Hello 2019! You look great!

As most of you know (Because there was a time when I'd talk about little else) I've written a few books...

Real books you can hold in your hands and get paper cuts on your nipples from should that be your particular kink, and on the whole they've been pretty well received. People tell me that they've read them and enjoyed them... Some people say that other people have borrowed them and they've also enjoyed them... And some people, who really over-estimate their quality have bought them as gifts for third parties who also say that they enjoyed them (You see, there's a theme, with which you should totally get on board).

There are four 'real' books for you to consider currently, the first two: 'Mumblings of an Irate Pangolin' & 'The Pangolin Yodels' are collections of my opinionated set pieces that originally appeared in my Blog - I'm told that they're funny (Well, that the funny bits are) and are worth a look if you're bored.

Mumblings of an Irate Pangolin

The Pangolin Yodels

There's also 'Child of Air' which is the first of a trilogy of >100,000 word novels describing a version of Britain some quarter-millenia in the future, where aliens, pirates, robots and airships feature quite heavily. Should those things give you a tingly feeling in your nethers, you should definitely buy a copy.

Child of Air



And then there's 'Forever Girl' a collection of short horror and speculative fiction stories that I knocked up over a few lunchtimes - I don't want to sell it short, it's 270-odd pages with about 30 stories after all, and that's hardly a folded pamphlet - And it's probably my personal favourite, I read random pages from it daily on the toilet you know. It features a few more trains than I'd normally be comfortable with, but the heart wants to write about what the heart wants to write about.

Forever Girl (And other stories)

But, due to a bit of bad luck and some lifestyle changes, I've pretty much stopped writing and a lot of people are somewhat miffed (See my previous posts for details) And when I say 'Miffed' some of them have become quite vocal

There have been threats on my life, offers to remove, or at least render inoperable, my primary male sexual feature (I was going to describe it as an 'outstanding feature', but I've recently had it surgically reduced by a couple of inches, and it's been cold too) To try and force my hand as far as returning to writing is concerned.

Well, I can officially announce (And a few of you know already) That I am writing again... Because I've run out of things that I can, in all good conscience, procrastinate about.

'Child of Space' the follow-up to 'Child of Air' is almost 25,000 words into a first draft and my new novel, which has the possibility of becoming a darkly humorous supernatural series (Should I be able to inject sufficient dark humour), depending on how it's received by you buggers - is currently sitting at a very light 5,000 words... I'm only aiming at around 80,000 words here, so you could probably roll it up and stick it in your pocket for reading at the yacht club and so forth.

'Jaffward Moncrieffe and the Primary Problem' will tell the ongoing story of a late 19th Century Vampire Freemason Tattooist who fights a daily battle against both vampire hunters and his own elective veganism to live a 'normal' life... Should be a complete doddle - It almost writes itself!

Don't ask when they're going to be published, because I'm properly out of practice.

But they're coming - And there might even be owls... Owls are sorely under-represented in modern supernatural literature... As long as we forget about a popular child wizard who is still doing the rounds.

And who wouldn't feel better if we did that?

Is THIS the Playground of the Broken Heart?

Hello friends,

How've you been?

Missed me? I've missed you all... In the past eight months since I last blogged - You remember, it was about my daughter running away to live with her boyfriend like a thief in the night* Did you know that a few of the 'Agencies' that publish stuff that makes you think around the Internet picked that up and it was quite popular for a few minutes. They did the same with my piece about trigger warnings too, if your remember, which was lovely - I went all warm and fuzzy for a swift matter of moments.

So now, much as Randy Quaid's character, Russell Casse, said as he nosedived upwards... Wait, can you nosedive upwards? is it a noseclimb? Is noseclimb actually a word? From now-on "Noseclimb" shalt be the word that one Chimping Dandyist can use to identify themselves to a similarly encumbered person - Don't say I never give you buggers anything.

Anyway, Dennis Quaid, noseclimbing into the alien ship in Independence Day with a jaunty, "Hello Boys, I'm back!" - Which is what I'd like to say to you, because I sort of am. Kinda. It won't be every day by any means. More like once a month hopefully - At the moment that's the plan, maybe on a Friday or something, as I don't work Friday afternoons anymore.

