a lot of shouting but, for the moment, no gunshots. I changed the magazine on my gun for one of my two spares.
"Where were you keeping that?" demanded Dryden.
"You don't need to know." said Hemingray, who'd seen me slide it out of a garter round my left thigh. My kilt only had a small pocket and, to carry a lot of weaponry, I had to be inventive. I presumed Cavendish had done something similar when she produced a pistol from nowhere when we were trying to flee the Stobo.
"Cavendish, the crew is safely out."
"Understood. I need you back in here."
"On my way. Pearce, run a frequency scan. Find out if security is on its way."
I touched Cromwell on the arm and she shifted position to let me through. I did a count. Eight Bad Girls standing. That was good. Everybody else that I could see the was on the floor. There was blood spattered on the wall in several places and several of the bodies covering the floor were dead. The Bad Girls were circulating slowly, weapons raised and shifting left and right, their fingers on triggers.
"Keep calm, keep your hands away from your weapons." The mantra was being repeated by several on the Girls. They were heavily outnumbered, but had the advantage and were trying to diffuse the situation.
"Have you got your badge?"
"Cartouche, yes." I held it up and let it radiate. I could see that many of the mercenaries wore iron citizen's rings and they would be firing off signals in the presence of the Emperor's symbol. The Bad Girls didn't have rings; Cromwell had told me that, on joining the Imperial Guard, they renounced their citizenship and entered servitude to the Imperial Court. I'd asked what happened when they retired and she'd said that they weren't expected to retire. That tallied with what Professor Helms had said. Once we were back on the ship I would raise the issue with them. Clearly I had made a subconscious decision that I was going back to the ship.
"I am Mistress Echo, Imperial Commissioner." I almost demanded that they recognise my authority but, although most of the people in the room would be Sleepers, we were a long way over the border. I had run a number of searches on the ship's information systems but was still unclear on the status of the occupied systems and whether I actually had any authority here. "Listen to my troops and we will not have any more trouble."
"Who put you in charge?" came a voice. "We're not in the Empire now."
"No, we're not. But if we hadn't have been here, many more of you would have been dead. And if you don't listen to me now, more of you might be very soon."
I stepped over a couple of bodies, my boots crunching on broken glass.
"Cavendish, what's the score?"
"Eight targets down and six collateral deaths. Handful of wounded." She gestured to where a couple of groups were gathered, performing some sort of first aid. I'd heard her tell the squad medics to show themselves as I came in.
"It could have been worse. What do you need me for?"
She led me over to the far wall where a body was sprawled awkwardly, assault rifle hanging loosely from his fingers. The implant flashed the target symbol as I looked at his face. Red head, Acre's target. From the number of ragged holes in his jacket, she had used most of her magazine on him. I put my finger to one of the holes and could feel the sharp edge of a corresponding hole in the ceramic plate underneath. In the darkness it was impossible to make out any detail on the wall behind him but I would bet it had bullet holes in it. Armour piercing rounds inside an orbital. Luckily we weren't near the hull. looked up at Cavendish.
"I know." she said. "I'll deal with her. Look at this." She leant down and took hold of the shirt pocket. Something was pinned through the material of the flap. She flicked it over. On the underside was a small enamel badge. I thought I knew what it meant, but ran the symbol through the implant anyway for confirmation.
"Interesting. Have you checked for ID?"
"A couple, but they've nothing. No ring, no cards, no tags. This one broke a rule."
The gunmen had tried to cover their identity. On an Imperial station I could have found their entry and started to back track their passages, but not here. This wasn't our business.
"Take the tag and let's get out of here." I raised my voice. "Your attackers are dead. Form up on your squad leaders and report to your companies."
The Bad Girls were carefully pulling back towards the door, still covering the crowd in case some drunken fool decided to have a go at us. I wondered how many of the collateral were due to somebody threatening the Girls rather than from the gunmen.
The soldiers on the floor started to stir. The Bad Girls slowly pulled back, still keeping their weapons up in case of trouble. There was a commotion from the stage.
"I think one of the band was hit." commented Acre. "Shame. They were good."
"I can.." started Livingston, our medic.
"No. We're leaving." commanded Cavendish.
The band were gathered round the girl who had done the introductions, pulling her up to a sitting position. Her eyes were open and she was still alive.
"I'm alright, I'm alright." she said. But she but looked pale and shocked, probably massive blood loss. Her saxophone was clutched tightly and I could see where a bullet had ripped through the rods and levers. The band pulled her to her feet and she started laughing. Strange behaviour so I stopped. She tipped the instrument and something rolled out of the bell into her hand. Clearly the attackers had been using soft nosed ammunition; a much more sensible choice in the circumstances.
"Lucky bugger!" said Acre

Night fever, night fever....

I think I've broken one of my own rules. Rather than leave everything to the reader's imagination, I've    posted photographs of some of the main characters.

If you're interested in knowing what Cavendish, Acre, Livingston and Gregory look like and you're not already a Facebook friend, have a look at my Facebook page

Facebook.com/echonovels

You probably already know what York looks like as his face graces the cover of E1. I was curious if I could find anything similar so I was delighted that googling shaved head goatee found several pictures of some bloke who looked suitably hard.







Can you tell who it is?

