I feel that your hat-band may be slightly too tight.

It can't have escaped your notice, especially if you've read this blog on anything even approaching a semi-regular basis, that I write.

So far, I've written six books, four of those are finished and three are published, you can buy them on Amazon with real money and everything.  You should definitely buy some or all of them, they'll make you laugh heartily, at me, probably even out loud.  But enough of this ceaseless advertising - To the point in hand.

I've just posted something on Facebook, in reply to something that someone else, who I don't really know, posted. It was about a situation that this chap had found himself in that had caused him some confusion and discomfort.  It seems that someone had told him what could and couldn't be described as 'Steampunk'

I'm guessing that you've encountered Steampunk, especially if you've been on the Internet some time in the past few years.  As far as I'm concerned, it's a genre that's based on a Victorian style world where technology has moved on, but the facial hair hasn't.  That didn't realy describe it very well, did it? It's stuff like this:

This is G.D. Falksen, the stern God of Steampunks

And this:

This is Kato, she's the beautiful Goddess (and Welsh, which is lovely, Bach)

Everyone travels by Jules Verne style airship:

Random airship via Google

And there are an awful lot of top hats, goggles, brown leather and cogs all over everything.  I dabble in steampunkery to an extent, there are a lot of airships in my next novel. The Heroine of The Windspider Chronicles wears a brown leather jacket, but she's a sky-pirate, so she's allowed to.  I know people who daily dress the part as a matter of course, and whilst I don't have the financial liquidity, technical skill or wardrobe capacity to be as splendid as they are, I wouldn't mind giving it a go.

So, going off topic slightly there, back to the subject... This fellow was told, by a couple of people who are supposedly 'in the know', that for a story to be 'Steampunk' it MUST contain some anti-establishment social commentary.

MUST?

I MUST include a chinless toff called Rupert who carries his Father's sword but has no idea how to swing it because the upper classes are all useless, spineless weaklings who are only fit to act as a transport system for excess moustache wax?

I MUST include a salt-of-the-earth engineering type whose parents only met that one time; but saves the day when the main gas-bag is holed by a lucky shot from a genetically-engineered hedgehog with a steam-powered rocket launcher?

I MUST include a simpering female of some sort who rails against the gender role that her father gave her but still couldn't pass the Bechdel test with a following wind and a team of Sherpas?

I'll be buggered sideways by a rabid Dutchman before I'll sit there and be told what MUST be included in a story to make it true to the genre.

I'll write what I want, thank you very much.  It'll be written with a sense of humour and it'll be original (Well, all the bits that I've not unthinkingly plagiurised will be at least).  More importantly, the stuff you write should be attacked in exactly the same way.  Write something you'd like to read; if you think it needs more cogs, sprinkle a few liberally about the place.  If you can see brown leather as far as the eye can see, then clad everything in your imagination with coffee-coloured-cowskin.

You want erotica? Write some erotica.  You want procedural piracy? Then put on your descriptive tricorn hat and have at it.

But most of all have fun, if you enjoy writing it, then there's a damn good chance someone else out there is going to enjoy reading it.

And who knows, they might even pay you for the privilege - Which is always a good thing.

The Minidandy's Birthday

As you can probably tell, by the title of the post, that it's my Daughter, the MiniDandy's birthday.  Her fourteenth in fact.

I couldn't really do anything else than tell a quick story about Lady Dorleith Ahralia, Captain of the Edward Teach, In nominate ruler of the Open Lands and High Voort of the Shattered Spire (whatever that is) and what happened on HER fourteenth birthday.

Or this is what she told me happened at least.

-oOo-

'Wake up!' Her mother's strident voice echoed through her cabin as she was roughly shaken awake.

'Five more minutes, yeah? 'K thanks bye...'

'No, no, no... You need to get up, we're under...' A large munition detonated against the hull, shaking books from the small bookcase by her bed, 'attack. I need you to man a gun.'

She rolled out of bed, suddenly more awake than she had ever felt in her life.  Pulling on a ship-suit, some socks and her favourite old boots, she made her way forward, heading for the bridge.  She was constantly buffeted by a tide of crewmen desperately trying to get to their duty stations, alarms were blaring and Alexander, the A.I. that controlled the systems onboard the Grabthar's Hammer was providing almost constant status updates in his calm, measured voice.

'Attention gunnery crews, we have Spiders inbound on multiple vectors, the Baroness has announced that "firing at will" is the current standing order.'

Dorleith stopped at a corridor junction and tried desperately to clear her head and remember where her gunnery station was.  All of the corridors aboard the Hammer looked the same and her Mother had removed all of the signage, working on the theory that her crew should really know where they were going by now.

Another explosion rocked the ship and she stumbled against the wall, looking up she saw the engraved brass head of Alexander directly above her, staring down.

'Alexander, wh...'

'Ion cannon seven, deck three.  You're welcome My Lady.'

She turned back the way she had come, slid down a steel ladder without touching any of the rungs and made her way to the control nexus for deck three's ion cannons.  Settling into the seat, she put on the gloves and helmet that comprised the control system and activated the interface.  Immediately she became cannon 7, wherever she looked, the barrels that were her arms pointed, whenever she punched, a beam of blinding blue light shot out into the early morning sky.  Her first few shots were wild and uncontrolled, even though she had practiced and been drilled for this moment since she was twelve years old.

Eventually she emptied her mind and relaxed into her position, everywhere she looked there were Spiders.  The targeting scanners that were her eyes picked out the separate targets and displayed details of speed and range and the probability of a clean hit.   She picked out a target that was closing at 200 miles per hour.  Zooming in, she saw that the spider had a huge rotating drill attached to its carapace and was planning to board.

