31st August; the countdown begins!

As I said in my last blog post, I have designated the 31^st August 2013 as my launch day.  Now it’s a race to finish up everything and get it all prepared before then!

I have been busy working my way through a print out of the novel, making corrections, adding detail and basically tidying everything up.  It’s a very good experience, particularly the elimination of repeating words.  Proof readers of my previous novel will remember the original drafts that were packed full of constant uses of the word ‘quiet’ instead of ‘quite’, as well as the evitable overuse of the word ‘said’.  Fortunate then that the original novel was proofed so well, good job everyone!

Another idea has also come to mind.  Several people have suggested the idea of a launch day and I must say, I’m very interested in having one.  The basic idea is to hold a launch event at a functional room somewhere, probably in my hometown Newtownards, on the evening of the 31^st August.  I will of course post up more details nearer the time.  I definite think it would be a fun thing to try, even just the once.

So it’s at last all coming together.  The book is almost done and if I organize it right, there will be an official launch event for it too! 

I shall keep everyone informed on the blog and my Facebook page.  Stay tuned!

FINISHED!

I think the title gives it away.  Yes, at long last, I have finished book number 2.  58’000 words.  Not too shabby, not too shabby at all.

Now, when I say finished I mean I have completed the story in a coherent form.  It’s not finished as in ready to publish.  I still need to go through the whole book with a fine tooth comb and confirm that all the grammar and spelling is right, that all plot holes have been filled in, that characters act the way they should act etc.

There is still work to be done, but this is a definite milestone. 

I’m afraid I have no short story for this very brief blog update, it was just to confirm I’ve not just been sitting doing nothing.  I have been writing, and writing a lot!

Soon…soon…

A very busy month

It has been quite some time since last I updated the blog, but then, it has been a very busy month (the title kind of gives that away).

I have been doing nothing but writing and proof reading over the last while, re-reading chapters, tidying up the writing and basically working things through with novel number two.  I’ve had no time to really do anything else due to working on the novel and real life; so no further progress on publishing or on other stories.

The good news is progress has been made and the novel is really taking shape.  The first half of the book is basically done and I think properly carries forward the characters, both old and new.  However, it’s the second half of the book that is proving a little difficult.

I have been coming up with very good scenes, but a lot of them just don’t fit with the story so I’ve had to cut them out and save them for future books.  Several perfectly good chats between characters have had to go purely because they just didn’t suit the situation or didn’t advance the plot.  It was a shame and it’s slowed things down but maybe, just maybe, they will get worked into future stories.  We’ll see.

I am keeping at it.  I’ve had a lot of encouragement from friends and family and everyone is very keen to see the next book.  I don’t want to disappoint them!  I am making progress on the last six chapters and plot elements are falling into place, just slower than I intended.  One big piece of work that was holding things up was the identification of the final bad guy.  Fortunately, that has now been sorted.  I’m most pleased with the result and I hope people will be suitably impressed once they…well, I don’t want to spoil the plot now do I?

That’s progress for now.  Meanwhile, hope you all like the little short story I’ve done below.  This is another old one.  Nothing big, just a simple dual between medieval warriors.  Enjoy!

* * * * *

The North Mans Blood

The fool’s body offered no resistance to Vadra’s blade.  It cut cleanly, slicing the soft skinned southerners head clean from his shoulders.  Vadra had thought the mans neck too long anyway; it was fitting that this weaklings end would come because of it.  Too long; like a chickens.

Yes, that was fitting too; slicing the head off a chicken.  Not that the man, in life at least, had been want for courage.  Oh he’d had courage indeed to face a veteran Warchief such as Vadra in single combat.  But he had fought like a chicken; prodding and pecking worthlessly with his thin sword blade, expecting Vadra to fight the same way.  Vadra had let the man try and land a clean blow to draw blood but the heavy northern armour he was clad in was proof against the southerner’s blows.  Then, when the southerner had at last changed tactics and gone for a stronger blow, Vadra had contemptuously swept the mans’ sword aside, sending it to the muddy ground.  Vadra’s backswing with his long sword had been the beheading blow.  The southerner hadn’t even had time to scream.  Or beg for that matter.  Vadra, in his vast experience, had seen many a southerner beg before the end.  It was very annoying.

