Tag Archives: Fiction

Spoken Word & Holy Squatters

While I’m waiting for the edit to come through on my next book I’ve been experimenting with a few side-projects. Including some spoken word stuff which I’ve been dabbling with today. More of a distraction than anything I’m not expecting a great audience for it but it’s nice to try some different mediums and see how the nature of a story changes in the vocal re-telling. Still in the dicking around stage at the moment and obviously I’m doing it on a shoestring budget so quality isn’t great but just to give you a sample here’s my reading of ‘Holy Squatter’, a story I wrote a few years back and which, out of the long list of them, got picked up for recording…

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Decaying Idea

The eulogies were beautiful. Weeping and barely controlled mourners outlined a saintly life, the sort which only ever really existed post-mortem and whose loss devastated individuals and diminished all else.

Tyrone struggled to look on passively. This day belonged to grief, to sorrow. The anger he felt had no place there. Not that that did anything to ameleorate it of course, if anything the struggle to surpress his reaction heightened the feeling that demanded it. A price to be paid though, not a high one either given the costs already incurred by the person that body in the ground had been.

He knew why they’d invited him of course. Duty. They felt a duty to let him know about the funeral, he’d felt a duty to attend it. In the small talk surrounding the event they’d all been aware of their ignorance as to what more could be expected from the experience. He’d been tempted to cry to break the awkward silences. Not for himself, but for them, to give them some hint that their sorrow was his too. The lie of it would have hurt him more than it comforted them though, or so he told himself, not bothering to question his own selfishness.

In truth he knew he’d never cry for the dead man. How could he? In life they’d hardly known each other, the finality of the grave didn’t alter that fact even if he’d wondered before coming whether it might.

The dead man was his father. A technical label more than anything else. In life they’d had no relationship except perhaps for a distant awareness edged with ill defined and vague feelings. A pattern both men had been seemingly content to let endure. Death, though, had issued it’s own demands. Hollow labels had been reasserted as biological fact, ceremonies of grief had laid out patterns expected not just by society but also by the individuals who felt themselves beholden to it.

Beside him a woman let out a tear fuelled yelp. Tyrone felt himself visibly tense up. She had loved the dead man, that much was obvious although he didn’t know her connection to him. His first thought was to comfort her, a human thought, a natural one, but following it came the truth of uncomfortable apathy. In the sea of grief here he was the only one not drowning, to offer her a shoulder to cry on would be a lie in itself and if she didn’t notice it he certainly would. So he ignored her, half watching as a flock of friends and relatives swarmed over, tears in their own eyes and sorrow obvious on every face. Tyrone stepped back, clearing ground for the grieving. With awkward looks they both condemned him and showed a painful awareness of his reasons for holding back, not willing to sympathise but not quite ready to condemn either.

Later on Tyrone cried. Alone and hunched over a bottle he shed the tears which he knew would have been an unintended lie to any observer. Still, he knew the honesty of them, in solitude he could accept that the tears were his own and not the work of real sorrow delivered by death. That body in the grave was just that and no more, inert matter left to fade away beneath the turf. A tragedy for those who saw more, but nothing to him. He wept for his own loss, something separate from the rest, the departure of something far more simple than flesh and blood. He cried for an idea, a hope that was now interred six feet under. The idea of a paternal love never known and now never to be known.

For an instant he hated the mourners he’d ignored. Detested their hold on the dead, their existence as a barrier between himself and what might have been if their own grief hadn’t screamed so loudly over his repressed sorrows. But how could he resent such feeling? In life the dead man had never won such disdain from him, to let him send waves of it out in death would be a needless defeat. No, his loss was of something that had never existed, a man that never was, an idea that had no right to spawn living reticence.

Still he cried. The idea deserved that much if nothing else.

For more from me you can check out my collection No Cure for Shell Shock – available in paperback and digital formats. Or you can try any of my other work here – variously available as ebooks or paperbacks. 