Her first few shots bounced harmlessly off, the spider was obviously shielded.  She clenched her fists and felt the buzz of the stored energy building in her arms.  Her next double punch almost blinded her, but caught the mechanical arachnid straight in the sensor array.   Immediately, the light in its eyes died, the drill stopped spinning and it fell away into the clouds, far below.

Heartened by her victory, she spent the next ten minutes furiously punching Spiders from the air.  whooping and yelling as the force of her blasts removed legs and mandibles wholesale and the creatures themselves spiraled to the ground.

The sky started to clear, the immediate area around the airship was almost devoid of targets, but Dorleith continued to fire at anything that moved.  The trill of the incoming message alert had been playing in her ear for three long minutes before she noticed it.

'Cannon 7?'

'Aye Cannon 7, ceasefire was called five minutes ago, stand down and return to the Nexus.'

She took off the helmet and gloves, stowed them back in their receptacles and ran her fingers through her long, red, sweat-soaked hair.  As her eyes got used to the sudden darkness she noticed that the Gun-Commander was scowling at her.  'You're to report directly to the Baroness on the Bridge... My Lady.'  He bowed whilst simultaneously shaking his head.

She looked at him for a second, perplexed.  He nodded towards the exit lock, 'I think she meant now.'

The adrenaline was still pumping as she entered the Bridge, walked over to her Mother's command chair and waited patiently for her to finish reading the battle reports.   Baroness Bhin-Dhee Lohlephel of the Rustholme slowly turned to address her young daughter.

'Happy Birthday.'

'Thank you Mother, I...'

The Baroness pressed her index finger to her lips. 'I just wanted to explain to you why you weren't currently in the Brig.' She waited for the whorls of confusion to reach their crescendo on her daughter's face. 'The cease fire was called a good five minutes before you actually ceased firing.  What you should have done at that point is explicitly described in the name of the order.  Cease... Fire... Are you suffering from some kind of hearing deficiency?'

'No, I...'

'Insubordination then perhaps?  Did you think that my order was some kind of recommendation?  Something you should only do if you couldn't think of anything better yourself?'

'It's just that I...'

The Baroness waved away the communications officer who had bought her a data tablet that required her authorisation and looked directly at her daughter.  'Do you know how many Spiders you shot down?' Dorleith shook her head. 'I'll tell you, fifteen.  You shot down fifteen of them, including three that were set on boarding my ship and trying to wreak as much havoc as they could have done, which would have no doubt have entailed the death or injury of many valuable crew-members.  After the ceasefire however, you shot down nine ducks, an albatross, one of our camera drones and number four gasbag, which is why we are currently listing...'

Mr Britt turned around and grinned.  'six degrees Ma'am.'

The Baroness nodded at him and continued, 'six degrees to port.  Do not repeat this next time you are manning a gun.  Birthday or not you'll spend a day in the Brig.'

Dorleith looked up and could feel hot tears welling behind her eyes. 'Yes... I mean, no Mothe.. Ma'am.  I will try to be more careful.'  She curtsied deeply and started to slowly back her way towards the door.

'See that you do.  Oh, and Dorleith?'  Her daughter froze and stared at her like a kitten that had fallen down a well lined with rabid dogs. 'The next time you come onto my Bridge wearing mis-matched socks, I'll skin you alive.'

Present Tense

Below is a piece of crossover fiction inspired by my recent trip to Blackpool.  It is set in the same universe as my Edward Teach stories and alludes to some of the upcoming book's plotlines, however - The antagonist is from THIS piece of Flash Fiction, you might wish to read it first.

-oOo-

I flew in from the south-east, down the lush valley between the Liverpool Free Trade Area and the ruins contained by the, in parts still radioactive, Greater Manchester wastelands.   I had originally intended to circle out over the Irish Sea and come in low over the water, but there had been some recent reports that the Welsh Separatists had managed to get hold of some ex-defense force artillery and were taking pot-shots at anything flying low enough not to leave a contrail.  I felt that keeping the crate in one piece made more sense than having a control surface obliterated by a misguided 'Son of Glyndwr' and spiraling into the briny deep with my aft section aflame.

Whilst I'm on the subject, I'm glad that I'm less than fifteen miles from the Aeroport, as I've a nasty feeling that last night's dinner is about to make an explosive re-appearance.  Fox Cheek Vindaloo has a wonderful effect on that palate, but loses something during its trip through one's lower intestine.  I decided to contact local traffic control to see if I could secure a berth near the Gentlemens' Conveniences.

'George Joseph Smith International Aeroport, this is the private flyer Gustavo, requesting clearance to land.'

'Roger Gustavo,' Replies the obviously electronic voice of the traffic control construct, 'please continue on your current heading and land in section Red Seventeen.'

'Acknowledged Control, are there comfort facilities near that particular area? There is a possibility of an impending gastric emergency.'

'Gustavo, do you wish to report a medical emergency?'

'Negative Control, just a minor digestive discomfort... Gustavo Out.'

I lock the navigational system onto the docking beam and proceed to land in the indicated bay.  Even as the landing legs were rebounding, I leap out of the cockpit and open the starboard stowage locker.  I pick out a rather fetching stovepipe hat with matching gecko-skin gloves, and make my way into the terminal building.  Once my urgent business has been taken care of and my composure has been restored, I show my documentation to the security team, and ask to be directed to the Hackney Rank.

The three mile ride into town is fairly uneventful, I am continually unnerved by the robotic horse that pulls my carriage giving me a potted history of the resort - It is not so much that it is, for all intents and purposes a talking silver horse, mainly it is that the damnable thing is looking at me over its shoulder all the time, rather than keeping its glowing blue eyes on the road.

We pass the first of the town's three piers, the silent hulks of the anti-Spider defense cannons still positioned down it's length.  skeins of bright bunting are stretched between them in a jarring juxtaposition.

'Why the decoration?' I ask the horse.