“He was a good man north lord.  He was a friend.”

Vadra turned at the sound of the voice.  Around him single combats where taking place up and down the muddy battlefield.  North men fighting in a mass melee with southern warriors, the bright colours of the southern lands in stark contrast to the dark grey’s and blacks of the northern host.

The voice had come from another Southerner.  This one was different.

Unlike the headless corpse now lying at Vadra’s feet, a short, thin thing that hardly deserved the name ‘warrior’, this man was bigger.  Broad shouldered, clad in chain mail with only a small sash tied at his belt to mark him as a southern mercenary.  He had a thick shaggy beard, much like the one Vadra sported, black and braided.  He held a long sword, again like Vadra’s, at the ready.

Yes, maybe this Southerner was a proper warrior.  Indeed he had the look of a north man about him.  Prehapes he was of northern blood?

“I will have to kill you now north lord.”

Vadra smirked at the threat.

“You will try.” Vadra replied in his best broken Southern dialect, his skill at languages not as great as his skill with his sword.

He took a ready stance.  The Southerner nodded, slipping into a low guard.  Already, Vadra was impressed.  The Southerner indeed seemed to know what he was doing; it would be interesting to see how long that lasted.

Vadra attacked, blade sweeping high then down at an angle.  The attack usually caught off guard inexperienced foes with its speed and controlled power.  The Southerner countered well, batting the blade away and thrusting.  The long swords met in a clash of steel on steel, slipping past each other in a shower of sparks.

Yes, this one was a good warrior.

Vadra did not let up, striking again.  Again, the Southerner blocked then counter attacked with skill.  Blade met blade in ear splitting clangs of steel on steel, each warrior striking again and again to weaken the other.

Vadra did not let up.  He never did.  His strength, his years of experience, his skill with the blade; all these combined, would see him victorious.  Of this he was sure.  No southerner, no matter how skilled, would ever best him.

He blocked one of the Southerners blows.  He let go of his sword with one hand, and brought a mailed fist up, slamming it into the Southerners stomach.  The man staggered back, winded.  Vadra allowed himself a smile.

A soft skinned underbelly then.  How disappointing.

The man had his sword out in a wandering gesture but with a thunderous blow Vadra knocked the sword from the mans hands.

Time to die.

He swung his sword up, ready to...

The man leap forward and to Vadra's astonishment, grabbed the Long Swords elaborate pommel, denying the killing blow for but an instant.

Fool, he could not delay the envit...

Vadra gasped, a sharp searing pain in his neck.  He gurgled as blood bubbled up from the gaping wound now in his throat.  The Southerners face was inches from his own, a cold hard anger behind the mans eyes.

“I told you I'd kill you.” said the Southerner, as the life of Warchief Vadra ebbed away, the dagger in his throat putting pay to his murderous ways.

* * * * *

Onward, to glory!

Taking full advantage of being back to 100% I have made a lot of progress on the novel this last week.  I have chapters 1 to 6 pretty much done, with 40’000 words now written.  Chapters 7 to 12 have a lot of major scenes already completed, I just need to fill things out and that’s it.  I hope to have the whole novel completed on schedule at the end of May, in which case I shall at last be sending off to various proof readers!

That’s the plan anyway.

Meanwhile, I’ve been doing other writing projects as well just to keep me occupied.  I had 3 little ideas during the week which I have taken note of and hope to be developing further once I sit down properly and figure them out.  2 novel ideas and a short story.  Right now, the short story is more likely to get developed given time available.  Novel ideas are nice but time is very restricted!

I also did a little fiction for the Paradiso infinity campaign which has got back on track at our local gaming centre, which I present to you all below.

So only a small blog update but hope you guys enjoy the little story below and progress has definitely been good!

* * * * *

“Sergev!  You look like hell!”