Running around with guns

The doors slid apart. I held my breath, looked down the barrel of my pistol and waited.
Nothing.
Thirty metres down the corridor, the airlock hatch to my ship stood open. Cavendish waited for three beats, long enough for anybody in hiding to come out of cover.
“Acre.”
Immediately Acre was moving, swinging her weapon to the left to cover the first cross corridor. Livingston was next, the soles of her shoes making hardy more noise than Acre. As she was left handed, she covered the right hand side.
“York.”
I pushed off from the wall and ran, following the first two Bad Girls through the airlock and into the circulation space on deck seven of my ship. I expected to see bodies on the floor; marines from the Stobo assigned to guarding the connection to the citadel class.
“Permission to come aboard?”
“Permission granted, Captain.” Replied Gregory.
“Report.”
“The engineers are on board and the power plant is on-line.”
“That was quick.”
“The flight officer lost the key to the sealing mechanism a couple of nights ago.”
“Where are the guards?” Asked Cavendish.
“They got called away by the Captain of Marines.” She held up a small comms unit.
“Interesting. Tell us later about all the people you had to sleep with. The rest of my crew?”
“Cromwell and Hall are bringing the command crew through the forward airlock. We lost track of Chakrabarty. Nansen’s gone back to find him. And I don’t kiss and tell.” Gregory stepped back into the airlock and fired two rounds down the corridor. “We’ve got company.”
Acre trotted back from the weapons locker carrying weapons and ammunition. She passed them out to the other three Bad Girls and they took up a defensive position facing out through the airlock.
I activated the intercom. “All stations, report.”
“Engineering, three crew, power plant on-line. We’ll have drives and main systems in approximately thirty minutes.” Dodd; the most chatty of the three engineers.
“Give me a ten minute warning.”
“Yes, sir. Engineering out.”
“Hemingray on deck one. Pearce and Ash in tow. On the bridge in one minute, critical systems on-line in ten.”
“Let me know when they are. I’ll be on channel one.”
“Understood. Out.”
We would have an operational ship in thirty minutes. The citadel was locked to the Stobo but there were emergency procedures we could use that would force the docking clamps to release us. Getting away was another matter. We would be in range of the Stobo’s weapons long enough for them to reduce us to molten slag and, if the reconnaissance group was carrying enough fighters or fast attack boats, they could do the same.
The weapons locker had other equipment. I took a comms set and linked it with my implant, then selected channel three.
“Cromwell?”
“Cromwell on three.” I smiled. I could rely on my troops to find weapons and comms sets as a matter of priority.
Two rounds entered through the open hatch and put a hole in the partition to the EVA suit locker. We’d need to check all the suits for damage later. I filed it onto the implant. Livingston responded with several short bursts from her flechette rifle.
“Lights going out.” Called Cartier. She trotted over to the locker and selected a new weapon. From the length it was either a plasma rifle or a long-barrelled large-calibre rifle. Cartier was my main sniper so I presumed the latter. She had turned the lights off so she could fire down the corridor without being seen. In the dim glow from the emergency markers I could see her hitch up the skirt of her sari then kneel and bring the weapon to her shoulder.
“Cromwell, I need you and Hall to gear up in standard marine kit.”
“Are we going back out?”
“Yes.”
“Received. We’ll be ready in five.” She didn’t bother to ask why and complain about the danger.”
“Belay that order. Get down to deck seven immediately.” Interrupted Cavendish. ”I’ll go out with York.” I sighed, but there was no point in arguing with Cavendish.
Cromwell and Hall arrived in less than a minute. In that time Cartier had fired three rounds and, from the noise levels from outside the ship, achieved three hits. Gregory and Acre were in the airlock, protected by the outer hull but positioned where they could fire down the side approaches. Cromwell and Hall found the best place to add their firepower to Cartier’s. Our position was secure against an assault with small arms but once they got organised they would bring sonic emitters or grenade launchers into play

I followed Cavendish and Livingston down to the assault deck where the main armoury held the ship’s largest supply of weapons and military equipment. Quickly we dressed in standard Imperial Marines uniforms and armour.
“What are we going back out for?”
“The Empress.”
Cavendish considered this. “We’ll never get near her.” She started to select her equipment. I looked at the racks and took half a dozen ammunition packs, then clipped as many grenades and diversion devices to the body armour as I could fit.
My implant activated as the comms set received a transmission. “Hemingray to York. Bridge systems are up and running.”
“Received. I need a download of the Stobo’s deck plan and security systems. Tell Pearce to intercept their communications and direct us. We’ll also need to know what Ladywood’s intentions are.”
“Understood. She’s already got the plans. Ash will be Zero.”
“Received.” I switched the set to channel zero.”
“Cavendish to Zero.”
“Zero, receiving.”
“Can we get back through the airlock on deck one?”
“Negative. There’s a full squad of marines up there and we’ve sealed our outer hatch. You need to fight your way out from the main lock.”
“Understood.”  I took an extra pair of smoke grenades from the rack.
The other Bad Girls looked so incongruous in their brightly coloured clothes and assault rifles.
“Listen up.” called Cavendish. “We need to hold an outer perimeter otherwise they’ll start bouncing RPGs around.”
“They’ve got a rotary launcher already.” Said Cartier. She paused to sight her weapon and fire another round. “Don’t trip over it.” I glanced down the passageway. "Or the marine who was carrying it." There were two or three bodies in sight.

