Douglas E. Berry

Up above an arctic storm was lashing the towers of Dwumfords Hive. Sleet and freezing rain was attacking the soaring edifices and bridges of the upper city; coating the homes of the rich and powerful in ice that would only melt when the distant summer came. Down where I was guiding my bicycle through yet another souk, the storm manifested as an endless series of drips and rivulets of dirty water sluicing down from above. I had been told that once the storm passed, I should make my way to an upper level to view the dawn lighting up the ice-encrusted spires. Beautiful and inspiring, I was told.

Sod that. With any luck, I'd be off this world and long gone before the rain stopped.

So there I was, my dinner of fish stew in the basket and a dying glo-globe lighting my way as I maneuvered around the edges of the end-of-shift mob in the souk. All around me people were haggling over prices, shoving, arguing, and then coming to an agreement and shaking hands like old friends. Dozens of bikes like mine competed with pedicabs and even a few draft carts for space to move. It was a typical evening in the not-quite Underhive. I was surrounded by thousands of people.

And I was being watched.

I've lasted this long by developing a sense for this. Someone was following me. Looking around, making sure it looked to any observer that I was just trying to find a faster lane of travel, I spotted three likely candidates. Not moving, not haggling, conspicuously inconspicuous. Three was too many. I picked an exit from the souk and pedaled hard, sending up a spray of oily water in my wake. My three watchers reacted instantly, going from "trail" to "pursue" so seamlessly it was almost a thing of beauty. If only I wasn't the one being pursued.

Three random turns, and I dumped the bike and scampered into a narrow alleyway. I stopped several feet in and ate my stew. Somehow, I figured that eating now was going to be a good thing. As a slurped down the overly spicy meal, I tried to think who these guys could be. Arbites? Not likely, since I doubt the Merchant House families I had just scammed would want news of their gullibility to enter the official records. House assassins? Possibly, but why hesitate? They could have gunned me down in the souk easily, and to hell with the innocent bystanders. The local authorities would just pass it off as gang violence. It was possible they wanted me alive, to retrieve what I had liberated, but that made the whole operation clumsy. They'd know that my only options for leaving were the port or the maglev, easier to stake them out if they wanted me at their leisure.

The bike was stolen within minutes, of course. Fitting, since I had stolen it myself. At some point, I imagine every bicycle in Dwumfords must have been purchased legitimately. But in the centuries since then, they've passed from owner to owner by the simple act of taking one when the previous rider was inattentive...

...I froze as one of the three I had spotted moved down the narrow street. I could see now that it was a woman, and she moved like a trained fighter. I tried very hard not to look at her, but to instead focus on the wall and let her remain in my peripheral vision. Like I said, people know when they're being watched. My hunter stopped in the middle of the broken pavement, stared directly at me for several seconds (or so it felt) then touched a jeweled stud on the collar of her long rain coat.

"Wind meets Rocks. Fond Hearts. Reunion."

Without moving a muscle, I relaxed. So that's who was chasing me. The bastard!

Saviour Of The Imperium by Sandy Mitchell

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Hail Commissar Cain, Saviour of the Imperium!

In this, the third omnibus collection of Sandy Mitchell's stories about the Flashman and Blackadder-inspired Ciaphas Cain, we are again treated to excerpts from his personal archive covering his extensive service as a Commissar, a political officer for the legions of the Imperial Guard. Cain is a legend, forever being in the heart of the fight, saving entire worlds from mankind's greatest enemies.

At least that's what most people see. In these first-person viewpoint tales, Cain sees himself as a self-serving coward and hypocrite. His first action on any world is to try for a post as far from danger as possible and to make sure there's a shuttle berth with his name on it for a hasty retreat.

Which is what makes the character so compelling. While Cain is always writing about his actions in a self-mocking tone with copious comments about his cowardice and lack of devotion to anyone but himself, the facts show that he is competent, brave when need be, and fastidious about his duties. He is one of the more interesting characters in the entire Black Library, to be honest.

As always, Cain is accompanied by his aide, Gunner Jurgen, who is technically still a member of the 12th Valhallan Field Artillery, although we learn in one of the book's novels that Jurgen has been with Cain for seventy years! Jurgen is the perfect aide. Devoted, single-minded, brave, and possessing the skills needed to assist the Commissar. He also smells worse than a pile of dead Orks, has breath that makes Tyranids gag, and an unending series of skin problems. Which are helpful when keeping people from bothering the Commissar. Most folks can't stand to be around Jurgen for a second longer than necessary.

Jurgen has another advantage: he's a Blank. Psychic and warp powers simply cease to function around him. Which has come in quite handy on several occasions. I was really happy to see two short stories told from Jurgen's point of view in this volume.

As always, these novels and the one novella are presented as unpublished excerpts from Cain's own massive personal archive, edited and presented by Imperial Inquisitor Amberley Vail, a sometime professional and occasional romantic partner of Cain's. She introduces each excerpt, provides copious footnotes to expand on points in the text, and, when necessary, inserts portions of other writings to fill in the gaps in Cain's self-centered writing.

As always, these stories preserve the grimdark feel of the WH40K universe while adding humor and complexes characters. I would not, however, recommend the Ciaphas Cain series as an entry-point into the WH40K books. Start with the Eisenhorn omnibus, or Gaunt's Ghosts: The Gathering. Both of these are better at introducing you to the universe and concepts that make up the setting. Wallow in the grimdark, then pick up Cain for a few laughs.






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Epic is hard. Think about every book or movie you've experienced that was described as epic. Many lose the characters in the vast setting, others fail to establish the wide scope of setting and action that makes a story truly epic. It's a fine balancing act.