Dimitri Trencov walked from behind the folding table and embraced his old comrade in a bear hug.  Sergev Vortravic hugged his old fighting companion back, glad to see a familiar face.

The two Ariadna veterans were in Dimitri’s work tent, an old and battered affair that had seen its fare share of war, off-planet and on.  The Veteran Kazak had earned the nickname of ‘old bear’ referring to his huge stature and veteran status amongst the line Kazak’s.  In comparison to Sergev’s shorter but no less muscular form, he was indeed a bear; a bear meeting a wolf.

For Sergev was a Stavka operative, nick named ‘wolfcub’ for his youthful appearance yet ruthless efficiency.  The wolf, the hunter, let lose on the planet Paradiso.

“Dimitri” he said as they broke off.  “It has been too long Old Bear.”

“Ha!  Old Bear is right, and getting older!”

Dimitri was in his fifties now, a true veteran, with a well groomed greying moustache and bright blue eyes.  He indicated a folding chair and crossed the tent space to a metal cabinet.

“How long’s it been?” Dimitri asked as he opened the cabinet and retrieved the expected clear bottle of quality Kazak vodka and 2 small shoot glasses.  Sergev took the offered seat.

“3 years” replied Sergev.  “3 long years with too much time behind a desk.”

“That’s what you get for joining Stavko!  I warned you!”

“That you did.  What was it you said? ‘Too much paperwork and not enough action?’”

“Certainly sounds like me!” replied the Old Bear boisterously as he set the two glasses on the folding table and poured the two of them drinks.

“To fallen comrades and dead foes!” intoned Dimitri, raising his glass.  Sergev copied the gesture.

“May the fallen be remembered and our enemies stay dead!” replied Sergev in the time honoured manner.

They both downed their glasses

Sergev did his best not to cough but Dimitri smirked regardless.

“They must be serving you the watered down stuff da?”

“Very funny you old ruffian.”

Dimitri refilled the glasses regardless, his grin widening.

“Well I take it your not just here to talk just of old times?”

Sergev nodded, taking the now refilled glass as his expression turned serious.  “Regrettably yes my old friend.  I’ve a prisoner with me, an engineer from the Haqqislam.  He has information and we need that information fast.”

“So you come to the Old Bear because you know the Old Bear can get that information fast.”

“Exactly.”

Dimitri nodded “What do you need to know?”

“Specifically, coordinates of an alien artefact and what, if any, research they have conducted on it.”

“You think this engineer will know?”

“We hope so.”

They downed glasses again.  Sergev had to wipe a few tears from his eyes.

“It’s good stuff.  Brewed it myself!” declared Dimitri in triumph.

“That explains a lot.”

The Old Bear laughed, having downed his own glass to little effect.  He refilled both drinks again.

“I take it when you say Alien you mean the Combined army?”

Sergev shook his head.  “Not this time Old Bear.  This…this is something new.”

The Old Bear frowned.  “Now you have me intrigued old friend.”

Sergev, having recomposed himself, raised his glass.  “That was my intent.”

He downed the powerful tasting concoction, again doing his best not to cough as the liquid burned its way down his throat.  He was aware that his vision was blurred slightly but felt sure he could survive at least a few more glasses.  It was a tradition of the Old Bears; the drinking of a lot of vodka during briefing’s.  He respected you more, the more you drank.

The Old Bear downed his glass likewise, before nodding sagely.

“Alright Sergev, I’ll try.”

“Please.  We are up against it.  The Pan Oceania, Nomads and the Japanese have all captured similar individuals.  Not to mention other forces we have not identified yet.  The race is on to see who will get to the device first.”

“I will do my best.  Let’s just hope this engineer you have acquired can help us.”

He had by now refilled the glasses yet again.  Sergev was thanking a variety of Gods that they hadn’t been talking too long else he strongly suspected he would be on the floor in only a few more servings; the old man was right, he’d not kept the practice up during his time with Stavko, a failing he was now paying for.