Anyway, back to what I was originally going to talk about.  Obviously a lot of water has passed under my own personal bridge since last year, some ploots** of it more oily and foul smelling than others. But the three main ones that spring instantly to mind are:

1: I have finally self-published the book that I swore I would never self-publish.

Yeah, I know, can you smell the disappointment in my voice?  I had always said (And still do whisper to myself when I am locked alone in my damp writing tower and the rain is lashing against the leaded windows, the interior lit only by the dour flashes of lightning) that I would get the Windspider Chronicles published by a bricks and mortar publisher, with launch events and regional rights and a Korean language version. Etc. 

So, true to my word, on the 4th April, I pressed the button that would self-publish 'Volume 1 - Child of Air' into the feverish hands of a waiting public. You can get it on Amazon - That link is to Amazon UK, but it's available on most of the Amazon sites that serve various countries / continents. Trigger Warning: It's only in English. 

One of the few things that I did to try and convince myself that it was a real book, in much the same way that Pinocchio needed reassurance that he was a real boy, was to commission a professional cover artist to design the cover. This is what it looks like now.

By the unfairley talented David R. Shires at TheImageDesigns.Com

Looks bloody ace doesn't it? You should nip off and buy it, if you're poor, or you don't have space in your house for real books you can even buy it for The Kindle - or move house, which would be better in the long run.

2: I have become a Freemason.

Yes, the chaps who wear blindfolds and aprons and roll their trouser legs up at any available opportunity. We all ride goats and there's a mystical secret handshake, we can count on woodland creatures for help if we ever stray from the clearly signed path and go for an unscheduled trek into the undergrowth and I have a limited control over the prevailing weather conditions***

To be honest for me, being a Freemason is all about the camaraderie, the fraternity and the 'giving something back' through charity - No, really, I realise that doesn't sound like me in the slightest, but you should know that people can really change when they get old and worry about being closer to death - We try to pack some good Karma in whilst we can. Also we all get together for a slap-up feed and a few jars about once a month, which has got to be worth the price of entry alone.

As an aside, I'm happy to answer any questions that I can about general Freemasonry that you care to leave in the comments - Sometimes the answer will be, "Sorry, can't tell you that." But I promise I'll do my best to answer what I can.

3: I've had a stroke.

See, told you I was getting old. Well I say it was a stroke - It was actually a TIA, or Transient Ischaemic Attack. It lasted about fifteen minutes and I felt fine afterwards. I even drove myself to casualty (Safety tip, don't do that ever - There's a slim chance of something like an 'aftershock' happening a short time after your attack, which is something that you don't want happening whilst you're driving, you'd be putting innocent people in danger - Call an ambulance - In fact I'll go further and say that your consultant will tell you that can't drive for about a month afterwards. They're usually pretty clever, you should listen to them about things like this.)

So what happened? I was sitting at my desk at work when over the course of ten seconds, I went blind and I lost the feeling in all the diodes down my left hand side, couldn't move my arm or leg on that side of my body. I sat there in wonderment as I tried to feel my gums, which had also gone numb, and trying to talk - Which is a bit of a chore with only half a working mouth - fifteen minutes later, I was as right as rain again - All that it's really left me with is a solid gold excuse to get out of anything stressful at work, just by saying, "But I've had a stroke!" and wincing as if I have a headache and a need to take Clopidogrel tablets for the rest of my natural life.

But hey, it could have been a lot worse. The only difference between a TIA and a 'real' stroke is that the TIA's effect is transient i.e. there's no lasting damage - But I like to think that even if there had have been, I would have been able to find something funny for you guys to share about my situation.

Anyway, it's time for me to get back to the real world for a while, feel free to leave any questions, comments or naked photographs of yourself in the comments section below, and I'll get around to them as soon as I can.

Byesies!




*No, as it happens she hasn't come home as yet - She's set some particular way-points for that to even be considered, which have yet to come to pass.

**Yes, I have invented another word usage, 'Ploot' is a subset of a certain volume of water in a river, to be used when you really can'y be bothered to look and see if there is already a word for this.

***Some or all of these statements are made up - But then I would say that wouldn't I?

That's my airship, Patricia!

