If you wish to send us books for next week’s promo, please email to bookpimping at outlook dot com. If you feel a need to re-promo the same book do so no more than once every six months (unless you’re me or my relative. Deal.) One book per author per week. Amazon links only. Oh, yeah, by clicking through and buying (anything, actually) through one of the links below, you will at no cost to you be giving a portion of your purchase to support ATH through our associates number. A COMMISSION IS EARNED FROM EACH PURCHASE.*Note that I haven’t read most of these books (my reading is eclectic and “craving led”,) and apply the usual cautions to buying. I reserve the right not to run any submission, if cover, blurb or anything else made me decide not to, at my sole discretion.– SAH
I WASN’T GOING TO REPEAT THIS WARNING, BUT OBVIOUSLY I HAVE TO:
OKAY, PLEASE LISTEN: THIS IS STATED ABOVE, BUT AGAIN: ALL I NEED FROM YOU IF YOU WANT YOUR BOOK PROMOTED IS A LINK TO AMAZON. Please, for the love of all gods and fishes and all the birds in the sea, DO NOT SEND ME THE BOOK, THE COVER, THE BLURB, OR WORSE YOUR ENTIRE LIFE STORY. I get a ton of spam on that email because it’s here every week. PLEASE don’t make me read five pages to figure out if you’re someone sending me a link or a spam bot. If you’re afraid the link might not work, you can also send me your name and the book title with the link. That’s acceptable too. BUT DON’T SEND ME THE UNABRIDGED WORKS OF TOLSTOY WITH THE LINK AT THE END.
I’ve had about enough so this is the new policy: IF YOU MAKE ME WORK TOO HARD, I’LL REPLACE YOUR BOOK COVER WITH A PICTURE OF A CAT GIRL. MEOW AND SHAME OR SOMETHING – SAH
FROM ARI H. MENDELSON: Consent (Kingmaker)
Tech billionaire Jerry Neville holds the key to a groundbreaking technology capable of manipulating anyone’s decisions. However, Neville’s Chinese backers demand perfection, threatening dire consequences unless the flaws are fixed.
Targeted for artificial seduction by Neville’s algorithm is Hollywood actress Meghan Peters.
Meanwhile, a group of independent journalists rises to expose the truth in a world where even our thoughts can be controlled.
Lying in wait for the crusading reporters is Mei Hua Chang, a Chinese spy whose beauty and charm are matched only by her cunning.
In Consent, prepare to be captivated by relentless action, nerve-wracking suspense, and a profound examination of power and persuasion.
FROM NATHAN C. BRINDLE: The Reason (Timelines Universe Book 1)
January 1993. Somalia. Operation Restore Hope. A Marine platoon pulling a security patrol runs into an insurgent ambush in Mogadishu, and when the platoon commander winds up unconscious from a blow to the head taken when an IED rolls his command Humvee, and the First Sergeant is killed as soon as he exits his vehicle, command falls to a badly wounded gunnery sergeant — initially trapped in the same vehicle with his platoon commander and their driver, but conscious and alert and ready to bring some personal hell down on the RIFs…if he can just get out of this damn vehicle, grab a rifle, and drag himself and his busted-up, non-working leg over to a firing point without bleeding out. June 1993. Washington, DC. A First Lieutenant with a freshly-healed scar on his head encounters a beautiful redheaded floor nurse at Bethesda Naval Hospital. He’s there to see his Gunny, who’s been stuck in the hospital with a broken femur since he was transported home in February. He’s the platoon commander who was knocked hors de combat by the IED, and he’s been sent to find out why his Gunny is obstinately refusing to accept an important decoration for his participation in the incident. Turns out that’s going to be quite a job, because Gunny’s got his reason. Will the Lieutenant, and his ally the nurse, be able to convince his Gunny there’s a better reason to accept the decoration? Might be they’ll need a little help from a friend…
FROM M. LEE MOORE: Logan Mitchell and the Earthrise Light
As Logan Mitchell counts down the days to his dad’s Christmas return from the Asteroid Belt, an illness begins spreading among the newest arrivals to the Mars colony. With tensions rising and people falling ill, Logan and his friends must step in to support the struggling families, while bringing the community closer together than ever before.
Logan Mitchell and the Earthrise Light is a heartfelt sci-fi adventure about bravery, belonging, and the power of community when it matters most.