“I will do as you ask.” The Old Bear raised his glass.  Sergev, recognising the gesture, did likewise.  The glasses touched and both men drank deeply.

“Ypa”

“Thank you.”

Business concluded, Sergev got carefully to his feat, head swimming.

“Gods Dimitri, what was in that?”

“What else but damn good Vodka!”

“Next time.” Sergev suppressed a cough.  “I’m bringing my own bottle.”

The Old Bears laughter followed him as he made his way out of the tent on unsteady legs.  He reserved to himself to find a cot to collapse in, at least for a while.

Busy, busy, busy

Ah to be free of illness again.  At last, I seem to be back to normal.  No more cough, no more allergic reaction to penicillin.  For those following my twitter account (@jgwritesnovels) I had an allergic reaction to said medicine on Friday; woke up with red marks all over my body, looking very much like I had chicken poxes.  It scared the hell out of me as you might imagine.

Fortunately, the doctor assured me that it was just an allergic reaction and I suffered no other ill effects.  A note has been put on my medical file and the marks have now faded thankfully.

Taking advantage of my back-to-normal status, I’ve been busy.

First up, on Monday past I attended a crime writer’s seminar hosted by the fantastic No Alibi’s bookstore, held in Belfast Museum.  Attending were 3 crime writers.  From Sweden, Jan Arnald (pen name Arne Dahl).  From Finland Antti Tuomainen and from Northern Ireland Stuart Neville.  Each of them read extracts from their latest books and also chatted about work, as well as answering a few questions from the audience (and it was a big audience!).  I was very well impressed and will admit to being a little star struck when I approached Jan to get my newly purchased copy of ‘the blinded man’ autographed (a police procedural set in Sweden.  Am reading it now, very, very good!).  Sadly I’d only money for one of the books so couldn’t get Stuart Neville’s excellent Rat Lines (about Nazis harboured in the irish state after World War 2) or Antti’s ‘The Healer’ (set in a near-future dystopian world).  But I shall prehapes purchase both in the future.  The extracts were very good so think I will definitely give them both a go.

Enthused, I have been working hard on book 2 all week and have written a lot.  Word count is up to 36’000 now and continuing to grow.  In particular, a lot of Act 1 and Act 2 A (to use recently learned screen writing lingo) is done.  I now need to finish things off with a good Act 2 B and Act 3 (climax!).

I have also had a lot of little ideas for short stories and subsequent books in the series.  I won’t say too much, but survice to say that right now I have at least 10 direct sequel ideas (many of which already have scenes and characters mapped out and one is pretty much a whole book ready to go, just not yet!), 3 spin off ideas (same universe as the current novel but different characters and situations, maybe even different writing styles too) and 9 other novel ideas (again ranging from one sentence possibilities to a lot of scenes, characters and dialogue already written).  So I definitely have variety to keep me interested in writing.

I also completed the most recent short story challenge between myself, K and Matt.  That of a poetry challenge, the subject being ‘cats’.  Now, when I say completed I mean that I’ve done the challenge; doesn’t mean I did it well.  The poem isn’t my best work, indeed I think it’s too short and the ending sucks.  However, in my defense, it’s the first time I’ve written poetry since primary school (we didn’t do any in high school as far as I can remember).  I definitely think I can do better and fully intend too.  In the future when I’m feeling braver I will show you all the cat poem.  You will laugh at least.

For now, instead, I present to you another one of my old short story challenges.  This one was ‘smuggler on a train’ and is quite short.  I hope you like anyways.  Till the next blog update everyone.

Thanks

* * * * *

One last job

One last job; after this, no more.  No more smuggling, no more running the gauntlet.  He was too well known to the cops and too well known to bloody border patrol with their bloody sniffer dogs; bane of his existence.  This was the last job.

He sat in the train cabin, pretending to read a newspaper.

The other passengers didn't seem to notice him.  There was a young trendy looking girl in the corner busy on her Iphone.  An older man sat beside him, reading the Daily Mail, whilst directly across sat a prim and proper business woman idly reading a book.  No one was paying any attention to anyone else.

