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.

The difficult second album

Echo had a couple of themes ; the conflict between duty and desire, and the need of an outsider to belong. Although the characters kept going off and doing their own thing, I always had a framework that I could come back to, just by asking "What is this book about?"

You often hear bands talking about the difficult second album. They've got shed loads of songs left over from the first album, but they want the next to be recognisable, but to have progressed. Echo was intended to be a stand alone novel but, somewhere along the way it turned into a trilogy. I had a story line, focussing on the search for the lost Visionary Ship, the Clarke, but no real idea what the book was actually about.

That's not the only problem with a second book. Starting out involves introducing the characters and getting to know them. The third book will bring everything together with some big battle scene and a final resolution (and we -I include myself in that - will find out what happened and who survived). But the second book risks being just the journey from the start to the end. 

I suspect this is not unique. Look at Tolkein's Lord of the Rings trilogy. I think LOTR is a fantastic story, well written, which is one of the few books that I have read which induced a real sense of dread and uncertainty over the outcome. But the middle bit? Oh, get on with it!

I've just completed chapter 14 of Clarke and it's been a bit of a slog. Partly it's that Echo has been so well received that expectations are high and there's a lot of pressure to make it as good, which I'm not sure I'm doing. But also, I've not been sure what the book is about, other than the bit between the start and the end. There have been fun bits. Woz won a competition and got a cameo which I've just done and she's quite pleased with. And I'm in the middle of a big fight and Echo has just rammed her knife into somebody's thigh, severing their femoral artery and getting covered in blood for her trouble.

But today I figured out my theme. It's going to involve a rewrite of several early chapters but, perhaps the difficult second novel isn't going to be so difficult now I know what the book is actually about.

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

Word Up!

Chapter 14 is turning out to be a lot of fun. I'm going to put in a couple of jokes which suggest my characters have seen a film set a long time ago in a galaxy far away, plus there's going to be a fight in a bar.

There is one interesting difficulty. It also includes a cameo role for somebody I know. She won the competition to decide which of the covers I should choose for E1 and the prize was to appear in E2. When I'm writing an imaginary character I can describe them how I like and make them say and do what I want. With a real person, there's less flexibility and I don't really want to offend anybody by making them mad, bad or dangerous to know (presuming that they're not).

So, Wozzer gets her fifteen minutes of fame. Hope she likes it.

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