As some of you know, instead of buying cards and presents for my friends and family members birthdays, I often write them a story. If they've had characters based on them in one of my books, then they get an in-character story.

It's my Daughter's birthday today...

-oOo-

“And?” said Dorleith, raising her eyebrows.

“What do you mean ‘and’? You said you’d take me to the shooting range.” Mal’Ak-hai looked down dejectedly into his soup.

“I think you’ll find that Mother said I’d take you to the shooting range, I just nodded so she’d stop going on about it. You do know it’s my birthday don’t you Squirt?”

“Of course, we’re getting you a…” he dropped his spoon and put his suddenly empty hand over his mouth. “Nearly…” he mumbled.

She laughed, her brother was pretty easy to trick, and she’d proudly done it thousands of times before, despite the fact that he was only twelve years old. She sometimes even felt that perhaps she should lay off him a little – But that feeling never lasted long. “OK, I tell you what – I’m going to grab a couple of birthday presents from me to myself, then we’ll go to the shooting range and I’ll show you how to shoot properly, so you’re not shown up when you have to do it in front of the Guard.” Her brother rolled his eyes and ate the last few spoonfuls of his thin, grey soup. 

He followed her around the backstreets of Enys Skaw station, she seemed to duck into every shop that sold clothes with buckles, or brasswork or brown leather. Then they walked across the wide expanse of the main market place, all around them were offworld traders, selling everything you could possibly think of. In fact, some of the more esoteric Kalibri and Torkan shop owners were selling things that neither of them could identify at all. 

Mal’Ak-hai wandered over to the closest Torkan. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a large glass bottle, full of a pearlescent amber liquid.

The Torkan picked up the bottle with the cluster of tentacles that made up its right hand. And turned it around slowly to face its hood. There was a sound like a sigh, before its facial tentacles started to vibrate and its translator box took over. The words were almost metallic sounding, with a slight background buzz. “It is an unguent that is used to supplement the stamina of the engorged trunquor during the long mating season.”

“What’s a trunquor?” Mal asked.

The Torkan raised itself up and seemed to look down at the boy from under its darkened hood, “You do not have one.” It put the bottle back down carefully. “Now go away, you are scaring off my real customers.”

Dorleith laughed and grabbed Mal by the ear, “C’mon Squirt, it’s shooty-mcbang-bang time.” She made her thumb and forefinger into a gun and pointed them at Mal’s face. “Pew-pew!” then she blew the imaginary smoke from her finger end and holstered her hand at her hip. “Have you brought your gun?”

He looked up at her, “I think I left it in the skimmer.” He took the Intercomm out of his jacket, “I’ll ask Mother’s pilot to…”

Dorleith slapped the box out of his hand, “You’ll do nothing of the sort.  It’s time you learned that actions have consequences.  When you’re in command of your own troupe of dancing tin soldiers, you can order them around however you please.  But until then, you can live with it.  We can hire guns there I would have thought.”

It took them fifteen minutes to get from the edge of the market to the street where the shooting range was. As they turned the corner, Dorleith could see that there was a large grey Pradilan standing outside. It seemed to get a lot bigger as they got closer to it. By the time they were stood next to it, it was over seven feet tall and smelled like the wrong end of an ox.

The huge grey reptile turned its head to look down at them, “What doin’?” it asked.

Dorleith turned to Mal, “I’ll handle this,” she whispered, and turned back to face the uncontrollably dripping jaws that looked like they could easily swallow you whole, “We’ve come to use your facility.” She pointed behind it at the door to the range. The scaled behemoth turned to look where she was pointing and appeared shocked, as if seeing the range for the first time.

“Got guns?”

“Yes we… Well I have, he’s forgotten his. We’d like to hire…”

“Can’t shoot gun you don’t got.”

“As I said, I was hoping that we could…”

“That stupid, Moose not stupid.”

“No Mr… Moose was it? I’m absolutely sure you’re not, but…”

A human voice shouted from the open door of the firing range in heavily accented Basic, “For Phobus’ sake Moose, let the nice people in before they get bored and fly home.”

