
Summers are not meant for writing. I have a yard that needs tending, a house that needs mending, and mountain trails that must be explored. August was a dead loss with three family medical emergencies requiring days spent sitting bedside in hospitals. All of this is my way of explaining the slow progress made on my fourth book, Winged Lion. But progress has been made (66k words with about 30k more to write), and Autumn is upon us with the promise of many good writing days ahead.
Winged Lion is the story of Captain Thomas Benson of the Trade Guild of Venice, skipper of the Gattino Alato, a small towboat pushing cargo between Union worlds in a time of civil war and separatist privateers. Here’s a small sample from the first chapter:
***
Schiava started screaming his name.
“Captain Benson! Unknown craft in our path ahead. They have not replied to my challenge and they’re spinning!”
“Spin up. And tell Ms. Vendramin she damn well better have number eight lashed tight by now or we’ll tear apart. Where the hell is our escort? You should be able to sense them by now.”
“Yes, sir, but I cannot. Perhaps it is because they have been delayed… or it could be because we transited the Chéng Nuò Deep Space Hole early.”
“We’re already through the DSH?” A shiver chased down his spine. “When?”
“04:06 this morning. We are ahead of schedule and I’ve already notified the docks at New Palisade of the change in our arrival time.”
“Encrypted?” he asked, not that it mattered anymore.
“Of course, sir. How else?” She sounded offended he would think her that careless.
“Three hours early. Explain it to me. We’ve been underway three weeks and you’re only telling me now?”
The AI sighed. “Mr. Beauvais, Simon, not his little brother, was first. He asked if I could nudge thrust up a percent on account of a girl he knows on New Palisade. It was important for him to meet with her as soon as possible. Then his brother, Mr. Tekanatoken Beauvais, asked the same thing, so I added another percent in the name of his friend, Delilah. Engineer Tulisan bumped me a percent and so did First Officer Vendramin.”
She lowered her voice as though telling him a secret he didn’t already know. “I think they have a date planned at the Bab al-Ahmar. And then you added two percent for–”
“I know what I did.”
“–Elsie Campbell,” Schiava finished anyway.
First Officer Gabriela Vendramin pushed past the door onto the bridge while it was still sliding open, her face flushed from running the three hundred meters from container eight. Her shoulder-length brown hair had come loose from where she’d tied it back, and she shoved it away from her eyes. “We snapped two fiber lashings, but it’s squared away now, sir. Sorry, I’m late for watch changeover.” Her eyes drifted to the red flashes on the main display panel covering one wall of the bridge. “What’s happened? Is that…?”
“Fast Attack Craft,” he confirmed. “Cutting us off.”
She stepped in front of him and touched it, fingers sparkling in the coherent light. “Already spinning, ready to strike. How long?” Her voice had gone soft, barely above a whisper as she looked at her probable death.
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