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Platform 323 (Part Five)

This is, possibly, part on of an ongoing serialisation derived from something I’ve already written. The plan is to put a new part up every Tuesday so feel free to like it, or follow the blog, if you want to see more. You can find all parts here.

The crew were gathered in the mess hall. ‘Hall’ was, perhaps, being overly optimistic given that it only held 9, or 11 if a couple were willing to perch precariously on each others laps. Only Schneider wasn’t present as he continued his half hearted vigil in command but the cynical faces of the other 8 crew members was more than enough for Murat to face up to.

Again only Ecce seemed particularly interested in either him or the events unfolding around them, with the rest distracted by their own thoughts. Probably thoughts about desertion, better futures or maybe even mutiny, Murat mused. No matter, for now he still had at least a tenuous grip on them and if they could just somehow pull off this job then all would be forgiven. A rich, drunk pirate was a happy pirate after all – the first thing O’Shaw had taught him.

“Whatever’s on that ship it’s worth a lot. And we’re going to take it.”

Silence kept a grip on the room.

“Their captain, Kochelski, isn’t making things easy. She’s a rookie, trying to stare us down, thinks there’s nothing we can do, that we’ll just disappear if she threatens us enough. I know you and you know me, we’re not the sort to just give up are we?”

What was intended as a rousing tone came across as an earnest question. One quickly answered by an unseen voice who shouted out ‘Yes!’ in what Murat suspected was a poor impression of him.

“… no, we’re not… So we’re going to board them and take what we want, before anyone else shows up”

Again, what had seemed stirring and inspirational in his head came out as a rather limp request but at least no one shouted ‘no’ in reply, which was just about as close to a positive reaction as he’d expected. Although the voice of Murat’s inner survivalist did let out a blood curdling howl to itself, demanding to know what had happened to good old running away before he’d even gotten the vague order out of his mouth.

“so if you know how to fire a gun, get one and if you don’t learn to fast. We’re going in!”

Again silence. Murat nodded awkwardly and made a swift exit pausing briefly at the doorway as he tried to think of something better to say – although not for long as Ecce barged into the back of him and shunted him out into the hallway. Nodding again as she sped past him, her eyes full of crazed enthusiasm, he did his best to retain a look of detached cool, at least until she was out of sight and he could stumble into a cargo hold for a moment’s quiet reflection and dejection.

He’d had to say something, that much was obvious, the crew were barely there and they needed good, old fashioned leadership. Murat just wished he knew a form of leadership which didn’t rely so heavily on suicidal attacks on unknown enemies – but that was a narrow mindedness born of long and harsh experience. Back in his military days generals had routinely sent thousands of men over the top to near certain death for no better reason than the lack of any other ideas. ‘Strategy’ they’d called it and even when everyone died they’d always seemed happy enough with their efforts. Murat had hated them, the out of shape, smugly ponderous commanders who’d issued the orders before returning to HQ for a nice sit down and an evening of boozing and excess. Unfortunately he’d also paid too much attention to them and despite himself he couldn’t help but choose a pointless and ill-planned attack over endless patience or a bit of quiet reflection and a measured retreat. O’Shaw had tried to train him out of it and had gotten half way to getting the job done, if nothing else Murat now at least had the good sense to properly regret his bad decisions rather than fall back into the military mentality of half hearted grumbling and blithely accepting them.

But like those old generals he was trapped by his own need to be seen to be doing something. He could hear the crew shuffling out of the hall and heading off to grab their weapons. Their voices as they went were muffled by the steel door of the hold but it didn’t take much wild speculation to guess that they were complaining about him. Not that it would do them much good, they hadn’t argued the point and that meant they’d obey him and, if things didn’t go right, then they’d be far too dead to argue with him. And he’d be far too dead for them to blame. It wasn’t the most comforting of thoughts but he’d take whatever he could get.