'If you had only come last week Sir, it was the twentieth anniversary of the last Spider attack, a suicide squadron had targeted the Tower and the men of the town shot down every single one.  At low tides you can still see some of the wreckage if you know where to look.'

Ah, the famous Tower, it had been the main landmark of the town for several hundred years, it had seen service as a circus, a ballroom, a radar station and had finally ended up being used as an airship mooring mast.  I crane my neck to look up as I pass it and see that a passenger liner was currently docked, its silver skin glinting brightly in the setting sun.

Moments later the Hackney pulled up at the Metropole Hotel, I disembark, pat the equine construct absently on the head and find my way to the reception desk.

'Reservation in the name of Anderson?' I announce, somewhat questioningly to the young girl behind the desk.

'Yes sir, do you have any luggage?'

Gods damn it! In my rush to leave the aeroport, I had forgotten to pick up my cases.  I am however unwilling to announce this to the general public, so I answer with braggadocio, 'No, not currently.  I would consider it a great kindness if you would ask your concierge to contact the finest local Gentleman's Costumiers and ask them to supply a brown leather dinner jacket and a selection of day-wear suitable for tomorrow's prevailing weather conditions.'

She injects my hand with the digital keys to my suite and I enter the lift.  In some strange quirk of fate, or more likely via some over-zealous research by a bored hotel employee, the music being played over the under-sized speakers is one of my great, great-grandfather's most popular tunes.  He was a local man himself and had enjoyed some small fame with a progressive musical group named after an eighteenth century agriculturalist.

The lift deposits me directly across the corridor from my room, I exit, cross the deep pile carpet and clench my hand against the sculpted mahogany of the door handle.  There is a brief sensation of heat as the key is read and the door clicks open.

I enter the room, the only source of illumination is from a shaft of sunlight streaming through the apparently amateurishly drawn curtains, picking out an ornately detailed silver bottle on the side table.  I pick it up and read the words 'Henri IV Dudognon Heritage' engraved around a golden badge on the side.

The sudden voice surprised me to the point where I almost dropped the bottle.

'Those are real diamonds, set in platinum.'

I turn, still cradling the bottle in my suddenly sweating palms.

'Who?' I ask.  The man stands, he is dressed in a vaguely military style, his impeccably pressed jacket so clean that it almost glows in the half-light.  He smiles, apologetically.

'Ah yes, how remiss of me, my name is Horner, I contacted you via The Great Cloud? You told me your story about the loss of the airship Simon Bolivar.'

'Of course, Mr Horner, I should have known.' I reply graciously, 'Thank you for the invitation I must say that I wasn't expecting this kind of payment.' I lift the bottle, the sun reflects from the thousands of brilliantly cut diamonds and momentarily the room is festooned with a plethora of small, dancing points of light.

He laughs emptily, 'Payment? Goodness me no, your story was interesting, and will definitely be published, but it wasn't worthy of that particular vintage.  No, that was merely a distraction.'

'Dis...?' I don't even feel the blade as it completely severs my neck, I only know that a sword is even involved because I can now see it in his left hand, pointing at the floor in the sabre rest position, it has blood dripping from it, my blood.

'I'm sorry old chap, but I can't risk you telling your story to anyone else, we value exclusivity at the G.A.A. you see.'

He takes a step forward, places his index finger on the bridge of my nose and applies the tiniest amount of pressure.  My head separates from my shoulders with a quiet sucking sound and I have the briefest view of my own back before the floor and oblivion hit me simultaneously.

Horner removes a small notebook from his inside pocket, and crosses off the name 'Anderson'. He then takes out a personal communicator and connects to The Great Cloud.  He dials in a number and when the party accepts the call he coughs politely.

'Mr Josiah, Yes? It's Horner of the G.A.A. I've received your story... I must say, it's rather good. I'd like to arrange payment.'

And, having writ, moved on...

Yadda - Yadda - Yadda... Authoring, Yadda - Yadda - Yadda... Empowerment, Yadda -Yadda - Yadda... Worthiness, Yadda - Yadda - Yadda... I'd like to thank the Academy... Boring Boring, Boring...

You get it by now, I'm sure - I bang on about it all the time, I consider myself a writer, not just because I am completely up myself, but because I write stuff.  Since November 2012 I've written this, my semi-daily funny / ranty Blog - Which attracts on average maybe 50 hits per day.  Not brilliant, but I don't think it's bad for one that doesn't have any particular theme, doesn't get asked to endorse anything and doesn't have (very many) naked pictures of the author and his friends (For which you should all be truly grateful, trust me... OK, I looked pretty hot in the Beard Blog, but other than that, you'd want your eyes bleaching afterwards.)

I'd just like to take a moment to apologise to some people who've found me accidentally via Google, especially those people who were trying to find the popular, and incredibly naked Cam-Girl 'Dandy' - on a website whose address involves the word/s 'Ishotmyself' and got a story about Me, The Dandy, shooting myself one day by accident.  And the many, many gentlemen (I presume) who were searching for the same lady, but were concentrating on her mammary protuberances, and accidentally loaded a page about my love of shopping at ASDA / WalMart.

If you follow my Twitter or Facebook, (And if you don't... I'd be genuinely interested to know how you got here - Unless You're Russian of course, then you'd have probably searched for 'The Internet Saying', 'I sit here on the verge' or 'The Doors Lock' - Leave a comment, we're all friends here, I'd really like to know.) then you'll have heard that since May 2013 I've been trying to write Britain's next, greatest, youngish brother / sister / male / female protagonists, aspirational, Airship Pirate novel of the 21st. Century - It's going pretty well, 40,000 words (as of 10/7/13 - That's 10th July, not 7th October for the unusualy colonial types).  It's had some good WiP reviews, it's been mercilessly torn to pieces by proofers and it's been re-written more times than a Conservative Party list of Election Promises.  I'm sure you'll all buy a copy if I ever manage to have a meaningful relationship with an agent / editor / publisher.  I might even sign it for you if you send me gifts of cake, or compromising pictures of yourself that I can use to blackmail you in the future, should you ever become even slightly famous.