FROM EDWARD WILLET: The Haunted Horn
Perfect for fans of R.L. Stine and John Bellairs: a spine-tingling mix of schoolyard showdowns, family drama, and Civil War ghosts that will keep you up past lights-out!
On a disastrous Friday in Oak Bluff, Arkansas, brainy eighth-grader Alex Mitchell buys a battered old Civil War bugle at a dusty auction—and his luck goes from bad to worse. School bully Sammy Findlater wants it for his “trophy” collection, and standing up to Sammy (and his hulking gang) means bruises, dead animals in lockers, and a garbage-splattered chase through town.
But when Alex blows the tarnished horn, something even more frightening stirs. Chilling midnight marches echo down his alley, ghostly Confederate soldiers trample the town square, and a wide-eyed boy in a ragged gray uniform stares up at his window, whispering, “I’m going home.”
As the anniversary of the Civil War Battle of Oak Bluff nears, the spirits grow dangerously solid: campfires scorch grass, cannons uproot from concrete, and downtown teeters on fiery ruin.
With bullies on his tail and a supernatural showdown brewing, Alex must team up with tough-as-nails Annie Parker to unravel the mystery. Can he summon the courage to sound the bugle at the right moment and lay the ghosts to rest—or will history repeat itself in a terrifying clash that destroys everything?
FROM MARY CATELLI: Madeleine and the Mists
Enchanted pools, shadowy dragons, wolves that spring from the mists and vanish into them again, paths that are longer, or shorter, than they should be, given where they went. . . the Misty Hills were filled with marvels. Madeleine still left the hills, years ago, to marry against her father’s will. If her husband’s family is less than welcoming, she still is glad she married him, and they have a son, two years old. But her husband’s overlord has fallen afoul of the king. And all his men fall with him, including her husband. She sets out, to seek the queen and try to bypass the king — and the Misty Hills. Some things are not so easily evaded.
J. KENTON PIERCE: The Warlord of Greenline Town (Tales From the Long Night Book 2)
In the ruins of Hesperides Colony, scarred by volcanic winters and orbital threats, Captain Ravati Aziz safeguards underground Greenline Town. A veteran trooper turned cop, she balances family with bondmates and kids amid a corrupt town council, brutal Blackcheek gangs, and nomadic Pridesmen driving herds through deadly badlands.
When a notorious homesteader unearths a crashed starship packed with lost tech and comes to Greenline looking for help, Ravati volunteers, knowing what’s at stake.As vanished Gentle Walkers return with secrets and politicians scheme for power, Ravati allies with warriors and scholars to defend her home.
In a brutal world of hard choices, can she stop Greenline’s slide into tyranny?
FROM ERIC THOMSON: No Honor in Death (Siobhan Dunmoore Book 1)
Siobhan Dunmoore was losing the war one ship at a time. The Shrehari Empire had burned more hulls out from under her than any other officer in the Fleet. Some said she was too aggressive. Others said too reckless. The enemy called her something else—something they spat with fear. None of it mattered. Not all her enemies wore Imperial uniforms. And the only reputation she had left was for bad luck.
She was dragging another wreck home, crew half‑dead, systems failing. This time she’d bluffed her way out by the skin of her teeth. She wanted rest. The Admiralty wanted her back in the fight.
They gave her Stingray. The Fleet’s cursed frigate. Captain disgraced, crew broken, ship rotting. The last of her kind still limping through the war. Admirals whispered about scrapping her, breaking up the jinx. But the war was bleeding ships, and anything that could still fire had to fight.
So Dunmoore went from staring down the Empire’s finest on a battleship’s burning bridge to commanding a crew ready to mutiny, admirals sharpening knives, and a mystery that stank of death. Stingray’s curse wasn’t just sailor’s talk. Something was wrong. The crew kept their mouths shut. Politics pressed in. Her own demons clawed at her.
Taking that frigate into battle was suicide. But Dunmoore had never walked away from a fight. Failure wasn’t an option. Defeat wasn’t acceptable. Death was just a hole in the ground. Victory was the only honor left. She’d drag Stingray back from hell—or go down damned forever.