Facebook friends are not real

Everybody I can persuade to buy Echo has done so. Some people I don't know have also bought it. I'm now trying to squeeze out a last few sales as I've almost broken even, which I think was goal number five or six twenty blogs or so ago.

To try and drum up the last few downloads I've started a Facebook page. I could have just pushed the book through my personal FB but I'm fairly sure people would get fed up of me shamelessly promoting it at them. Again.

The strategy is about like the one I use on twitter. Post a couple of paragraphs taken from an interesting part of the book. The difference, this time is that I've also set up FB accounts for the major characters and they're going to be commenting, making snide remarks and generally refusing to do what I want them to do. No change there then

It's a real pain in the bum. I have to keep switching accounts. To make it a bit easier I've given them all the same password, but FB software has cottoned on to that and decided I had to prove they were real people rather than sock puppets by asking for a different mobile number for each. Between us we have four mobiles so, if I ask to borrow yours, and then you find a strange text in your inbox, I've just added another member of the crew.

At the moment I'm working through the story set out in Echo. When I've done that I think I'm going to work on a back story for some of them. If you read Echo (and were paying attention), you'll know a little bit about Grace Hemingray, but almost nothing about Eleanor Pearce or Edmond Ash. I'd like to colour them in a little, give them a life before York.

I'd like to think the readers know a little bit about who some of the characters are and what they're like. I have notes on them in a paragraph that I cut from the finished chapter and paste into the new one. it tells me a bit about them. It also helps me remember their first names. Apart from Cavendish, who doesn't appear to have one.

Navigator                 Grace Hemingray loyal but lacks confidence to command
Weapons and tactical Edmond Ash         Cynical whinger
Comms and scans         Eleanor Pearce Geek
Pilot.                       Marcus Dryden.              Daredevil

C/S Cavendish         Pragmatist
LC (Suz)Anna Gregory          Likes sex. With pretty much anybody
P Caitlin Acre         Angry (but funny)
P Helene Cartier            

C Nat(asha)Livingston             (Left handed) medic
P Marianne Nansen
P Jude Cromwell

On a completely different note, I took the hard copy and showed my Dad. Science fiction isn't really his thing so I'm not sure if he'll read it, show it to everybody, or pretend he wrote it.



P Caro(line) Hall Easygoing. Doesn’t say much

I've been expecting you, Mr Bond

What makes a good villain?

I've been beta reading something recently and one of my constructive criticisms was that the characters I perceived to be the bad guys just didn't cut it for me. Their motivation was around climbing the corporate ladder and getting their own back on people who had spited them previously.

Should a villain be evil? Evil isn't that interesting. True evil is sad little men finding themselves in positions of power and murdering millions of people through the application of bureaucracy. Who was the most evil character in Star Wars. It wasn't Darth Vader, it was Grand Moff Tarkin who blew up an entire world. Nor is evil attractive (to those of us that consider ourselves to be sane).  The moors murderers have been in the news a lot this week and nobody can consider them anything other than abhorrent. 

Do we need a villain? Writing courses talk about the antagonist. The person whose sole purpose in the story is to place barriers in the hero's path and potentially be the source of threat. Does the antagonist need to be a villain. In Echo the main antagonist is trying to kill York and those around him, but their motivation is as much about preservation of the Empire rather than personal gain, spite, underlying character flaw or psychopathic tendencies. If you want to judge, then remember that York is responsible for something in the reason of 50,000 deaths on the nineteen ships destroyed by the Nemesis during the war and Echo cheerfully murders her way through the entire book. In Echo 2 I'm starting to work up a couple of antagonist characters but both are honourable, honest, professional people with great integrity. If the book was written from the point of view of the Realm, they would be the heroes and Echo and York would come across as monsters.

In most books an antagonist of some kind is necessary. Until they're dead/ imprisoned / exiled/ rehabilitated then there's no closure. But I've concluded that they don't need to be evil. They do, however, need to have a clear reason for being the bad guy and, if possible, they need to be interesting.

Cats are optional

You're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off

Chapter eight is in the bag. 5016 words and, unlike some of the early chapters, I really enjoyed writing this one. Actually the last three or four chapters were good fun, with lots of death and blood and destruction. One of the casualties of chapter 6 was the plan. I'd written five or six bullet points describing what happens for each of the chapters 6 to 15. I don't know why I'm surprised but, just like in Echo, the story went its own way when I started wondering what the characters would do in this situation and the answer was not actually what I intended. Again This isn't always a bad thing. Having got themselves in a difficult situation I spent ages trying to figure out how to get them out of it. I needn't have bothered. By the end of chapter 6 York's crew are different starships and in mortal danger. Ok smartarses, what now. Fortunately they're a resourceful lot and they worked out a plan. York's crew like to have a plan. By the end of chapter 8 they're well on the way to sorting themselves out. Those of you that are writers will be nodding along to my comments. The rest of you will probably think I'm nuts To continue. That was too easy I thought. Actually it wasn't easy and lots of people died (don't worry, they're not real people) but I decided to intervene (interfere) so I've just created a cliffhanger for the end of chapter 8 that sees Echo trapped outside a spaceship with her oxygen supply leaking from her damaged suit and they're under attack. Will she survive? Of course she will, I've got another sixteen chapters to write. I'm making no promises that she'll survive to the end of the book though.