But I just finished an omnibus trilogy that absolutely lives up the idea of being epic. Forges of Mars, by Graham McNeill. Yet another entry in the sprawling Warhammer: 40K universe, on the surface this is a series of novels about Adeptus Mechanicus, the mysterious tech-priests of Mars. Paying lip service to the God-Emperor, the adepts of the order worship the Machine God, the Omnissiah also known as the Deus Mechanicus.

Tech-priests show their devotion by replacing weak flesh with iron and circuitry. For many of the order, their brains are the last thing human about them, and even the brain is enhanced and altered. An adept will wear the hood robes with a variety of robotic tentacles, artificial limbs, and weapons system sticking out as needed.

But they are still human, and that drives the story.

Archmagos Lexall Kotov has fallen from favor. He has lost control over his forge worlds and been stripped of his power base. But he holds two aces in his mechanical hand. He controls the Speranza, one of the fabled Ark Mechanicus, a starship kilometers long capable of transporting legions. His second hole card is he believes he has found a trace of a Mechanicus expedition that vanished 4,000 years ago in an area of the galaxy's edge known as the Halo Scar. He means to find this lost fleet and the secret of why time is misbehaving inside the scar, and return to power in the order.

To accomplish this, the Archmagos gathers a small fleet to escort the Speranza and loads the giant ship with the best the Empire has to offer. A detachment of Space Marines from the Black Templars; A regiment of the Imperial Guard, the 71st Cadians, known as the Hellhounds; Mechanicus troops known as the Skitarii; and even a Legio of Imperial Titans; towering ancient war machines capable of leveling cities.

Along for the ride is the crew of the Rogue Trader Renard, led by Roboute Surcouf. They get to be there because it was Surcouf who found the clues that show the way to the lost fleet. Chasing the fleet with the intent of stopping it is an alien Eldar ship, where a Farseer has foreseen that this mission could undo everything and end the universe.

Epic enough for you? The books are filled with epic battles and sights, dying worlds and overwhelming odds. But where McNeill is a master is in making sure that all the characters, almost without exception, are people. You get to know them. From the bickering archmagi on the bridge of the Speranza who sound like professors arguing minor points to the bondsmen slaving in misery to keep the ship running. These books have about two dozen characters who play a major role, and each one is a unique figure that you come to know.

This closeness to the characters makes the epic scenes even better. When a group is fleeing a hopeless battle in a damaged grav sled, you care because you like these people. We feel what the characters feel because we've come to know them. Even if they aren't likable.

This is a solid entry in the Black Library. I give it five penguins out of five. But there is one note of caution. This is not a book for people unfamiliar with the WH40K universe. It makes any number of assumptions of knowledge on the reader. I'd recommend starting with the first Gaunt's Ghosts: The Founding. This is a better introduction to the universe and some of its concepts.

A final thought. The WH40K universe is steeped in superstition. People believe in "machine spirits" and offer prayers and holy oils to get machines to work. Sounds silly, but these novels have many characters who link directly to various machines, and they can feel the machine spirits, and even judge their "mood."

Since this isn't a belief but direct experience, I have a theory. Functional artificial intelligence is anathema to the Empire of Man, but most of these systems are centuries old and controlled by expert systems that we can even imagine. It's entirely plausible that over the ages, these expert systems could achieve a rough form of sentience. A Leman Russ tank would be aggressive after 300 years of responding to orders to attack and destroy. Even newer materials would get code packages that contained the thousands of years of "experience" entered into the machine that compiles code for new machines.

So it's not entirely superstition. Any big, complex machine probably has feelings and a sense of purpose if not a sense of self. Smaller things like lasguns and communicators probably lack machine spirits, but when the habit is there, you pray for your rifle to function.

Hail the Omnissiah
Knowlege is Power

And sadly, it doesn't involve robotic killing machine from the future.

I am just having no luck with technology. Today alone..

• The Facebook ap on my phone kept freezing as I was trying to post. Had to do a power cycle to get it back.


• My Xbox 360 froze while loading a skills drill in Madden 15. Powered that off.


• Just now when I tried to start Windows 10, I got a "Start Menu and Cortina (Clippy's evil daughter) cannot be found" error message.


• Google Docs has been down most of the day. That's where I write. I mean, it's not like I don't owe a couple of articles and just started my NaNoWriMo project. Yes, I start early. I'm brain damaged!


• The toilet is whistling. It's some weird valve problem. I need to clean in there so we can get the landlord in to fix it.


• Not to mention that yesterday we found that one of the battery connectors on Kirsten's car had decided on a new career as a pile of rust.

Thank Halford I'm not on the O₂ compressor. Or a pacemaker.

I think I need a Tech-Priest from the Adeptus Mechanicus to visit. Obviously, I have failed to properly appease the machine spirits in my cognitators and plumbing. Omnissiah, forgive me!

( It helps if you're familiar with the Gaunt's Ghosts series from The Black Library )

We're such geeks.

Up above an arctic storm was lashing the towers of Dwumfords Hive. Sleet and freezing rain was attacking the soaring edifices and bridges of the upper city; coating the homes of the rich and powerful in ice that would only melt when the distant summer came. Down where I was guiding my bicycle through yet another souk, the storm manifested as an endless series of drips and rivulets of dirty water sluicing down from above. I had been told that once the storm passed, I should make my way to an upper level to view the dawn lighting up the ice-encrusted spires. Beautiful and inspiring, I was told.
( Read more... )

OK, who wants to see Part 2?