BY EDMOND HAMILTON, REVIVED BY D. JASON FLEMING: The Complete Interstellar Patrol (Annotated): A pulp space opera omnibus
In 1928, Edmond Hamilton published Crashing Suns in Weird Tales magazine, at approximately the same time that E.E. Smith’s Skylark of Space was published in Amazing Stories, giving both men the distinction of creating the genre of space opera. Hamilton, however, was the first to create a series, writing further stories in his Interstellar Patrol Series in 1929 and 1930, then writing a final one in 1934.
Here in one volume is every Interstellar Patrol story Hamilton published, including the novel Outside the Universe. What the stories lack in characterization and scientific plausibility, they more than make up for in enthusiasm, spectacle, and sheer breakneck pacing.
- This iktaPOP Media omnibus includes new introductions that give the stories genre and historical context.
FROM DALE COZORT: The Best of Space Bats & Butterflies – Book Two
Space Bats & Butterflies Book Two is another eclectic collection of the best alternate history or time-travel stories, book excerpts, essays and world-building exercises from the ninety-plus issues of a long-running Alternate History zine.
• Part Two of a two-part book-length alternate World War II scenario-The Moscow Option-1942.
• The Interrupted Trajectory: Indians without the Old World.
• Could you save the Incas from Spanish conquest?
• American Revolution: Britain Keeps the Deep South
• D-Day Landings Fail.
Fiction stories and excerpts:
• World War II Germany invades a divided alternate history US that still uses black powder muskets.
• Bootleggers from the 1920s invade a far-future sanctuary for massacre victims.
• Modern US collides with an alternate reality full of deadly animals.
• Tasmanian Wolves are supposed to be extinct. What is one doing in a Illinois cornfield?
• An ageless, vastly intelligent dog holds the secrets to immortality. Can he survive long enough to give it to humanity?
FROM HOLLY CHISM: The Schrödinger Paradox: Cataclysm
The end is coming.
Unlucky jerk Tom Beadle was on watch at NASA when the collision alert sounded: a new asteroid, bigger than the dino-killer, headed for Earth. Big problem, but that’s why we have NASA, right? Except, after decades of budget cuts, NASA has no way to shove it off course. That job has to be contracted out. Will the private sector company his best friend from college works at succeed where the government option failed? Might be best to have a backup plan, just in case…
FROM MACKEY CHANDLER: Fair Trade: An Alien Invasion Story
Most of my writing is in a series people seem to enjoy but there is a constant small crowd who say: I’d really like your take on an alien invasion story. Well this is for them. The bulk of the aliens come to Earth stories assume their vast superiority, sometimes invincibility. Sometimes they suddenly appear on the white house lawn dictating terms. I have yet to see one with them appearing at the Kremlin or Canberra which seems rather parochial. Other times they are so advanced they quarantine the Earth or Solar System without discussion because we are such barbarian slime-balls. They may alternately be impossible to talk to and attack without mercy. All these assume they come with a plan and the means to carry it out. Our own age of exploration showed things happen much less orderly. Islands and natives were happened upon while seeking someplace else or even because a storm or miscalculation left the ship lost. In that case there is no plan but survival with the assets at hand. As with any game remember that turnabout is fair play.
FROM KAREN MYERS: The Chained Adept: A Lost Wizard’s Tale
MEET A POWERFUL WIZARD WITH UNANSWERED QUESTIONS–AND AN UNBREAKABLE CHAIN AROUND HER NECK.
Have you ever wondered how you might rise to a dangerous situation and become the hero that was needed?
The wizard Penrys has barely gained her footing in the country where she was found three years ago, chained around the neck and wiped of all knowledge. And now, an ill-planned experiment has sent her a quarter of the way around her world.
One magic working has called to another and landed Penrys in the middle of an ugly war between neighboring countries, half a world away.
No one has any reason to trust her amid rumors of wizards where they don’t belong. And she fears to let them know just what she can do — especially since she can’t explain herself to them and she doesn’t know everything about herself either.
Penrys has her own problems, and she doesn’t have any place in this conflict. But they need her, whether they realize it or not. And so she’s determined to try and lend a hand, if she can. Whatever it takes.
And once she discovers there’s another chained adept, even stronger than she is, she’s hooked. Friend or foe, she has questions for him — oh, yes, she does.
All she wants is a firm foundation for the rest of her life, with a side helping of retribution, and if she has to fix things along the way, well, so be it.
The Chained Adept is the first book of the series.