The Pradilan moved out of their way and they entered the range. The last they heard from the reptilian doorman was a muttered, “Nice people don’t fly, nice people don’t got wings, Moose not stupid.”

The reception area was small, but clean. Behind an armourplas screen sat a wiry gentleman wearing a broad-brimmed hat, “Good afternoon, I’m sorry about Moose, it’s an idiot - but it keeps the riff-raff out. Can I help you at all?”

Dorleith took a step forward. “Yes, thanks, we’d like some range time; and my brother has forgotten his gun.”

The owner nodded, “Not a problem, we’re very quiet, so I can offer you a selection. If you’d like to go through?"

A sliding door opened in the opposite wall and buzzing lights came on to illuminate the shooting range itself as they stepped through. All but one of the range benches in front of them were empty. One contained a selection of handguns, and it was this one that they walked over to.

“How did he get them here so fast?”

Dorleith pointed upwards without looking. Mounted to the ceiling above each bay was a multi-armed construct that could deliver guns and ammunition from the storage area above. “I think it was magic.” She said, shaking her head. “Want to start with a needler?” She picked up a small pistol and handed it to Mal.

He took the weapon off her and hefted it, before taking aim at the cutout of a Spider at the other end of the range.

“Take it gently, don’t forget to breathe. That little gun shouldn’t kick back too much, but keep an eye on it tracking upwards.”

Mal turned to look at her, and fired down the range. Emptying the thirty round magazine of the weapon without ever losing eye contact with her. 

“Well, that was a waste of ammunition.” Dorleith sneered as the target sped towards them. “Three holes, three hits. Better than I thought you’d do.”

“Negative.” The construct above them uncurled and its sensor pod examined the target. “Three holes, thirty hits. 100% accuracy. Hits confirmed. Kill confirmed. Total destruction confirmed.”

“How did you…? It doesn’t matter, want to try a compression pistol next?”

“If you think I need to, Captain Sembhee says I’m a natural.” Mal put down the needler and was about to pick up the heavier pistol when his Intercomm started to buzz insistently. “Hello?”

The tinny voice from the speaker was their Mother’s, “I’m all done, so stop whatever you’re doing and meet me at the skimmer in five minutes.” She cut the connection without giving them any time to argue.

Luckily, the shooting range was close to the landing pads, so they made it back with seconds to spare. The Baroness was sat in front, next to the pilot and they took the comfortable rear seats. The twin engines spun up, and within seconds they were in the air on the way back to the Roost.

The Baroness looked at Dorleith over her shoulder, “Your birthday present is in the locker between you, I hope you like it, you can add it to your collection perhaps.”

She opened the locker that was built into the back of the centre seat and took out a large box that was wrapped with a ribbon.

“Open it!” urged Mal'Ak-hai. Almost bouncing in his seat with excitement, “It was very expensive.”

Dorleith frowned at him, but untied the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was a miniature airship, almost nine inches long, crafted from copper and bronze. She touched the graphene airbag and it gave slightly with her touch.

“The bags have got real Heptium in, when you turn it on it floats about two inches in the air.” Mal explained. “It’s the Bolivar.”

She looked down at the delicate model, “I know it’s the Bolivar, I’m not stupid.” The Bolivar was her father’s ship, lost with all hands two years before during the Spider attack at Tromega.

“I thought it might help.” Said her Mother, quietly.

Dorleith ran her finger down the model of the Bolivar’s length, and started to cry.

-oOo-

Of yes, for those of you having trouble visualising exactly what a Torkan looks like... Here's a production sketch that might help you out.

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.

Almost Famous? No, not really.

OK, if you know me at all, you will be thoroughly bored with me going on and on and on about the reading 'gig' I had on Saturday.

But, in case you were sat in a bibliophobic void for the past couple of weeks... On Saturday I ventured into the Wild West (Midlands) to visit Southcart Books in Walsall during their festivities for Independent Booksellers Week.

It wasn't just me, obviously... I mean there were some real writers there too.  Ones with talent and imagination and money and everything. All very imposing.