Then there's my published work, perhaps the most currently meaningful part of my portfolio as far as serious writing is concerned.  At around the same time I started this Blog, I also started submitting Flash Fiction stories to the august institution that is The James Josiah Flash Project (This was the first one I ever had published)- You should all be visiting this site regularly.  Short stories that you can quite easily read which performing many kinds of bodily function. JJ has published a couple of anthologies too (Of which I am perpetually honoured to have a couple of my stories feature in each), which you can download for your Kindle - Go to Amazon, do a search for 'James Josiah' and you'll find both of them. Then buy them, because they're only 77p each - In fact, buy all three of his books - Right now! - 'Stories I Shouldn't Tell' will make you cry, and if it doesn't I'll happily kick you in the shins, repeatedly. (Oh, and should you REALLY be interested, I'm credited as the Illustrator for volume 2 of the Flash Fiction Anthology under my real name... Bit of insider knowledge for you there. *wink*)

We're even going on a kind of Project Outing on Saturday, Well, some of us are attending the 2nd (Hopefully) Annual Edge Lit Festival in Derby.  It's an opportunity for authors and lovers of SF, Fantasy & Horror to get together and have a bit of a mingle.  There are writing workshops, guest speakers, book sellers and competitions, you should definitely go... I mean, we'll be there and everything.  OK, it's £25 a ticket, but you could learn something - And you get to hang out with creative people (And probably some geeks, and maybe some fully grown people who still live with their parents  - But who are we to judge?) - I intend to enjoy it immensely, and take pictures (if such shenanigans are allowed) and bore you with them next week

So be warned.

-oOo-

So, as the Top Ten of most popular Posts has taken a bit of a beating recently, I thought I'd provide an updated countdown.  Remember, these are voted for by you, you only have yourselves to blame.


10: An eye for an eye - Tales of Horror, inflicted by my Mother (When she was still alive) on a small child, using her own false eye.

9: Second contact closing fast, bearing 076 - A story about the time when, working as a glorified delivery driver, I caused a lorry driver to spontaneously combust and a motorway to be closed.

8: A discussion of pornography, do not read - A treatise on sexism, erotica and the popularity of soft-core pornography.

7: Then I posed, and he took my picture - About the time I may have had accidentally posed for a photospread published in a German Gay porn / Fetish magazine.

6: I need your clothes, your boots and your motorcycle - A guide to the etiquette of fancy-dress parties and how to teach children to field-strip a .50AE Desert Eagle.

5: Barnaby Wilde (Pt. 1) - The first installment of my three-wheeled motorcycle memories.

4: Boobs, Melons and Jumper-Lumps - It's not what you think... It's about My enduring love of shopping at ASDA / WalMart.

3: One more rusty nail - A serious one, (Apart from the farcical bit in the middle) about how many people confuse the word 'Muslim', 'Terrorist' and 'Psychopathic Madman'.

2: Thermodynamics, it's the law! - This little beauty had been at number 1, since it was written, back in January 2013 - This story involves my Father, a cryogenically frozen bird and the trapped, screaming spirit of a mentally compromised secretary.

1: Pogonophilia is for everyone, even the young - The new number one, only a few days after it's publication, it had received three times as many hits as the last number one had ever had in it's sad little life.  Pimped by semi-professional Bloggers, promoted internationally by the real live famous and hooptiously wonderful comedians Rufus Hound and Al Murray - My diatribe on all things bearded and how you are more likely to be considered manly by a modern female if you can grow a luxuriant facefull of fluffy fly-catcher.

Have a read with a chocolate digestive, see what you think, let me know, ask me questions, pop in and say hello on Saturday, I'll be the one in the green kilt (If it doesn't need ironing)

Completely my idea

Writing - Is my latest hobby (Not for the past few days I hear you shout... You've forgotten all about your faithful daily readers haven't you, you horrible, horrible, man).

Yeah, sorry about that, I got a bit caught up in the old paying work thing... Won't let it happen again... Actually, thinking about it, I probably will, all things considered - Lot of meetings coming up in the next few weeks.  The Blog might go all sporadic, I apologise in advance, and arrears too probably, but I'll do that later.

Anyway, writing, or at least popular writing, was once described (by me) as a collection of ideas you've stolen from various better writers, changed just enough so that they can't sue you, and glued together in a slightly different order.

I mean, the chances of any one person having a completely original idea - Something you can't say 'Isn't that a bit like...' or 'Doesn't that remind you of that bit in...' is like, a bajillion to one.  I don't mean it doesn't happen, but it certainly doesn't happen very often.  I freely admit, and have stated publicly, on the Blog, that I sometimes steal ideas from successful authors and pass them off as my own.

Yes, this makes me a bad person, but I'm also good looking and funny, so you're probably going to let me off eventually.

It's difficult not to really - The book I'm writing, the agglomeration and expansion of my previously Blogged Edward Teach stories (See, I even stole that name!) is just a rehash of old tropes.  I mean, just look:

• Airships - Jules Verne et al.
• Ion weapons - The Empire Strikes Back.
• Powered Armour - Robert Heinlein's Starship Toopers. (The book and cartoon, not the films)
• Sentient Robots going a bit nuts - The Terminator series.
• Fantasy Feudality: Anything featuring Elric by Michael Moorcock.
• Young girl mentored by unsuitable older man - And, actually, vast swathes of the story itself: Charles Portis' True Grit.