FROM A. PALMER: Wonder: Sermons From a Servant
After Trouble, after Hope, there is Wonder.
God brings people through many stages in life, and as before, these poems describe mine. I offer them humbly, in case anyone else out there feels the way I do.
BY J. D. COOPER: Lessons
The “lessons” herein are meant to answer real-world questions asked of the author in his busy suburban pediatric practice. There are more fatherless teenagers than can be counted. Almost daily, young men and women who desperately want someone to guide them, teach them, and love them unconditionally, ask questions about how to “adult.”
This book is overtly Christian. There are no apologies for that, but the reader has the right to not be blindsided. You have been warned. It is real-world gritty. Trauma happens, and it is the job of human beings who love their fellow man to rescue the broken. This book discusses delicate topics like sex, puberty, and teenage hormones. There are also lessons on aspects of manhood like courage, hard work, and commitment. Finally, this story is emotional. We hide who we are from each other. Still, on occasion, the author gets to peek behind the curtain and sees the loneliness and desperation of teenagers who just want to be loved.
Love them. Love them all.
FROM DEX QUIRE: The Transformations, a Tale of Modern Sin
That meme or pop-up or spam – you know the one – it’s everywhere on the internet. It urges men to enlarge a certain body part. But really – who or what kind of man would buy into that nonsense? The narrator of “The Transformations,” for one. He applies Onan’s Enlarging Ointment to himself and promptly turns into a donkey. Our foolish narrator is then raked across a pile of intriguing and entertaining encounters including lockdown at the zoo, bizarre sex, friendship with a drunken elephant, eco-terrorism, semi-slavery by pious religious communards, sea voyages, depraved tourists, drug pirates and other magically or demonically inspired bi-peds. The novel is an obvious homage to Apuleius’ “the Golden Ass” while offering a modern, magical realist update in vivacious and witty prose. Blue Guitar Press invites you to enjoy Dex Quire’s world of wonders and transformations.
FROM SARAH A. HOYT: No Man’s Land: Volume 1 (Chronicles of Lost Elly)
On a lost colony world, mad geneticists thought they could eliminate inequality by making everyone hermaphrodite. They were wrong. Catastrophically wrong.
Now technology indistinguishable from magic courses through the veins of the inhabitants, making their barbaric civilization survivable—and Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus Kayel Hayden, Viscount Webson, Envoy of the Star Empire—Skip to his friends— has just crash-landed through a time-space rift into the middle of it all.
Dodging assassins and plummeting from high windows was just the beginning. With a desperate king and an archmagician as his only allies, Scipio must outrun death itself while battling beasts, traitors, and infiltrators bent on finishing what the founders started: total destruction.
Two worlds. One chance. No time to lose.
Volume 1
The Ambassador Corps has rules: you cannot know everything, don’t get horizontal with the natives, don’t make promises you can’t keep.
They’re a lot harder to follow when assassins are hunting you, your barbarian allies could kill you for the wrong word, and death lurks around every corner.
The unwritten rule? Never identify with the natives.
Skip’s already broken that one.
Now he’s racing against time to save his new friends from slavery—or worse—while dodging energy blasts and political intrigue. One crash-landed diplomat. A world of deadly secrets. And absolutely no backup.
Some rules are meant to be broken. Others will get you killed.
Vignettes by Luke, Mary Catelli and ‘Nother Mike.
So what’s a vignette? You might know them as flash fiction, or even just sketches. We will provide a prompt each Sunday that you can use directly (including it in your work) or just as an inspiration. You, in turn, will write about 50 words (yes, we are going for short shorts! Not even a Drabble 100 words, just half that!). Then post it! For an additional challenge, you can aim to make it exactly 50 words, if you like.
We recommend that if you have an original vignette, you post that as a new reply. If you are commenting on someone’s vignette, then post that as a reply to the vignette. Comments — this is writing practice, so comments should be aimed at helping someone be a better writer, not at crushing them. And since these are likely to be drafts, don’t jump up and down too hard on typos and grammar.
If you have questions, feel free to ask.
Your writing prompt this week is: COPPER
According To Hoyt 
Remember, o Readers, that you can be FORCE MULTIPLIERS! When you read books, you can rate and review them.
Even short reviews are of aid to the writer, because sheer mass helps. (And if you really can’t review, still rate.)
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The bottles against the wall were copper.