It took Murat another twenty minutes to build up the will to leave the cargo hold. The crew had wandered off to prepare themselves in their own way, be it through illicit drink, checking their firearms or posing in front of mirrors trying to convince themselves that they really were mad, bad and dangerous to know. Or, in the case of the more sensible ones, writing wills and letters to loved ones in the hope that they’d find a way to their recipients if the whole thing went wrong. It was a familiar ritual to the ex-soldiers amongst them and a depressingly necessary one. Stopping at a wall panel Murat opened a channel to the command deck where Schneider was startled out of a hypnotic focus on his origami, his face sinking as he saw his Captain on the screen in front of him.

“Find Ling, get her to line us up with that ship and then get your stuff together for boarding.”

The look on Schneider’s face reinforced Murat’s opinion of the plan and it’s lack of merits but the eccentric American gave a nod of acceptance nonetheless.

“You got it chief, suicide mission it is.”

The screen went black before Murat could argue.

They had perhaps an hour to spare now. Ling, a former engineer from the Chinese power block who’d made good her escape after being sent on a covert transport mission not unlike the one they were about to try and ruin, would have to line them up. Nothing moved fast in space and for all the chaotic action to come the prelude was a painstaking process. Pilots in general were an irrelevance on a ship like this. Much as they tried to cultivate their own mythos and air of buccaneering cool their main job was to point and click, while the auto-pilot did the real work. It was space, after all, you could pretty much just point yourself in whatever direction you wanted to go and hit the accelerator. But when it came to the pirates and raiders the job required a different skill set. Boarding meant finding a section of the enemies hull that you could cut through. More importantly, an area that you could cut through without finding yourself walking into a fuel tank, waste processor or barracks on the other side. Going in at the wrong place could all too easily mean decompression, explosions and instant death not just for your own crew but the oppositions’ too. Salvagers called it a Lovers Death, two crews wiped out because someone had latched on an inch or two in the wrong direction. Murat had seen it, or at least the aftermatch, during his time with O’Shaw. His former captain had said nothing as they’d cut their own hole and looted both ships. Only when they’d been heading away had he aired his opinion – ‘better us than the salvagers’. Nobody liked the salvagers, or scavengers, as they were more usually known.

All of that had led him to find Ling. She was a genius, according to her. A prized asset of the Chinese state and therefore a legend in her own mind – a real pilot who could steer a cargo ship onto a penny without breaking a sweat. Murat suspected she was full of shit but she was good and even if it took a while she’d get them into the right place and then they’d cut. Ecce could do that, it’d keep her busy, plus when the rest of them went into the breech she’d have to be at least a few seconds behind dropping the cutting gear. Sentimentality on Murat’s part but the old soldiers, pirates and detritus that made up the rest of his crew would at least have some idea of what they were walking into, she was all too liable to try and be a hero. Coming last wouldn’t do her much good if things went wrong but a few seconds might save her if they could secure whatever part of the ship they found themselves on.

Another command tapped into the wall panel brought Ecce’s face onto the screen. She was in her quarters and looked at least momentarily embarrassed at the casual backdrop before snapping back into her usual enthusiastic formality. At a guess she’d been posing with her uniform and a pricey pistol she’d somehow found herself. Rookies from the quieter platforms tended to be like that, big on shiny guns, uniforms, gadgets and big on mirrors or any shiny surface they could find. Experience tended to beat that out of them, the rest of the crew by comparison would likely be sporting assault rifles more or less identical to the ones they’d had in the various armies, the de jure weapon of choice for piracy. After all you didn’t need to be flash to shoot someone but if you missed then having a weapon which could double as a hefty club was never a bad idea or, if you were lucky, the club bit could come first and any risk of hitting a bulk head and finding yourself seeing black for the few seconds before you brain shut down would be negated.

“Yes sir?”

“You can quit the posing, Ecce, time to get your hands dirty – you’re on cutting duty.”

“Yes sir! I’ll get to the docking tubes now!”