And, as late night Rock 'n' Roll CD complilation adverts might say, 'And the list goes on'.  Have I not actually got an original thought in my head?  Well, plainly not - Apart from the eccentric 'let's all rub aardvark fat all over ourselves, dress up like herring and go to the zoo and annoy the sealions.' kinda stuff, but you couldn't do a whole book like that though - If I did, people would only say I was stealing from the stylistic musings of the acknowledged king of anapestic tetrameter, Theo Geisel.

But it's not just me, you look closely enough at any film, or book or what-have-you and you'll see themes that you've experienced elsewhere.  Admittedly, the further you go back, the more difficult it is to find them, but they're there.  Even the religious texts of the ancient religions nicked ideas from existing, more ancient, texts - S'true, do some research, it'll save you going out in this awful sunshine thing that everyone keeps raving on about.

We can trace the plagiarism back even further, Remember our old friend Urk? One of his ancestors once probably visited a cave belonging to one of his friends and saw a story painted on the wall that said 'Went to woods, fought a Arctodus Simus, kicked it's ass, went home, made a nice necklace'.  When he goes home he grabs the finger-paints and immediately draws on the wall 'Went up into the mountains, fought an entire family of Arctodus Simus, kicked their multiple asses, went home, made two necklaces and an attractive pair of bearskin flip-flops'.

Totally copied the story, but made it better - As long as he never invites that friend to his house, then Bob's your heavily brow-ridged Mother's Brother.

So, I guess I'm fairly safe, it seems that the few artists that I've blatantly nicked ideas off are either dead or in their 70's and I can run faster than both of those types of people, just about.

The sins of the Father

Well, my 99th Blog post (for The Chimping Dandy at least, regular readers will know of my repeated forays into flash fiction, sponsored, fumigated, canned and sold by the very worth James Josiah) and it's yet another trip into the Steampunkery fuelled world of the LadyDorleith Ahralia, countess of Minidandia and her band of ramshackle corsairs aboard the airship Edward Teach, scourge of the skies, killer of spiders and lover of shoes.

If you'd like a little background, or just want to read the previous five episodes, you can read them here, here, here, here and here - That's hopefully the right order. They feature at least three terribly real people and a selection of ugly puns, thinly veiled references and shamelessly stolen ideas and tropes from popular fiction.

-oOo-

'Intruder Alert! Intruder Alert!' Yelled Frobisher, the lights in his face flashing from an angry red to a vile supporating yellow, 'Unexpected lifesign detected in engineering! Intruder Alert!'

The captain jumped from her bunk, still groggy from the celebration after the successful rescue of Dorys, and her own return from an implied watery grave, 'Shut that damn alarm off you bag of rusty cogs! Security team to engineering deck, immobilize the intruder, whatever it is I want it alive!'

She pulled on her jodhpurs and kneeboots, rescued the crumpled linen shirt from the floor, buttoned it up and suddenly noticed the touselled hair of Torville poking out from under the covers. The sound of his gentle snoring now obvious as the alarm had been silenced.

'Bugger!' She said, slowly lifting the covers and confirming that he was, in fact, naked, 'And double bugger!' She looked for slightly longer at the taut muscles on his back than was strictly necessary, then sighed and exited to the bridge.

The crew of the morning watch turned and saluted, 'Captain on the Bridge!' a crewman whose name she couldn't remember at the best of times yelled. The noise made her wince more than the alarm had, but she resisted the temptation to raise her finger to her lips and shush him.

'Why is there an intruder on my boat?' She asked the assembled throng as she sank into the command chair, 'Anyone?' A sea of blank faces was her only reply. She thumbed the Intercomm, 'Security team, have you found it - whatever it is?'

'Baju-merah here Ma'am, engineering's clear, no-one here who shouldn't be here. We've checked everywhere!'

Frobisher chose that moment to voice yet another alarm, 'Intruder Alert! Intruder Alert! Unexpected lifesign detected in the Forward avionics cabin!'

'What?' exclaimed the Captain, 'That's at the other end of the... How? Frobisher, check the logs, was the intruder detected anywhere between Engineering and Avionics?'

'No Ma'am, the signal disappeared from Engineering and simply re-appeared in Avionics.' The emotionless brass face still managed to radiate an air of abject confusion.

'Mr Baju-merah, report to Avionics, bring our unexpected guest to me now! Frobisher, perform a diagnostic on the internal scanners, if you've woke me up because you've gone defective I'll have When reprogram you, overarm, with his chainsword.'

The pattern of lights on Frobisher's face skittered as he performed the self diagnostic, 'All sensors performing within prescribed parameters, zero defects found, my assumption is that my log entries are correct.'

'Then how the hell is something jumping from one end of this boat to the other without passing though all the points inbetween?'

'I have no...'

'Rhetorical!' Shouted the Captain, 'Look it up.'

'I am fully aware of...'

'Ma'am, this is Baju-Merah. Avionics is clear, in fact, I don't think there's actually enough space in here for anything larger than a chicken.'

'Frobisher, is our intruder larger than a chicken?'

'Yes Ma'am, scans indicate that it is of standard dimensions for a humanoid male. And he is also no longer in Avionics.'

'Has he re-appeared somewhere else? The galley? Up on deck? In one of the Gasbags perhaps?'

'No Ma'am.'

'No, he hasn't re-appeared or No, he's not in the Gasbags?'

He has re-appeared, but it is in none of the areas that you suggested.'

'So, where is he pray tell?'

'In your quarters.'

She turned, along with the entire bridge crew, to face the door to her quarters. Activating the Intercomm she whispered, 'Mr Baju-Merah, to the Bridge, as quick as you like.'

It only took the security team minutes to get to the Bridge, but in that time the Captain had armed herself with a compression pistol and a longknife. and was stood by the door.

'I'll go in first, you take up covering positions, stand close so the door doesn't close.'