Honor glanced them over, but it would be time enough to ask why after they looted the tower. Clara directed her to a cabinet filled with jewel-bright potions.
“The glass won’t break, it’s enchanted.” Clara grinned. “As long as you keep it safe.”
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“Watch the trees,” said Violetta. “They have all been maple, all along. No oak. No pine. No beeches, either copper or silver.”
“They took whatever stand of trees they had here,” said Giles, “and expanded it all over the place, because they didn’t want a forest. Not a proper forest. Too much like work for them.”
“And perhaps the thread that will let us escape.” Jasper did not stop climbing. “Find out how they are doing it, and chase that until we find the gate out.”
In the silence after, Augustus said, “We watch for any chance to do that.”
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The first thing I recalled, as my head pounded in agony, was the wet copper taste in my mouth, harsher than a mouth full of pennies.
I couldn’t see, I couldn’t see, but alerts fanned across my field of vision. Almost all the alerts were yellow, thank God, but a few were red.
At least none of them were flashing.
I rubbed the back of my arm across my face and winced in pain as I scrubbed the soft scabs away from my forehead. ATHENA, I thought, please tell me how bad it is?
Damage is almost entirely cosmetic, ATHENA replied via our linkage, but the concussion is going to take a while to fade. No immediate threats in range.
At least I could see again, even if the images coming from my left eye were a little blurry. Tears were flowing and I tried to stand up, my fingers responding as they held the grip of the VacStar.
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What’s going on with the cover image for The Warlord of Greenline Town? I’m seeing a sketch of an anime-style Cat Girl with the title “I Got This Catgirl Cover by Not Following Instructions”? The listing at Amazon has the correct cover for the book.
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Author sent more data -much more data – than Sarah asked for. The reward for drowning Sarah in unnecessary data is to get a cat-girl cover.
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actually in his case he just made it difficult to link him. I LIKE Kenton. A lot. But SERIOUSLY. Don’t send me a link, get a cat girl.
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Well, I was tempted to send you Tolstoy, but didn’t get around to it.
Now, I am tempted to write a story for that cover.
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Yes, I did save it, just in case. I really do love it!
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I have six others in readiness….
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Yay!
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I would read it!
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We look forward to reading it.
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h
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He sent me the cover and the blurb. NO LINK. Not even a title. I had to open the cover to find the title so I could look it up. See the instructions at the top
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“Observe, grasshopper,” said the man, as the two sat at the outdoor table facing a pedestrian thoroughfare. The suns were shining, the sky was a cloudless purple blue, and the slight breeze held the smells of this planets springtime.
“I see no insects, sensei,” said the woman with a grin, sipping at her drink.
“Constrain your urge to sarcasm, Rebecca,” the man said, sipping his drink. “Those three working to repair the fence down the way. What do you see?”
Rebecca took a sip of her own for time and gazed through her dark sunglasses at the work site across the lane. “Three people, one woman and two men, are repairing a metal fence, or perhaps wall as appears to be made of copper sheets. They are drilling out the fasteners to remove one visibly damaged section, and there’s a shiny new copper panel set to the side to replace it.”
“And the three people?”
“The woman and one man are average height per their gender, the other man tall, all with skin tone average for the settlers of this colony, though obviously used to being outdoors given their tans. They are dressed in correct and well worn work clothing. The woman is blonde, in a short practical cut. The tall male has his brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail, and the other has a crew cut, appearing to have black hair. All are wearing tool belts, and there are large duffels at their feet which they access for more tools.”
“Anything else?”
“They are making good time. I think they will be finished in an hour or so unless something goes wrong.”
“Hm,” said the man, taking another sip. “Look at their hands.”
Rebecca took her time, leaning forward to grab a pastry from the plate on their small table, then sitting back. “They are all right handed, as that’s where they are holding their drills as they work.”
“And when they are not actively drilling?”
Okay, I am obviously missing something, thought Rebecca. She consciously relaxed, gazing away from the trio and letting her subconscious into the chat. Their hands. They drill out the fasteners, then hold the drill down to their sides while they locate the next location to drill…Wait, their fingers.
“They all index their trigger fingers away from their drills triggers along the body of the drill once they are done actively drilling. Every time. Reflexively.”
The man nodded. “Yes. Ingrained trigger discipline.”