“This train is bound for Southport,” intoned the automatic announcement system.  “the next stop is Branston.”

Good, one more stop after that and he was home free.  Then the briefcase full of counterfeit notes sitting between his legs would be dropped off with the courier and hay presto, he was off to a condo in the Mediterranean!

The train came to a halt at Branston station.  Several burly looking men in suits got on board at the nearby train entrance.  They immediately looked toward him and his blood ran cold.

“Mr Anderson.”

The voice came from the trendy looking girl in the corner, her authoritative tone at odds with her appearance.  She wasn't playing with her Iphone anymore.  She was looking right at him too.

“I'm Constable Mckee.” she said, the barest hint of a smile playing across her face.  “I'm afraid you’re under arrest.”

Battle against sickness!

I really do hate being sick.  Unfortunately until the meds that the doctor has prescribed kick in I must endure a rough cough and various aches and pains.  Bleh.

Still, I have managed to do a lot of writing despite feeling ill so that’s good news.  Draft three is proceeding very well indeed and if I can just get over this sickness I can make a final push to finish the book!

That and I had a really good chat with Mat about the second book’s cover art.  Mat did the first books cover and has some really good ideas regards the next cover.  Many of you will have seen his work on the Facebook page and on the various blogs here and there.  It is good news that he’s up for having a go with book two.

Apart from that I’ve still not been able to source a printer for the first book as I’ve not been able to take a proper look through the Writers and Artists handbook.  That plus as I said before the cost of printing it on my own is prohibitive.  So a printed version of book one is sadly still far away.  I’ll keep trying through.

Keeping with tradition, here’s another short story for you all to enjoy.  This one’s original premise was ‘waking up in a room and not knowing where you are’.  This one is a break with my normal writing style as it’s from a first person perspective.  Hope you all enjoy.  Till next time.

* * * * *

I opened my eyes.  What I beheld, was definitely not what I had seen before I fell asleep.

A blank featureless white ceiling, a single neon light flickering above me.

This isn't right.

I felt stiff, as if waking up from too much running the day before; too much exercise.  Except I hadn't exercised the day before.  I'd been at home, relaxing on my day off, doing very little other than pottering about the house and watching some documentary.

I rose, slowly, feeling my muscles ache.

This isn't right.

The room itself was much less blank than the ceiling as I glanced around.  I had been lying on some kind surgery table.  Directly in front of me was a heavy looking metal door with no handle, and what looked like a keypad set into the white wall beside it. 

I rolled my shoulders, my muscles still aching.  I looked at my hand.

What?

Black lines criss-crossed it.  Oddly spaced, as if they ran...

Ran under my skin.  I looked up both my arms, noticing with horror how the black lines crossed all over my arms, right up to were I couldn't see them anymore under the white surgery garb I wore.

This isn't right!  What the hell is going on?

I was becoming scared now.  I looked around the rest of the room.  By the far wall, the oddest of things was hung.  It almost made me flinch off the table.

It looked for all the world, like a suit of armour.  I had at first thought it a man standing, regarding me, the way it was propped up by the wall.  It was painted in random colours of green, black and brown all over.  Pouches adored its belt, a huge knife secured on one hip.  The armour was angular, alien to my eyes.  I didn't recognize it...

Mark 4 Avenger Armour.

The thought came uncalled for, making me blink in surprise.

What was that?  Where am I?  This isn't right.

I am Jonathan Taylor, I am 26 years old.  I have a wife, Jessie, and 2 daughters, Emma and Laura.  I work at...

Delta assault unit, 3^rd platoon, Special Operations.

I felt cold sweat breaking out over me. What the hell was going on?

This isn't right!

Ignoring my muscles, I got down off the surgery table and hobbled over to the door as fast as my still tired legs allowed me.  Frantically I typed on the keypad, noticing it had spaces for 4 digits on its small digital display.

1,2,3,4

A load buzzer sounded.  I tried again.

2,4,6,8

The buzzer again.  Frustration boiled in me.  I gritted my teeth.