'Ma'am, may I suggest that I...'

'Mr Baju-Merah, I appreciate your concern, but the interloper hasn't shown any degree of hostility as yet. If anything, his antics seem to be designed to confuse us - He could have simply appeared behind any member of the crew and shot them in the back of the head if he'd wanted to.'

She took a deep breath and stepped through the door as it opened. The second her heel cleared the frame, it slammed shut at ten times its normal speed and locked. She spun and banged futilely on the door, then turned back to scan the room, her eyes slowly getting used to the gloom. The automatic lights had failed to turn on and even Frobisher's head was dark and silent.

'Torville!' She called, looking towards her bunk, 'Frobisher!' There was no reply from either of them. She felt her way forward, holding the pistol out in front of her. 'Where are you? Damn your Argh!' She rubbed her shin where it had rapped off one of the ornate castings on her iron bunk.

'Allow me,' Said a mellow voice from the far corner of the room, 'Lights!'

Instantly, the wall lights came back on. The Captain blinked, and turned towards the voice.

'You!' She raised the pistol and pointed it the wiry man sat in her easy chair, 'What are you doing on my ship?'

'At your service Captain,' Criven Preen raised himself from the chair, removed his hat and bowed deeply, 'I apologise for the dramatic means of my entrance, old habits die hard.'

'I'll say it again, only more forcefully... WHAT are YOU doing on MY ship!'

'There's no need for unpleasantness my Lady, nor should we have to worry about unfortunate accidents,' He waved his long fingers and the compression pistol slowly faded out of existence.

'Whu?' She looked down, the dull tingle in her fingers the only evidence that the gun had ever existed at all, 'How did you..?'

'A simple parlour trick, the weapon is back in its rightful place, in the arms locker, on the bridge... Your, ah, friend is also back in his rightful place, asleep, in his cabin. I took the liberty of removing the last twelve hours from his memory, saves any later discontent in the ranks.'

'What do you want?'

'Want? I want to deliver my message and go home, these things worry me,' He indicated the ship around him, 'If the Gods had meant us to fly, they would have given us gasbags.'

'Message? What message? Who is it from?'

'My Lady Dorleith Ahralia, Countess of Minidandia, In Nominate Ruler of the Open Lands, High Voort of the Shattered Spire and Keykeeper of the Pewter Army - I bring greetings from your Illustrious Father, Massimo Lohlephel, Baron of...'

'My Father? My Father fell at the Battle of Tromega, I saw his ship explode! He's dead!'

'Not... anymore...'

Les Invalides (Pt2)

OK, this would have been the final part of this little story, but I got a bit carried away.  Part 3 should be on Monday, unless the muse takes me over the weekend, otherwise sit back, open a bottle of vodka, and start your weekend early with the crew of the Edward Teach.

-oOo-

'Cheek'

The assembled bridge crew turned slowly to look at the Captain. She looked at When, the corners of her mouth pointing upwards in a barely noticable smile.

'Dr When, you have something on your cheek and I pray to the Gods that it's lipstick.'

'Aye Ma'am I'll see to it, erm..' The first officer patted the pockets of his waistcoat until he found one containing a silk handkerchief, which he produced, furtively, and wiped away the waxy mark.

'When?'

'Yes Ma'am?'

'When did you start buying handkerchiefs with gussets and waistbands?'

The hirsute privateer looked down at the scrap of silk in his hand, noticed the embroidered cog on the front and realised that he must have picked it up accidentally in his hurry to retrieve his clothes in the whore-pit. He quickly stuffed it back into his pocket.

'Frobisher, connect to The Great Cloud and look for reports of our little shopping trip to Chandra, specifically anything about prisoners.'

'Working...' The lights on the bridge dimmed slightly, 'No mention of the raid on normal channels, boosting power to access the Company network.'

'Be careful, this doesn't feel right...'

'Lines secured and encrypted, I am invisible to their security measures Ma'am.'

'If only you were inaudble too,' The Captain whispered, in a strangely good mood for someone who had recently lost a valued crewmember.

Frobisher's head turned towards her, paused petulantly and said, 'I have a report of a single captive, found unconcious at the scene with minor burns. She has been taken to the secure hospital aboard the Company ship Hellingly, currently en route to Nukuoro'

'Cut the connection!'

The lights on the construct's metal face resumed their normal cycling and the captain took a deep breath. Nukuoro was just outside the juristiction of the Democratic People's Republic of Australasia, it was a Company supply base during the first trouble with the Spiders. She'd visited there once, a long time before she was Captain of the Edward Teach, on a resupply raid. It was a barren ring of rock and sand barely four miles across, a few buildings, a fuel dump, and strangely, a small school.

'Helm, plot an intercept course for the Hellingly, take us high and quiet.'

'Course set, range just over a thousand miles, less than three hours at best speed,' The helmsman barked the numbers at they appeared on his display.

'No, take us slow, three-quarter speed at 20,000 ft. Make us look as much like a cargo barge as you can.'

When took a deep breath, opened the Intercomm and barked out his standard string of orders, 'All hands, make ready to leave port. Secure all lines and hawsers, we will be breaking dock in 30 seconds, anyone still on board who's not on my roster'll be thrown over the side the second I find 'em, let me remind you that water's as solid as concrete from the height we'll be cruising at. All Doxies, Merchants and Pox-Doctors, off the ship now! Repeat - We are breaking dock in 25 seconds.'

The deck below them shifted as the docking cables were reeled in and the sudden release of pressure on the gasbags lifted her higher into the air. The station slowly receded into a small dot below them, as they reached 20,000 ft, the fusion engines started and the ship leaped forward like a scolded porpoise. Everyone waited for the traditional thundering crash from the Galley, but this time it seemed that the cook had finally learned his lesson.