Rebecca controller her impulse to look around the rest of the lane. “We are under surveillance.”
The man nodded. “More precisely, we have been surveilled to this location and they are a strike team. Straight surveillance assets would likely be both more intrinsically mobile in case we move, and more discrete, given federation intelligence is relatively adept. Those three are all shooters.”
“Well, crap. We are made. What is our move?”
“Immediately I am going to finish this quite excellent tea. You may want to sample another pastry or two, as available calories could become somewhat constrained over the next days as we exfil. Luckily through foresight I packed on these extra twenty pounds or so just for such an eventuality. Then we pay, and depart at a stroll, break contact by triggering one of the distraction charges we planted last week, and proceed separately to safe house, hm, seven I think.”
Rebecca, heart pounding, did as she was told and ate more pastries while she finished her coffee. The afternoon would be entertaining at minimum. Never a dull moment in Imperial intelligence field ops.
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“That was interesting”, Ultra Agent Night-Hunter commented.
“What was interesting” responded Ultra Agent Tinker-Bell.
“A Rogue dressed as an 1930s Mobster called me a “Copper”. As in: you won’t take me in Copper.”
“Weird, some of the Rogues get very strange when they gain powers”.
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Along the back of the museum was a display of artifacts, among which was a huge copper shield, ornately decorated, yet disfigured by an ugly gouge. After looking for information about it, I finally pulled aside a docent and asked.
“That’s the Tikariamat Copper.” The docent’s voice quavered. “It’s said to be cursed. There are several different accounts of why and how, all of which involve disrespect to what it represents. It was finally placed here because people who possessed it had a tendency to die horribly, and it was hoped that by putting it in the keeping of an institution, the curse could be diffused.”
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“In disguise, of course, but I wouldn’t care if she didn’t give her goddaughter a copper penny, or tell her to come to court when she’s grown. As long as she was willing to serve as godmother.”
She walked outside. As far as she could see, no one walked about.
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“A buck a pound,” said Muggsy, “take it or leave it. Ya get a couple hunnert pounds a pull, easy. Just pull it down exactly like Doc said and don’t try no shortcuts. It’s, like, a hunnert thousand volts. Ya don’t screw around with You’ll Never Take Me Alive copper.”
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Detective Fixx tossed a copper to the street urchin. “There’s another in it for you if you’ll watch that entrance to the alley. If you see anyone coming in who looks like he ought not to be here” – he glanced round and picked up a piece of brick – “throw this at the door, hard as you can. Come on, Passepartout.” The door frame splintered with a hard kick to the lock, and he walked in as he gestured to his partner.
“Sapristi!” the other man muttered. “Not again, mon ami. That is the second door you have destroyed today.” He followed Fixx with a resigned shrug, with the boy leaning against the wall and scrutinizing the alleyway behind them.
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The dig site had surrendered an ancient copper bracelet; Cari was excited. “Look here,” she said to Max. “This style is plainly Elvic. And see this filigree here? That tells us where it was made.”
Max was amazed as usual, but he understood only about half of what Cari said.
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Cari opened the box and gasped. “Oh Max,” she said. “This is just like that copper bracelet we found at that dig years ago! How did you –”
“Custom made,” said Max. “I showed the jeweler the picture from the museum catalog. The rest was easy. Happy birthday!”
Cari cried.
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Someone walked through the woods.
She glanced over and winced. Not blond, or copper-haired. White-haired. She wished she did not have to speak to him now, but he already walked closer, and his face was anxious.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m just — startled,” she said. She could not say frightened.
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Vaguely eerie — like!
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In context — she knows all the people. It’s just that she would prefer one of her peers to their leader.
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Copper sigils spread along the way. Sigils, Felix reminded himself. Not way-marks. They were here to block his path, not to guide him on it.
The air grew colder about him. His breath turned to mist. He avoided the pools of water, not yet refrozen, lest he soak his boots.
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[Ea-nāṣir travelled to Dilmun to buy copper and returned to sell it in Mesopotamia. On one particular occasion, he had agreed to sell copper ingots to Nanni. Nanni sent his servant with the money to complete the transaction. The copper was considered by Nanni to be sub-standard and was not accepted.]
Interior. A dim courtyard in Ur. Night.
Ea-nāṣir: You send a boy with silver and expect me to hand over my best copper? That’s not how business works, Nanni.