I won't bore you with the details of the trip down, it was reasonably uneventful.  Obviously the SatNav let me down a couple of times by suggesting some completely fictional lane choices at junctions that caused the DandyMobile to cover about twice the mileage that she had to.  Oh, and there was a bus that tested the very limits of my military defensive driving training on the Lichfield Road. (It was a good job that the Mehmsahib had convinced me to leave the Desert Eagle at home I can tell you)  Other than that, it was a pretty sweet trip.

We arrived about two hours into the event, which turned out to be a bit of a mistake as far as the official publicity pictures were concerned, and everything was in full swing.

Here's the group photo, can you spot who isn't there? (Photo by Craig Beas)

The shop was brimming with interesting people and I treated myself to a quick game of "Try to figure out which of these people are other authors and which are just clinically odd." - I lost, which is strange when you realised that I was just playing with myself... I mean... No, nevermind, you get the gist.

I introduced myself to Scott, the owner, and The MicroDandy introduced himself to Amy, Scott's partner and co-owner, by asking for a cake - This is one of his three standard opening gambits when meeting a new person, and the only one that involves food.

We mingled for a while, scanning the laden shelves of the Fantasy & Sci-Fi sections (Which in fairness, mainly consisted of me whispering "Goddit, Goddit, Goddit" under my breath and Mrs Dandy sighing.)

I managed to catch the end of Lucy Onions reading from her new book, Good for Nothing (Which obviously, you should all go out and buy) - We like Lucy Onions, as well as being a great author, she's a fine photographer AND the lead female vocalist of Northern Soul/Motown Party Band Soul'd Out - She also used the word 'Surreal' to describe my writing, which made me do a big grin.  She also wears great shoes.

I missed the next author's set, (This was a huge ommission on my part, see below) as my good friend and fellow Penguin's Header, Neil Sehmbhy arrived and we did some manly fist-bumps and talked about marketing strategy and cupcakes.

Then it was my turn to address the teeming throng...

Here is me, before my head went purple (Photo by Lucy Onions)

As I sat there, in front of a dozen or so people and spied the nice lady whose set I had just missed. "Feels strange sat up here, in front of all of these people doesn't it?" I said.  She looked at me oddly, which was the correct reaction as she didn't know who I was in the slightest and replied that you got used to it after a while, especially when you did the amount of shows and Cons that she did. (That might have come across sounding as if she was being a bit curt, she really wasn't) I later found out that she was Theresa Derwin, author of Horror, Sci-Fi and Urban Fantasy (You should buy all of her books too, obviously)

I'd planned to read a post from each 'Volume' of the collected Chimping Dandy, which I did.  And then I was going to finish with the famous 'Library Scene' from Windspider... But I didn't have time, you know why?  Because real people were asking me real questions about both my writing and The Penguin's Head.  I'm reliably informed that not all of my answers sounded like I was pulling them out of my rear end.  Some did obviously, but there were applause and laughs so I consider that it was all a bit of a success.

The MicroDandy, Bless his little black heart, filmed both of my readings on his KiddieZoom camera.  I present them for you below, should you be interested.

Above is me reading 'Thermodynaimcs, it's the law', the story about the relationship between my Dear Old Dad (TM) and a frozen pigeon.

And the other one is me reading 'The Price of Everything, but the Value of Nothing' which explains how money isn't actually worth anything and may as well not exist.

You'll notice that my head went purple during the performance, this is nothing to worry about and is completely natural.

During this time, the remaining third of The Penguin's Head arrived in the form of the literary Demigod (or do I mean Demagogue?) James Josiah and the rest of the afternoon dissolved into a bit of a bro-fest.

I did however, manage to hear some of Ian Billings' set, which managed to keep the MicroDandy enthralled. No real surprise as the gentleman in question was once a scriptwriter for Chucklevision. (amongst a huge list of other amazing things - Buy his books too, if you have kids that is, or if you're infantile... I'm not one to judge)

All in all, a day well spent.

If you find yourself in Walsall with a spare five minutes, you could do a lot worse that moseying down to Southcart books and taking a look around - Tell them that I sent you and you'll get a free "What are you talking about? Who's the bloody Chimping Dandy?" from the owners.

Southcart Books
20-21 Lower Hall Lane (You know, the white-painted one that used to be the hairdressers?)
Walsall
WS1 1RL

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.'