'Blades out, make us look fat and non-threatening.' Called the Captain.

All over the hull, molecule-thin carbon-fibre sheets flowed out from between the hull plates, they billowed briefly, then caught the wind and took on the impression of solidity, what had once looked like a traditional buccaneer's ship now looked like a bloated, unarmed cargo barge, painted in an independant haulier's colours.

They sailed westwards for nearly four hours without incident until suddenly the Helmsman called that they were approaching the position where the Hellingly should be.

'All stop!' Called When, 'Scan for the big shiny bitch.'

'Nothing on scanners sir, nothing for 200 miles.'

'Sky's empty Captain, she must have changed course, we've lost her.'

The Captain stood, reached under her chair for her respirator, looked at When and said, 'Get your mask, we're going on deck.'

The air rushing from the pressurised door helped the reluctant Doctor out onto the deck and the cold atmosphere caused condensation to form on the outside of his brass respirator. He stayed well away from the guardrail as heights were his least favourite thing, next to sobriety, celibacy and hunger.

'Out of the way you bloody Jellyfish', called the Captain, her voice sounding muffled through her mask, 'Pass me the Glass!'

When passed her the magnifier, and she put it to her eye, the view was slightly blurred through the fabric of the blades, but she could see well enough to spot the Hellingly, two thousand feet below them and floating in the sunshine as bold as a halibut.

'Sky's empty?' Asked the Captain, 'Weren't those your exact words?'

'Aye... Well... Maybe the scanners need an overhaul?'

'Maybe you're lucky and they're cloaked or maybe we're being jammed.'

'Why would a hospital ship be cloaked?'

The Captain shrugged, 'I have no idea, but I mean to find out, let's get below before we have to insulate ourselves with layers of your stolen underwear.'

The Doctor's face reddened and he quickly made his way back below deck. The Captain paused to take a long look at the large silver airship below them.

'Hold on, we're coming for you...'

Back on the bridge, the Captain settled back into her chair, cracked her knuckles and opened a communications channel.

'Company Airship, this is the Cargo Ship... ah...' The Captain looked desperately at When,

'Tydirium?' Suggested When with a shrug,

'Tydirium. We have a minor medical emergency and request succour.'

There was no reply.

'Company Airship, I repeat, this is the...'

'Tydirium, this is the Company Hospital Ship Hellingly, we received your transmission but are unable to assist.'

'Hellingly, we have a crewman effected with what we believe to be an unknown toxin, we require immediate assistance as per Company regulations, Book thirty-six, subsection eighty-seven..'

'I know the regulations Captain! Hold for further instructions...'

The Captain muted the channel and turned to her first officer.

'When, you need to start acting sick, well, sicker...'

Piracy on the High Winds

'Frobisher!'

'Ma'am?'

'Which hat? The flying helmet?' She tugged on a shiny leather and brass B6 of uncertain vintage, squinted into the mirror , and removed it, 'or.. The riding hat?' she picked up a miniature top hat, decorated with lace and black roses from the table, and perched it on her head at a jaunty angle.

'I'm... Sorry... I...'

She sighed, sometimes being the corsair captain of your own fighting airship didn't leave time for the finer things in life.

'Access weather control and see what they have planned for all points between our current position and the Straits of Madripoor.'

'Working...' The lights on Frobisher's brass face dimmed slightly as he rerouted power to establish a secure, untraceable, link with The Great Cloud, 'Winds light to moderate from the South West, point seven percent chance of tropical rain, dependant on local humidity, light cloud cover beginning at nine thousand feet, temperature ranging fr....'

'Enough! Riding hat it is! Have the detailed report for the area around Chandra Island fed to my screen on the bridge, after that, put in a request to maintenance and get your contacts cleaned, you're starting to clack.'

'Ma'am.' The construct replied.

The captain fixed the hat to her elegantly coiffed hair with a selection of ornate pins, and strode from her quarters directly onto the bridge. The crew stiffened as she entered, suddenly taking a much deeper professional interest in their respective screens and readouts.

'Dr. When?' she called.

'Aye Ma'am?' He replied, the creaking of her first officer's aged leather overcoat not quite managing to mask the twang of his strange, half Cornish, half Centauri accent.

'Set a course for Chandra Island, Eastern Madripoor, best speed but keep us below detection altitude,' She sank into the command chair and started to digest the information displayed on her screen, 'Notify me at fifty miles.'

'Aye... Alright you dogs, you heard the captain, rig the gasbag for best stealth speed, ramp up the fusion engines, seal all external hatches and report when ready!'

The deck shook as the engineers stoked the huge nuclear engines into life, and the captain could feel the vibration in her bones. She closed her eyes and listened to the creak of the connecting chains tightening around the bags of gas above her. One by one the tell-tales on her panel turned from red to green. As the last one lit, she looked towards Dr. When.

'Stations reporting ready Ma'am, we move on your word.'

'Take us out nice and easy Dr. no showboating this time, Another punctured bag and I'll take it out of your share.'

'All jets ahead one quarter, when we see clear sky take her up to two thousand feet and engage fusion drive.' When turned to the captain, grinned and bowed, 'All hands - prepare for acceleration in ten! Hold on to anything you don't want to be looking for in the stern later!'

The shock of the nuclear reaction always caught her by suprise, its limitless acceleration took them from twenty-five to four hundred miles per hour in an instant. There was a cacophonous noise that rang through the ship, followed by gurgling screams.

'100 credits says cook forgot to secure his pans again?' When commented, hanging on to the guardrail behind the helm.

'200 says it was the kniferack,' The Captain replied, thumbing the switch for the shipboard intercomm, 'Medical team to The Galley on the double, patch up the cook and check the Galley for damage - He does a day in irons for every smashed pot.'