1,3,5,7

Buzzer.  The sound mocked me and I screamed at it.

“OPEN!“

This isn't right!

Downloading mission data

I gasped as my eyes went black for a second, my vision blurring.  I felt dizzy, grasping at the walls for support before sliding to the ground. I felt sick, my stomach muscles tightening.  Then, just as suddenly, it was gone.  My vision returned and the nausea abated.

Missions launch: 3 minutes.

Where were these thoughts coming from?  What was going on?

This isn't right!

“Please don your armour plate marine.”

“Who are you?” I yelled at the room, looking round for the source of the sudden, alien voice.  It was a female voice.  I knew the voice...but from where?

This...isn't...

Real.  Your not Jonathan Taylor.  Your not married.  You don't have kids.  Now get your S*** together, and don your armour marine.  Your oscar mike in 2 minutes 30.

I stand up, blinking.

I stumble toward the armour.  My mind was a whirl of emotions and memories.  I blinked, trying to dispel a thousand different images parading before my minds eye.  Battles, friends, visions, missions.  My eyes teared up.  What was happening?  What's going on?  What...am...I...

They'd cleaned up the armour plate pretty good.  They could never get the bullet impacts completely clean, of course, but you had to hand it to the armourers they'd done a damn good job.

I grabbed the Avenger chest piece, always the first piece of the jigsaw, feeling its reassuring weight.  It had saved me more than once these many years.

I slide the armour over my head and let my arms slide through.  I blinked.  That was odd.  My eyes were teary.

“Delta 7?” came Marian's voice.

“Yeah yeah.” I muttered, continuing to suit up.

“Delta 7 are you?...”

“Yeah, I’ll be Oscar Mike shortly ok?” I called in the direction of the door.  Hell if I knew were the microphones were in this place.  I never did after awakening, but it seemed the most logical place.

Damn women.

I was fully suited up in 2 minutes, everything except my XM3000 rifle.  Ammo pouches, grenades, combat knife, everything else was ready to go.

I took a last look round the preparation area.  The damn place always freaked me out.  I had always meant to ask the damn docs why they got us to suit up in such an odd place.  Probably a psychology thing but still; freaking weird.

I dismissed the thoughts.  I had bigger things to worry about now.

“This is Delta 7.” I spoke into my helmet response mike. “Inbound 30 seconds.”

Now...what was the damn door code?

Man Flu

Well that’s maybe a tad overly dramatic to call what I have at the moment Man-flu.  But it’s certainly not fun.  It may actually just be a continuation of the cold I had a few weeks ago.  Whatever it is, it won’t go away.

Despite this, I have continued writing.  I’ve been working my way through draft 2 of novel 2 more or less every day, making amendments and updates here and there.  It’s going well and I’m enjoying fleshing out the story.

Likewise whilst I’ve not been on www.authonomy.com that often, I have been reading through stories and making some comments just to get into the way of things.  I even made the decision to upload my books 4^th chapter to the site, though that is as far as I will go with the book.  It’s a good site, I would definitely recommend it and they have strong community.

I even managed to write another little short story.  This one was the ‘emotion’ short story I mentioned a while ago.  Sadly, I don’t think I’ve got the emotion aspect of the story to come out properly; it lacks a certain something.  However, I’m posting up here anyway for you all and I hope you enjoy.

Hopefully by my next blog update I’ll be feeling better and will have more detailed news on progress.  Take care guys.

* * * * *

The platform was a rudimentary thing.  No more than weak plastic structure set up in haste; it would do he supposed.

He stepped up the steps of the platform and over to the podium wearily, his legs moving with reluctance; he did not want to be here.  Not here, not now, and certainly not giving a speech.  But with rank came responsibility.  Prehapes he should have realized that sooner?

In front of him, emblazed into the podium itself, was a holographic digital screen displaying his prepared speech in clear 12 point font.   A glass of water sat nearby on a stand.  He took a sip from the glass, his mouth already dry even before he began.  He looked up, looking across the hanger bay to those assembled around him.