She fired off a salute and sprinted out of the room before Murat could even close the channel. He let out a weary sigh, there was something continually disconcerting over someone who would get equally enthusiastic whether you told them they’d won the lottery, were going into a situation where they were liable to die or even just spending half an hour with an oxyacetylene cutter. It was youthful naivete, he assumed, but he was damned if he could remember ever being like that and the rest of the crew seemed to view her with the same nervous confusion. If they were, for the most part, jaded and grizzled veterans then she was the over-excited puppy who somehow ended up at the head of the pack. She’d learn, he dimly hoped but it was hard to see excitement like that fading into the apathy of the career pirate. If she ever did end up with her own crew they’d either get very rich very quick or die their first time out. Either way it wasn’t a thought Murat cared to consider given that it’d involve her leaving the crew and there being absolutely no one left who showed him the slightest bit of respect.

For more from me you can check out my novel Crashed America – available in paperback and digital formats. Or you can try any of my other work here – variously available as ebooks or paperbacks. 

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Platform 323 (Part Four)

This is, possibly, part on of an ongoing serialisation derived from something I’ve already written. The plan is to put a new part up every Tuesday so feel free to like it, or follow the blog, if you want to see more. You can find all parts here.

“What’re they doing?”

“Sitting there. They know we’ve locked the missiles on.”

“No weapons charging up? No other ships on the scanners?”

“Nope, we’re all alone by the looks of things.”

Murat nodded and Schneider went back to his origami. He was a good worker, Schneider, generally drunk of course and rarely to be found working but when he did do something he mostly did it right. The fact that he spent most of his space time practising re-creating pornographic scenes out of carefully folded bits of paper was a side issue at worst. Plus he was undoubtedly talented at it. Like Murat he was ex-army, a deserter from North America where he’d spent most of his time taking pot shots at South Americans with a howitzer a few miles from the frontline. And now he was a casual Pirate, interested mostly in origami, drink and not having to put too much effort into anything.

“Ecce, get them on the screen, and look serious.”

Following his own advice Murat put on his best thousand yard stare. Appearances counted for a lot out here, unless you found yourself dealing with an old hand, in which case you could do the whole thing in a pair of boxers with your feet up. The younger captains however needed the image thing for pride’s sake if nothing else. Never did to be seen surrendering to someone who was busy scratching their arse and swigging from their morning coffee.

“Link established, captain.”

Of the square cabin that constituted The Kazamov‘s command centre half of one wall was dedicated to the main screen, two to desks for whatever crew members felt inclined to do any work and one to the narrow blast door which led to the rest of the ship. Only Ecce and Scheider were present, the former standing before one of the desks, tapping commands into a touchscreen embedded into the metal of a desk, the letter focused on his own pursuits on the other side of the room. The rest of the crew would either be legitimately busy or just staying out of the way to avoid having to do anything. They’d know the ship had shown up though, that would make a difference Murat hoped. None of them were incompetent by any means and their lack of faith in him aside they were capable enough of doing the job.

A face flickered onto the screen. She was young and official looking – both bad signs Murat quickly concluded as they stared at each other, each trying to look as indifferent as they possibly good.

“This is Captain Murat of The Kazamov, our weapons are locked on and your cargo is ours.”

“Captain Kochelski. Our cargo is ours, Captain, and I’m under strict orders not to hand it over to anyone, so I suppose you’ll have to come and get it. If you can.”

It was going to be one of those sorts of jobs. Boarding wasn’t an easy option, it seldom was, after all it took a good half an hour to line up the docking bay and then the same time over again to cut through their bulkhead. And unarmed or not a corporation ship would undoubtedly have a security team on board. Murat’s crew could fight, there was enough of the veteran deserter about them for that, but fighting your way onto a squat and claustrophobic ship was no small task. Someone would die, his or theirs.

“Or we could just destroy you and write this one off as a loss. Might even be enough scrap left over to cover our costs.”

“But not enough to save you when my superiors find out. We’re black-ops, captain, not just a supply ship – we disappear, people care. Think about it.”