How do you comfort the grammar police?

Give them a big hug and say "Their, there, they're."

I've been reading the hard copy of Echo and the typos are just flying off the page. I went through the e version, then printed it out and went through it again, although to save trees it was two pages per side, so it wasn't that big.

Everybody says you should get a professional editor to avoid these things but something like that would have been a massive outlay when i didn't expect it to get read by more than a handful of people.

A few people have expressed an interest in buying the actual book. It's slightly embarrasing when people are shelling out a couple of quid, but the paperback is £7.99 on Feedareed.com. If people want the book i'm going to have to go through it, make all the changes and upload it again. I can also re-upload to Kindle and list it for free for a week so that people who bought it can download a copy without all the mistakes (including one use of the wrong sort of their (there, they're). Not that i mind, but it's not as much fun as writing Echo2.

Having said that, Echo2 isn't much fun at the moment. I've just finished chapter 3 but there's a pressure for it to be as good as the original. Self imposed pressure, but still real. Echo was never meant to be read which allowed me to write whatever i wanted. I'd like to write E2 with the same freedom, but i don't think that's going to happen. I now understand the difficult-second-album syndrome that effects bands.

Does it matter if E2 is rubbish? Not in the grand scheme of things, no, but a remarkable number of people have said very kind things about Echo and i don't want to disappoint them with a disappointing follow up.

Anybody else have this problem?

My Precious

So far Echo has only existed virtually. On Amazon and on my laptop and on some of your Kindles / iPads  /iPhones. The other day i decided it would be really nice to actually have a copy. A real copy. A real book. (Would that make me a real author?)

I love books. Kindles are great - half of my luggage for the last holiday was books - but there's just something about an actual book.

I looked at a couple of sites and they looked a bit complex. eventually i picked Feedaread.com, although that was a bit complicated and i had to have several goes before they'd approve what i uploaded. I'm still a bit concerned that the formating template didn't work out properly and the first letters of every right hand page will be too far down the crack to read. It'll be a bit like trying to play some of the music that somebody in the band has photocopied badly and missed off the key and time signatures and the first note.

Anyway, i've sent for a discounted author's copy. It's still relatively expensive compared to the price that ASDA sell older Lee Child and Andy MacNab paperbacks for but who cares. It'll be mine! The advantage of print on demand is that, if the formatting isn't right, i can upload a new version and there's only one copy that is wrong. I knew somebody who wrote a novel and had a couple of hundred copies printed. At the top of almost every page there was the title of the book - The White Sleeve. Apart from page 1, which had, in the header, The White Sleve

So, in a few days i should have my hands on my own book. It's very exciting. Although not exactly career changing, being a writer continues to be very rewarding, even after the writing is finished.

My favourite dress

Blood had soaked through the front of my dress, turning green silk to black. The shawl covered part of the stain, but I kept to the shadows and the narrow streets, avoiding anybody who might remember seeing me. I could faintly hear the music, echoing between the stone facades of the trading quarter, but nothing to suggest the alarm had been raised.

The last time I had worn the ball gown was on the eve of the war when I danced with Gabriel York and, with his assistance, murdered Admiral Morton. Since then it had spent five years stuffed in a travel case and dragged from one posting to another, but the chance to wear it again never arose. Despite that, it looked pristine as I waited in the market square, watching a small group of musicians set out their instruments. The sun was setting over the castle hill and lanterns were being lit by the owners of the bars and restaurants that had re-opened, now that the war was almost over.

  He strode across the market square, radiating authority and purpose. His greatcoat displayed medals that weren’t there when we last met, and each one of a row of silver stars along the left sleeve signified an enemy ship destroyed. As I moved to cross his path, I hoped he would remember me. My hair was longer, and a different colour. He had shaved his head and grown a goatee beard. It made him look dangerous; it suited him.

  “Admiral York.”

  “My lady.” If he was surprised he didn’t show it. Once again he bowed and kissed my hand. “You look different, but as beautiful as I remember. I have thought of you so often.”

  This surprised me. We had been together for only one night and so many terrible things had happened since then.

  “I would have expected a warrior to think of nothing but war. You have been most successful.”

  He didn’t reply, but led me to a table outside one of the bars. We sat and he gestured an order to the waiter.

  “Success? Yes, we have almost won. But the cost has been so high. I have lost many ships and thousands of men. And the war has taken a toll here too. Before the war, we prized art, music, poetry. We were civilised. Now, all that matters is protecting the state. And we have done many terrible things to achieve it. I have done terrible things. Everything is different now. Everybody is different, and something important has been lost.”

  He fell silent as the waiter brought glasses and a dusty bottle. He showed the label to York, who nodded his approval. As the waiter poured the first glass, a clarinet began to play, an argument against York’s words drifting across the square.

  “In times like these, everything needs someone to keep fighting for. I don’t know why, but all these years I thought of you. Wondered where you were. If you were still alive.”

  “Me? But you have family. Your brother?”