One hundred people stared back at him, the majority young, fresh troops of Pan Oceania Fusiliers.  The occasional Orc trooper, helmet-less but clad in full battle armour, stared out from the masses.  Amongst them were other regiments too.  Kamau, Bagh-mari.  Even a few Akalis.

They had all come to hear his briefing.  Hear him ‘give them a bit of courage’ so his old friend General Mcdonald had said.  They needed it.  With the 2^nd offensive of the Combined army only just concluded, courage was in short supply amongst the Pan Oceania forces.  The boys and girls of the latest run of reinforcements needed courage before they entered the hot zone.

Who better to encourage them than a real life war hero?

He cleared his throat, straightened his back and placed both hands on either side of the podium, adapting a stern gaze as he let his eyes float over the assembled troops. He was gratified to see at least a few of the troops straighten up.

“Welcome to the Paradiso front ladies and gentlemen.” He said in a strong, clear voice, accent strong with his Sydney upbringing.  His tone was businesslike and his voice carried easily across the hanger-bay; he was not a man who needed a microphone.  He glanced at his digital speech.

“I will not mince words.  We are in the fight of our lives.  Make no mistake, the Combined Army is a formidable foe.  We are fighting a hard battle.  But we will be victorious.”

So far, so good.  He took a sip from his water again, before looking back across the audience.

“You will each have read the briefing I am about to give you, but General McDonald felt it would be wise for someone who has been on the ground on Paradiso to brief you personally.  That person is me.”

“My name is Captian Vandra.  I was in Ravenbrucke.  I was on the front line when the aliens arrived.  I…

Stick to the script he mentally reminded himself.

“It was we who held the line during the first attacks of the Combined Army…”

It was we who were the first to fall.

The sudden memory was unwelcome and unexpected.  He pulsed his lips, keeping that particular sentence from escaping.

It was we who first watched people die on Paradiso.

His hands had started shaking.  He gripped the podium tighter, to keep the troops from seeing.  He was aware he had paused too long.

Stick to the script

“Ravenbrucke was a hard battle, tougher than any I have faced in my career.”

That’s better, nice and easy.

“The attacks were sudden, without warning.  Our primary objective was to keep the aliens at bay to allow citizens to escape.”

We failed.

His next prepared sentence caught in his throat.  A new one emerged, unhindered.  He didn’t try to stop it this time.

“We held them…held them as long as we could.”

He wasn’t reading from his autocue anymore.  He knew the presentation managers would be exchanging words of concern.

The hell with this.

“We failed.”

The statement rolled across the audience.  A simple, biting statement of fact.  Not what they had expected.  Several of them exchanged worried looks.  Others kept looking toward him, maybe hoping that this was just part of the introduction; that shortly, he’d be back on track.

Take control.

Vandra cleared his throat.

I will tell them the truth and to hell with the consequences.

“Right now Dan and the other tech guys are trying to figure out how to salvage this quickly developing situation.  Thing is, I don’t need a microphone so they can’t just turn me off.  Isn’t that right Dan?”

A technician at the back threw his hands up before slumping back in his chair, folding his arms in resignation as his holographic control console melted away.

“The other boys in the presentation team aren’t going to step in.  Because they know my reputation.  Both my professional, and my physical.”

Just to be sure he turned a daring eye on the security corps troops at either side of the podium.

His look said I will have my say.

The troopers, good soldiers, took the hint, and advanced no further.

He gripped the podium again.  The audience looked to him, now much more interested.  That or they just didn’t know what to do.

“We held as long as we could.  The term shoulder to shoulder didn’t mean much to me until that day.  When we really did stand shoulder to shoulder as they tore into us.  The merciless Morat.  The invisible Shasvasti.  A hundred different kinds of horrors came out of those drop-ships.”

“We held as long as we could.  Through the screaming, the blood, the pain…the loss.”

He felt the pain of loss gripping his heart.  His jaw tightened as he fought down the feelings of regret from that day.  Regret at being one of the survivors.  That he lived, when others died.