The screen abruptly went black. The first round was over with an anti-climax. Familiar ground for Murat. Threats, counter threats and games of chicken made up far more of a pirates work than the actual fighting and looting ever did. Earth-siders, the more backwards Platformers, they all liked to talk in excited tones about the adrenaline fuelled adventures of swaggering privateers, raiders and Captains but the truth was far more mundane. His opposite on the unnamed Neftech ship was either a Rookie with a good line in bluffing or a bona fide graduate of some black-ops training program. If it was the former then she was good, this Kochelski. She hadn’t blinked, hadn’t over done it and hadn’t hinted for even an instant at bombastic false promises. She’d just said her piece, kept the same blank look on her face and cut the link. Black-ops behaviour. And that would make a difference. Kuzumo had said it was a covert, government related shipment, but that meant nothing. The corporations, the Earth-sider authorities, they were always smuggling something to or from the Platforms, guns, drugs, people; it was a routine activity and even if they didn’t make a song and dance about it they didn’t exactly go out of their way to keep it a secret. A certain amount of wastage was even expected, that’s how the Pirates made a living, not to mention the local bosses, smugglers, raiders and corrupt pseudo-officials who skimmed off of the top. But a genuine black-ops crew was something else entirely. They were vicious, efficient and generally unpleasant people. If she really was one of them then whatever was on that ship was important and therefore worth a lot. So why send it on an unarmed, un-escorted ship?

It took a nudge from Ecce for Murat to realise that he was still staring blankly at the dead screen.

“What next Captain?”

“Get the the crew together in the mess hall, we might have to board them. Schneider, drop the paper and keep your eyes glued to the scanners – make sure we don’t have any company.”

Ecce gave another brusk click of her heels and went off to gather up the scattered assortment that made up The Kazamov’s crew. Schneider grunted, glanced briefly at the screen in front of him and then went back to his paper folding. As close to a ‘yes sir’ as he ever gave.

For his part Murat left the command room not far behind Ecce and headed back to his cabin. Among his meagre belongings was the one useful thing he owned, a gauss gun. Not something you’d want to fire around the bulk heads but an impressively high end rarity given that half of the soldiers fighting on earth had reverted to AK47s looted from museums. It had never been fired in anger but it had the right look about it and the crew would need all the encouragement they could get if he had to ask them to go in.

Plus, once back in his quarters, he had a chance to slump down on his bed, drop his head into his hands and with a moan of exasperation, think about what the hell came next. He could run. That was always a smart choice, especially if his opposite was willing to stare him down. But you could only really get away with that if your crew was with you and his were mentally half way back to 323 and a new career already. So he could wait, for a while at least. He was experienced enough to know that Kochelski wouldn’t try to just fly by him, they both knew he’d have no choice but to fire if that happened and that might be enough to save face in front of his crew. He’d been telling the truth about the scrap value too, you could never be too sure what would happen when a ship decompressed, especially one with unknown cargo, but whatever was left would be something at least. It had been nine days already though and even if Murat had seen these situations drag on for weeks patience was wearing too thin to try that now. Eventually someone else would come along anyway, even if they were a bit off of the beaten path between Earth and the Lagrange Open Zone they weren’t so far out of the way as to be left completely alone. And signal jamming might be doing the job for now but sooner or later Kochelski would find a way through it.

Finally, and least attractively, he could board them. Run the risk of walking straight into a highly trained security detail and see who was quickest on the trigger. His people were good, if they chose to fight, but hers might be better. Again he found himself wishing that he’d never mentioned the no-drink policy. Back during his time in the trenches they’d always handed out vodka before a big attack, he’d never have gone over the top otherwise, which was perhaps why he’d abstained ever since. Sobriety might be scared but sobriety was also alive.

For more from me you can check out my novel Crashed America – available in paperback and digital formats. Or you can try any of my other work here – variously available as ebooks or paperbacks. 

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