  “We were never close when we were young and, once we grew up, our paths were decided for us, just like the children of all the old aristocratic families. The first son goes into public service, the second into the military. I hear it said that he will be the next Prime Minister. I’m pleased for him, but we’re almost strangers.” He took a sip of the wine and looked me in the eye. “Five years and every day it’s you I’ve thought about.”

  I understood. I didn’t want to, but I felt the same. We had only been together a few hours but, in that time, we had shared an experience that bonded us intimately and inextricably.

  The band was playing melancholy tunes and few couples were dancing. York was right; before the war the square would have been packed, the crowd swirling to fast and exciting melodies. York put his glass on the table and stood. He laid his greatcoat over the chair and held out his hand towards me.

  “My lady, will you dance with me?”

  “Admiral, I’d be honoured.”

  We held each other like shipwrecked survivors cling to wreckage, like we were the only two people left. I lay my head on his shoulder and his jacket absorb my tears. I hardly heard the music; just let myself follow where he led. As one piece finish, he muttered “Enough of this.” and called an instruction to the musicians. They conferred briefly and then struck an opening note. Naval officers, all drawn from the elite families, were schooled in etiquette and the full range of social skills. His tango was impeccable; aggressive and arrogant, but not aloof. Every time we faced each other, his eyes locked on mine. I saw no fear, no regrets, and even the question I feared most wasn’t asked. But he already knew why I was here, and I could see he understood, even if I did not.

  The music came to a close and I took his hand and led him into a narrow alleyway, pushing his back against the wall. As I pressed my lips to his it would have been so easy to succumb to the passion I felt rising. To abandon everything I was and beg him to take me with him. Then there was a knife in my hand and I thrust it upwards with all my strength.

Training had taken over and I ran, putting as much distance between myself and the market square as possible. Twice I stopped and almost went back, but there was nothing I could do for him now and no help that I could bring to save him. York was dead; my knife had pierced his heart and his blood marked me for the crime.

  I would have given everything to spend the night with York, but it was not to be. I did not choose my profession; indeed, I was never given a choice although I had never been ashamed to embrace it. I had done many terrible things to protect the state, but surely none worse than this. Morton had to die to make way for a far superior man and there was honour in that; but I killed York and never knew why it was necessary.

  I had to press on, not through fear of imprisonment, but because I served the state and it would have need of me again before the war was over. By daybreak I would be back in the capital and deep within the corridors and chambers of the Department of War. I would inform Minister York of the death of his brother, and he would give me my next set of orders.

The wisdom of Gary Player

I've been struggling a bit with E2. I spent a lot of time thinking about it, but getting something worthwhile down wasn't going too well. Because of the arm (and a house full of in-laws), i was only writing in short spells and it wasn't very satisfying. Partly there's the pressure to make sure that Clarke satisfies my legion of fans (that would be you, Paul) and partly i hadn't figured out the underlying theme - is Clarke still about the relationship between Echo and York and, if so, where can i take it? Is it about the clash between a secular culture and one with a strong belief system. Is it about discovering your past.

And then i discovered the wise words of Gary Player (or at least the wise words of a golfer and the majority of the net thinks it was Gary Player).

He said - The more i practice, the luckier i get.

Translating this to writing - the more i write, the easier it is to write.

I was in fracture clinic yesterday and had a couple of hours to kill and a laptop. By the end of it i had 1500 new words for chapter 3. But, better than that, i'd figured out how i was going to end the current scenario and move on, the cause of the relationship twist between Echo and York, where i'm going to insert the prequel stuff that i posted on here a few weeks ago. I now have so much stuff in my head that i'm struggling to get it down before i forget them. It doesn't help that some of you kind people keep adding more exciting ideas. So many i'm drowning in them. It's great.

We have lift off.

A man with a plan

I'm 10,000 words in and i'm feeling much more positive about Clarke (Echo 2). Feedback from E1 was that the relationship between York and Echo was an important part of the content. I've figured out where this is going to go and why (it's going to get a bit rocky). i've also got a sub plot - part of one of the ongoing/ unresolved threads and a few scenes that add a bit of colour and are going to be fun to write, even if they don't move the story on.

I'm not sure how Clarke is going to finish although i've got a few scenes from the climax in my head. i have decided that not all the crew of the citadel will make it. I lost Bruekner in E1 but he was really just a cardboard cut out. This time it's going to be somebody that we've got to know.

Here's a question. I'm going to continue the alternate York  /Echo view point, but i'm wondering if some of the others should get a chapter every now and again. I'd be interested in whether you think that  would work. All comment welcome.

Right, back to chapter three

Echo 2, chapter 1, part 2. Catchy, eh?

“Engineering. All systems operational.”

“Medical. Ready to receive casualties.”

“Bad Girls. Bulkheads sealed. Passenger status nominal.” In the cargo bay twenty cold sleep cells held a mix of starship engineers, naval architects, historians and various miscellaneous scientists. Skills that we may need to explore the Clarke and understand the stories it would tell us. Presuming we could find it before we got blown to debris and frozen organic matter. The cold sleep equipment was robust and had a good chance of surviving anything other than a catastrophic explosion, but I’d rather be on the bridge, master of my own destiny.

“Firing range in twenty seconds.” Called Hemingray. We were now closing with the interceptor at high speed and both ships were still accelerating.