The ship settled into its cruising configuration as the gasbags finally caught up with the main hull, she was a beautiful ship, her hull built to resemble an early 18th Century Barque, the sails replaced by the voluminous gas-bag and the bowsprit replaced by a bronze and copper Ion Cannon, nicknamed 'Daisy' by the crew. She was, rather confusingly, named the Edward Teach, for reasons best known to her Captain.

'Captain!' Barked the Sensor Chief, 'We have a contact, bearing 076 degrees, speed 300, distance 20 miles, closing fast.'

'Identify!'

'Looks to be mechanised, showing no lifesigns, minimal biological mass, but plenty of movement. Wait! We're being scanned!'

'Dr When, secure us from best speed, bring Daisy to bear and fire as she rolls.'

'Aye Ma'am!' The Doctor pushed the Helmsman from his seat and took the controls himself, he locked off the engines and threw the ship into a tight turn. The hull slewed viciously under the gas-bag as the chains tried to compensate for the rapid change of vector. The Captain peered through the viewscreen as their foe came into view.

'Spiders!' She called, 'Blow them out of my Sky When!'

The Captain had tangled with the Spiders before, they were a completely mechanical life-form, developed by the military for jungle and urban warfare. Of course, as is the way of such things, they had become too good at their job, finally turning against their controllers and setting off on their own journey, attacking cargo ships and corporate supply ballons, stripping them of their power sources and taking scalps as trophies.

Daisy barked, a glittering beam of blue energy shot from the prow of the ship and hit the Spiders' vehicle amidships, deactivated spiders fell to the ground like metal snow, but the main body was still aloft.

'Hit them again!'

'Recharging!'

'They're closing!'

'Nearly there!'

'Doctor, now would be a good time!'

'Firing!'

The Spiders' were almost within boarding range as the next blast hit them. The remaining Spiders bounced of the side of the hull and fell the two thousand feet to the ground. There was a moment of furious action as everyone checked that there was no damage to the ship.

'Resume course and speed,' Ordered the Captain, finally breathing out.

The rest of the voyage went without incident, and the crew was just settling back into their normal routine when the fifty mile alarm sounded.

'All stop!' Called When.

'Take us up to fifteen thousand feet and continue on jets only.'

The sudden silence as the fusion drive was taken offline was almost deafening, the ship slowly began to rise as air from the still hot exhausts was fed into the bags to supplement the already buoyant Tritium gas. They broke through the cloud layer and started towards the island. The Captain beckoned When towards her.

'Once we are directly over the island we will be storming the base using two drop-pods, pick a team of seven and take one, I'll do the same with the other.'

'Base? What're we after?'

'Whatever we can get our hands on, as usual.'

When grinned, grabbed his chainsword and hit the intercomm,

'Khan, Russ, Guilliman, Jonson, Curze, Corax and Vulkan - Report to the podroom, we drop in 60.'

As her pod fell, the Captain looked at her assembled team, she saw in the eyes of her crewmen the glint of impending action, the lust for new booty...

'Landfall in five... Four... Three...'

The landing rockets fired, almost doubling everyone's apparent weight and the Captain instantly regretted putting on her corset and kneeboots before boarding the pod. The doors fell open as soon as they touched down and the crew jumped out of both pods, screaming like banshees. A wave of constructguards poured from the main door of the building and ran into When's whining chainsword, cogs, gears and oil sprayed in all directions, covering the ground like glistening brass snow. Their cries of 'Invaders must die!' silenced by the churning teeth.

'We bounce in ten minutes, take what you can!' Yelled the Captain, 'Split up, we'll cover more ground!'

As the flow of guards died down, her crew entered the base and scattered in all directions. She made her way through strangely quiet corridors towards the base commander's office. The trip took minutes longer than she expected and when she arrived at the door, she was faced with an ornate lock of an unknown type.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the small glowing sphere that had cost her a month's share from the Dentrassi trader at Long-Pig station. He'd said that it was guaranteed to undo any lock that could be undone, although he did look like the sort from whom it might be difficult to extract a refund.

The Captain did not care, after a few seconds of melodius humming, the door clicked open. As she entered the office, she noticed how tidy it was - She realised she was in the right place and searched the walls for an entrance into the commander's private quarters.

'Where are you? Where are you?'

'Where is who?' Commented a voice from the doorway.

The Captain froze, turning away from the slowly opening cupboard that she had found. She was confronted by perhaps the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, long, red hair, delicately chiseled features, a classically proportioned body and a flowing, black, spidersilk dress. She stood, brushed herself down, cleared her throat and asked,

'And you are?'

'I am Belinda Von Messier, I command this base, who are you and why are you in my office?'

'Well, I am Dorleith Ahralia, countess of Minidandia, Corsair, Pirate and occasional rabble-rouser, I have come to relieve you of your wardrobe.'

'My?...'

Her sentence was cut short by the timely arrival of the Doctor, his repeating siege bolt gun and two explosive shells to the head.

'We need to leave now Captain!'

'But...'

'No, now, one of the men thinks that he might have accidentally triggered some sort of self destruct mechanism, it said 120 when I left, but it was counting down. Grab what you came for, we have to leave.'

The Captain looked across to the now, fully open, open cupboard and saw:

'Shoes!'

'We're leaving!'

'But... Shoes!'

When picked her up by the waist, threw her over his shoulder and ran. The sound of huge explosions getting closer and closer. By the time they reached the exit, the wall of flame was right behind them and he could feel his ponytail starting to shrivel. He thew himself into the pod and hit the launch button. He was deafened by the roar, but not before he heard the Captain say.

'Shoes... Lovely Shoes... All gone!'


OK, much like the story about my son knocking the head off the snowman - My daughter went into Town yesterday and saw some nice boots, which she couldn't afford, only I, like, sexed it up a bit.