“We held as long as we could.  But they were too strong, too many.  I remember taking a wound to my shoulder and down I went.  The last thing I remember was a trauma doc signaling for aid before he got hit by something and fell on top of me.”

Doctor Mcleod.  A good man.

“We lost a lot of good soldiers that day.  Damn good soldiers.”

He’d been hanging his head and at this point looked up at the audience again.  He knew his eyes were watery with tears that wanted to flow, but that he would not allow to flow.  No.  No he mustn’t, even though now he had a captive audience.  An audience watching a man falling apart.

Despite his best efforts, a single tear dropped from his eye.  As small as it was, everyone seen it; noone moved.  They simply didn’t know what to do, even as General McDonald himself arrived from one of the side hanger-bay doors and advanced on the audience, his expression a mix of anger and concern.

Captain Vandra sighed heavily.  He opened his mouth to continue.

The courage.

You can’t fall apart.  You do that, and you deny them the one thing they had in abundance that day.  Courage.

He closed his mouth and nodded, as if remembering.  “The courage” He breathed, yet his voice carried across the audience.  All ears heard it.

“Courage.” He said again, louder this time.

He looked up, his expression hardening.  Changing.

Courage

“We ran short on ammunition awful quickly.  Food and rations too.”

His eyes narrowed.

“But the men and women who stood beside me that day did not run short of courage!”  He almost yelled the last word.  He wiped his watery eyes.

“The enemy had better weapons, better equipment, some would say better tactics.”  He straightened now, that single tear now but a memory.  Just as quickly as his mood had darkened, now, his mood rose.  Rose to that of a warrior.  Of a fighter.  Of one who would not defile the memory of his dead comrades.

“They do not have the same level of courage!”

Murmurs came from the crowd.  The advancing form of General McDonald slowed, the yell of frustration in his throat dying before he could utter it.

“You men and women now take the place of the soldiers of Ravenbrucke.  Will you be brave?”

Fusiliers exchanged looks, but some of the other regiments knew this was a direct question.

“Yes!” growled an Orc trooper, stepping forward from the front row, the armoured giant easily towering over the other troops.

“Will you be brave?” asked Vandra again.

“Yes!” yelled two Bagh-mari troopers in unison, stepping forward, their camouflaged armour plate shimmering.

“Will you be brave?”

“Yes!” a troop of Fusiliers roared, punching the air.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” chanted the audience now, every regiment, every individual, men and women, chanting and yelling at the top of their lungs.  Yet even over the din Vandra spoke and his words were heard.

“We will batter them to a stand-still, make them bleed for every inch of land they take!  They will run screaming back to the hell spawn that sent them with their tails between their legs!  And it is we who will send them there!”

“Yes Yes Yes!” chanted the excited audience.  They roared their approval and Vandra’s chest swelled with pride.  He almost believed his own words.

No wait.  He did believe his own words!

They had made them bleed for every inch of ground.  They had made them fight bitterly for every piece of Paradiso soil.  They had died in their hundreds.  They would do so again!

It was not his soldiers who had failed.  The aliens had failed!  Paradiso was not their’s.  Humanity was still here, fighting.  And not giving up.

Another tear rolled down his cheek, but this time not of regret.  It was pride.  Pride in his people, his army, his comrades now in arms.  General McDonald was at the platform steps, walking up with a smile on his face.  He knew what the end of this speech should be.

He marched across the podium, the audience still chanting, and embraced Vandra in a warriors hand shake.

“You are one surprising son of a b****.” He said as the two of them turned toward the audience.

He had done as he was ordered.  He’d given them courage.

* * * * *                                                

Amongst the assembled fusiliers, one stood watching.  In the background, unnoticed.  She smiled and nodded. 

Yes.  Captain Vandra’s speech was very inspiring.  Good for the humans to have such inspiring leaders.

She slipped from the assembled troops as they calmed down and moved to their various units.  Internally, she prepared a micro-data burst for later transmission.  The transmission read simply:

Captain Vandra: Flag for termination

* * * * *