“Mr Ash, stand by on the vulcan cannons.” I’d seen small ships in this position before, neither commander willing to give way until it was too late to avoid a collision. The Vulcan cannons would put a wall of high velocity metal in front of the ship that would show up on the opposition’s screens and encourage them to change course and turn their flank towards us.

“Fifteen seconds.”

“Drives to zero, fire vulcan cannons, hold on laser batteries.” It wouldn’t take the interceptor’s fire control system long to recalibrate to our new velocity, but I had to cut the drives otherwise we would run into our own cloud of tungsten alloy rods. Ash let loose a two second burst from the four forward cannons, releasing eight hundred projectiles. The enemy captain would be preparing to fire his laser batteries but would now be faced with something unexpected. I didn’t like to rely on luck but, the interceptor was on the back foot and, with a little of it, they would be forced into a mistake.

“Ten seconds. Target manoeuvring.” And there it was

Timing was everything. At this velocity I could afford four or five seconds of acceleration without colliding with the tungsten rods. The enemy commander would have a firing solution and waiting for us to enter effective combat range. Dryden was watching me, his fingers over the drive controls.

“Five seconds.”

“Drives on…drives off

A few more seconds passed. “Target firing.” By the time Pearce had said it, it was over. The enemy commander had fired too soon. We were on the limit of effective range but several hundred metres further away than anticipated.

“How many turrets?”

“Three.” Everything they had. The fourth turret couldn’t be brought to bear.

“Damage report.”

“No damage.” The enemy’s manoeuvre in response to the cloud of tungsten alloy had increased the angle of approach slightly and, combined with our stuttering velocity changes, it was enough to mis-direct their fire control systems and they had missed. It would take several minutes for their weapons to recharge. Before they could fire again we would be close enough for Ash to target their critical systems.

The next few minutes were uneventful. The command crew worked their instruments but I had little to do; our course was set and we were committed to exchanging fire with the interceptor. Hemingray was monitoring the target ship, Pearce was analysing signals from the other ships she had detected and Ash was refining his firing solutions. I glanced at the repeater screen and could see that he was intending to use five of the laser batteries, focussing on the target’s own weapons and sensor arrays. That would substantially reduce the threat to us without endangering the crew. Although non of the ships in the area had identified themselves and weren’t acting like Navy units, I didn’t want to fire indiscriminately on what could turn out to be Imperial forces.

I looked at the combat situation display which was on the main screen. “Where are the other ships?” I enquired of Pearce. She zoomed out and new icons appeared. If we had turned, as we were expected to do, we would have run straight in to them. At first glance it did look like a Curtis trap, but now the predictive tracks of the other ships suggested they hadn’t set intercept courses, but were fanning out behind us, almost herding us towards the gas giant. Something was wrong.

“Miss Pearce, I need to know if there are more ships between us and the gas giant.”

“Sir.” The tactical position remained on the main screen but her panel displays changed as she activated long range sensors. At this distance we would be lucky to pick up much, but I wanted as much notice as possible of any further opponents.

“What’s wrong?” Asked Echo. She entered into the ring of command stations and stood next to me, touching shoulder to shoulder.

“Everything. The Naval Index says that there should only be a couple of small gunboats.” I picked this system because of the big gap between here and the systems on the other side of the border; too far for almost all starships to cross so there’s not going to be any smuggling activity and thin pickings for pirates. I expected we’d slip across the border unnoticed, not attract the attention of a colonial cruiser and four other ships. If they were escorts and interceptors we would hold our own. If they were all colonial cruisers, we were in trouble.

“We checked all the intelligence reports and indexes.” She said.

“We missed something. These ships weren’t waiting for us. If they’re firing on everybody, there should have been something in the reports.”

“Franklin?”

“Franklin is dead.”

“Yes…but I suspect she would be able to predict where you’d cross the border. Or at least narrowed down the likely possibilities.”

“Franklin is dead.” I repeated. I didn’t doubt this for a moment. Not just because Echo had killed her, but Cavendish had been there to confirm it.

“The target has fired missile again.” Reported Ash. I nodded. He knew what to do.

“Humour me?” Asked Echo. “If you were in Franklin’s position and you’ve just had to do a deal with somebody because you’ve just failed to kill them.”

“Go on.”

“Would you, perhaps, send out a message to the blockade? Unless these orders are countermanded, destroy or detain any citadel class starships. And if there are gaps in the blockade where very few ships have the range to cross, station a couple of colonial cruisers to bolster the line?”

 “Missiles destroyed.” Called Ash. “Standing by to fire main weapons at the target. Firing solutions locked in.”

“Weapons released.” I replied. Ash counted down from five and there was a flurry of data crossed his screen as he assessed the results. After a few seconds he looked up.

“Three turrets destroyed.”

“She’s turning away.” Said Hemingray. The interceptor was out of the fight. I glanced at Pearce. She was frowning. The headphones indicated that she was listening to a transmission. I turned to look at her repeater screens, mounted on the bulkhead above head height where they could easily be seen. There was a lot of communications activity, all of it on standard naval frequencies.

“Captain! I’m picking up transmissions from six ships. The interceptor we’ve just trashed is making a lot of noise, the colonial cruiser behind us is the lead ship in the trap and is sending orders that the other ships have acknowledged.” That was five ships. The names and designation numbers appeared on the screen. Nothing I recognised but they appeared to be bona fide Imperial Navy vessels.

Pearce continued. “There’s a lag in transmissions from the sixth ship. It’s about four seconds. And I’m also picking up interference. I think it’s in orbit around the gas giant, but it’s not appearing on the scans so I’d guess it’s somewhere round the back at the moment.”

“Are the transmissions encrypted?” asked Echo. She was looking at the communications display.

“Standard basic encoding. It’s loaded into the computer so we know what they’re saying.” Pearce could probably interpret it without the need to run it through the computer.

“Naval frequencies, naval encoding. But nothing in the Index and they’re not transmitting identification or collision avoidance signals.” Echo looked at me. “This is just wrong. York, get us out of here!”

The Naval Index had been incorrect before. Admiral Franklin had manipulated it to hide the movements of the battle fleets as she prepared to go to war with the Realm of the Returning Son. There was every chance that this was some hangover from that. A small squadron that never received the recall order. This trap wasn’t specially for us, just some administrative oversight. We didn’t have the fuel to jump back out of the system. We needed to skim hydrogen from the atmosphere of the gas giant and that meant fighting our way in and out, or talking.

“Miss Pearce, hail the colonial cruiser.”

As I waited, I glanced at the display screens and caught a shift of pattern on the tactical board. Ash had just fired the aft Vulcan cannons.

“Mr Ash?”

“Just a short burst to dissuade them from turning to bring their remaining weapons turret to bear.”

“Very good.” In the navy, firing weapons without a direct order was a court martial offence. I had selected the best officers I could find for my crew and gave them the leeway to act as they saw  fit, but I was still uncomfortable about firing without an order or pre-defined combat plan. “Miss Pearce?”

“No response, Sir. “

In a situation like this the captain would be on the bridge with his command crew around him. I had no doubt they had received the transmission and made a deliberate decision not to answer.

“York, can we take all these ships at once?”

“I think we could probably handle two cruisers and a handful of interceptors if we can separate them.” Any more than that and we would probably suffer two much damage to the ship to continue the mission.

“They’ll be all over us if we try to refuel.”

I didn’t need the advice but, right now, I didn’t want an argument so I refrained from commenting. I glanced at the tactical screen and a plan formulated.

“Miss Hemingray, plot a course for the gas giant, close orbit, standard by four. Mr Ash, activate the rear Vulcan cannons and fire disruptive patterns at the chase ships; slow them down as much as possible.” We would accelerate down the gravity well and do as much damage to whatever was hiding in the shadow of the planet. Colonial cruisers were configured for atmospheric manoeuvring, but only at a low speed that would make it difficult for them to pursue us if we could swing all the way around and exit the atmosphere at a sharp angle.

“Sir?” Pearce. “I’ve identified the ship that we can’t pick up on the scanners from its transmission code. It’s the Mistral, a warden class frigate.”

What the hell was a frigate doing in a backwater like this? It was ten times the size of our ship, outgunned us by three to one and had almost the same acceleration. Head to head we were going to lose.

Rough and ready - Echo 2, chapter 1

Chapter 1

York

“Three contacts on intercept course.” Called Pearce. “Probable missile attack.”

She called out a bearing. Coming in from behind. Probably the best news I could hope for now. I glanced at the engineering screens; the drives weren’t online yet. I touched the intercom.

“Keyes…”

“I know! Thirty seconds.” The transition from AltSpace was always the most dangerous. The manoeuvring drives were offline and the turbulence meant we were blind for several minutes. I’d destroyed three enemy battleships by being in the right place whilst they were helpless.

I looked up at Pearce. “Impact on our current position in forty seconds…mark.” She informed us. We would be moving, increasing the time to impact and the distance the missiles had to travel.

“Where’s the launch platform?” Somewhere there was a vessel that had fired on us. The fact they’d used missiles suggested it was quite a small ship with limited capacity energy weapons, probably a defence / interceptor or small escort ship rather than something the size of a colonial cruiser. It was unlikely that the missiles had Tnuke or halide isotope warheads but, if they did, a single hit or close proximity explosion would be the end of us. I wasn’t prepared to take the chance.

“Haven’t pinned it down yet.” Pearce was working through numerous wavelength scans to try and find the attacker. Ash’s fingers were dancing over his controls. I knew, without asking, that he would be activating the ship’s weaponry, both the defensive and offensive systems. For the moment there was nothing else to be done. Standard procedure was to seal all internal hatches during transition and Hemingrey, my first officer, had announced the close contacts over the internal comms system as soon as Pearce had identified them, and the rest of the crew should be making preparations for damage control. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the screen of one of the secondary stations that ringed the bridge. Lights were changing from red to green to red as the Bad Girls descended from their quarters on deck five to the armoury on deck eight where their armour and weapons were stored.

“Cavendish, join up with your team. Suit up then check out the passengers on the cargo deck.” Ordered Hemingray. I knew that Cavendish wouldn’t be happy, but I didn’t have time to do anything as Keyes’ voice came over the intercom at the same time as a line of indicators on my board turned green.

“Drives up, drives up.”

“Acknowledged.” Responded Hemingray as I pushed the throttles forward smoothly and slowly to avoid damaging the drives, reaching maximum acceleration of 40m/s/s over ten seconds.

The hatch opened with a hiss of pressurised rams and Dryden ducked under the leading edge, sliding into the helm seat as I slid out of the other side. Freed of pilot duties I could concentrate on responding to the threat.

“All yours.” Said Cavendish. I had my back to the hatch but could guess what was taking place. Before I could check, Pearce announced her success.

“New contact, twenty thousand klicks, same bearing, broadcasting Imperial naval ID. Four hundred tonnes interceptor. She’s changing to a predictive intercept course.”

If they’d attacked at twenty thousand kilometres it was touch and go whether we could outrun the missiles. I glanced at Hemingrey and she confirmed my suspicions with a nod towards Ash. He saw the gesture. “Stand by… weapons systems fully charged and deployed. Targeting radar and lidar active and ready.”

“Fire at will, Mr Ash.”

“Sir.”

“Miss Pearce, make sure that ship’s alone.”

“Sir.”

I turned towards the hatch. Cavendish had gone and now Echo was standing in her place. “Are we in the shit again?” She asked.

“No more than normal.”

She grinned in reply.

“Sir, I’m picking up a carrier wave from the attacker.” Called Pearce.

“Are they hailing us?”

“No, I think the missiles might be under control. They could take evasive action.”

“Take them down before they get much nearer, please, Mr Ash.”

“Tracking. Firing. One target destroyed.”

“Fifteen seconds to impact.” Cautioned Pearce. The missiles were near enough for us  to follow their tracks on the screen.

“Tracking. Bollocks!” muttered Ash. The missiles had started weaving.

“Pearce, contact them, find out what the hell they’re playing at.” Echo stepped into the ring of control stations.

I held out my hand. “One Captain on this ship.” So far this mission had been uneventful and I’d grown lax. But in a situation like this I demanded a clear line of command. I was captain and Hemingray was first officer. I respected Echo’ opinion but the crew had to know who to listen to and obey. Confusion had caused the loss of many ships. We could argue about it later but, right now, I had other things to worry about.

“Two targets destroyed.” Called Ash

Pearce glanced at me, looking for clarity after Echo’s instructions. “Not yet. I don’t want to give anything away.” I glanced at Echo and pointed to one of the secondary control stations. “Sit. Shut up.”

“New contact, bearing zero five by zero five. Range, fifty thousand kilometres”  said Pearce. Almost directly ahead.

“Maintain course.” I glanced at the screen. “As quick as you can, Mr Ash.” The last missile was almost upon us, but was using evasive manoeuvring. It delayed impact, but made it difficult to hit.  That was Ash’s problem. I was concerned about the new contact.

“Report, Miss Pearce.”

“Picking up stray transmissions from the ship ahead. Naval codes. Looks like a Destiny class colonial cruiser, on a similar track and accelerating at standard by one.”

“Final missile destroyed!” Shouted Ash

Hemingray’s hands slid across her station as she performed some calculations. She glanced up.

“We can evade but we’ll need to turn right now.”

 “It’s a modified Curtis trap.”  Declared Pearce. “I’m picking up faint returns to starboard.” The Curtis trap was one of the Navy’s piracy interception manoeuvres. With an aggressive gunship pushing us away from the gas giant that was our destination and a powerful ship in front of us, most captains would run sideways and try and evade the enemy, running into a second blockade that would be waiting outside normal scan range. Space was unimaginably huge and groundsiders thought that starships could travel freely but the laws of physics were difficult to oppose and the trap was remarkably effective. Starships jumped into real space in front of a planet’s orbit and allowed it to catch up with them. The Curtis trap pushed targets out of the orbital path. Most turned towards the system’s star and towards more, waiting, gunships. A small number would turn against the spin but, having gone wide enough to avoid the initial trap, making orbit could be difficult, particularly a high mass gas giant.

“Modified?” I asked. My expertise was fleet to fleet battles. Pearce had been a senior lieutenant on a colonial cruiser and had been involved in plenty of Curtis traps.

“Evasive track missiles. In a standard trap the initial attack is meant to scare the shit out of the target, not blow it out of the system. Those three were meant to do some serious damage.”

Modified or not, the Curtis trap wouldn’t work today. The majority of starships were less than five hundred tonnes and lightly armed. We were large and heavily armed and could take on warships the size of the colonial cruiser with the expectation of winning. But not right now.

“All stop.”

“All stop.” Confirmed Dryden.

“Rotate one hundred and eighty.”

“Half rotation, aye.” We were going to take the fight to the interceptor. Bow forward, Ash could bring all ten laser turrets to bear and create a screen that would protect us from more missiles.

“Set course for the first contact. We’re going to go head to head and see who blinks first.” Nobody ever turned to face a Curtis trap. The small interceptor would have a relatively inexperienced lieutenant in command and In a few moments he was going to more trouble than he’d experienced since the academy combat simulator. “Warm up the Vulcan cannons.”

“If those are naval ships, just declare the ship as being on Commission business.” Proposed Dryden. “We can avoid a fight.”

I glanced at Echo. She shook her head. “We were attacked without provocation and, more importantly, without a challenge. This wasn’t standard naval protocol and I don’t think declaring as the Commission is necessarily going to help.”

I agreed. “Negative.” I opened the intercom. “All hands, prepare for combat. All stations report in.”