Nanni: I sent a servant because I trusted you. Big mistake. I look at those ingots—pitted, soft. That copper’s got problems.
Ea-nāṣir: Problems? I crossed to Dilmun for that metal. You think the sea’s easy on a man? Copper’s copper.
Nanni: Don’t insult me. My smiths wouldn’t touch it. Said it’d crack under the hammer. That’s not copper—that’s disrespect.
Ea-nāṣir: Careful with your words. You don’t like it, you walk. Plenty of buyers in Mesopotamia.
Nanni: Oh, I’ll walk. But remember this: you took my silver, you sent back junk. In my family, that kind of deal gets remembered.
Ea-nāṣir, smiling thinly: Then remember it clearly, Nanni. Next time you want quality, you come yourself. Or don’t come at all.
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https://chatgpt.com/s/m_696db546b0708191bbb5ec56ee937aff
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Copper and iron and sweat. The latter was easy. Fighting works up a sweat and there’s never enough air in a fight.
On one side, a mountain of meat and muscle. Nearly eight foot tall and built to take anything and hit back twice as hard, wrapped in steel.
The other, a miracle of underground implants and bad decisions. Fast. Strong. Lethal. Bigger than most men and meaner too. The bill called him Bloody Gar. But his name was not the one the crowd was chanting.
“Club! Fist! Club! Fist! Club! Fist!”
Blood leaked out between the plates of metal, dripping onto the deck in a steady rain. But his fists were rock steady. His eyes watchful. Even as his lungs worked like a bellows, sucking in air that never seemed to be enough.
Bloody Gar was beginning to have moments of careful consideration. Unusual for a man like him. Raised in the streets, worked his way up through the gangs and into underground fighting. Thirty death matches without a loss. Twenty one times he left the cage alone and under his own power.
But this was different.
No matter how hard he hit him, the big man never flinched. Never stumbled. Never stepped back. Not even once. He knew he’d tagged the guy. Good hits. Should have made something happen. But nothing. No reaction.
He came in again, looking for any good openings. Hell, he’d make one if there was even any hint. A few jabs, testing kicks. A solid right followed by a hammer left. Then the knee bomb. The kind of strikes that dented metal. He trained with metal pells for a reason.
His strikes were sure. The big man had to be feeling it. Holding the pain in, maybe didn’t even feel it because he had a blocker. There had to be damage there. Had to be. He was betting on it.
Bloody Gar never even saw the hit that put him down for the count. Never felt his ridged spinal implant slam into the side of the empty cargo container that served as the backstop. Never saw his credit balance go from a healthy sum to deep in the red from his poor bets and necessary hardware and medical expenses.
He also never saw the big man slowly walk up and poke him gently, feeling his breath. Never saw him carefully maneuver around the gate and back into the fighter’s pit. No one was there to see the man the called Club Fist struggle with his armor. Unable to unclench his hands enough to reach the clasps he had to wait long minutes that turned into an hour before the greasy looking man with the artificial eyes that never blinked come staggering in, reeking of alcohol and some kind of sad smelling perfume.
“Sorry, sorry old boy! Didn’t mean to leave you in the lurch, there. We’ll get these lovely little garments off you in a trice, fret not. Now, let’s see here…”
It took much longer to take the armor off than to put it on. Mostly because the help was drunk as a sailor on the first night of liberty.
Martin Tinsdale was a freak. He knew it and so did everybody else. The genetic lottery his parents played gave him a handful of jokers. A big frame with barely any hands to do anything with. A stubborn pride that would not allow him to beg or borrow. And a never ending appetite to feed his furnace of a stomach.
Genmod medical was expensive. Dumb labor was cheap. Martin would never make enough to be able to fix his hands. His body was too abnormal for standard implants that might have fixed or alleviated the problem.
To anyone else he was just a big, dumb guy that could lift and carry things but not much else. The maglocks he used to carry freight were the most expensive items he owned.
He sighed. The fight had made him hungry. The purse from the fight paid for his food for a week and not much else.
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Martin walked home alone. The station was never quiet down in the slums. It could be dangerous for a man alone, even a dangerous man alone. But not for Martin. He was a local boy, according to the gangs that had bet on him time and again. Quiet. Not one to start anything, but man enough to finish it if he had to. Always willing to help out when a job required a bit of lifting or steady, careful force.
The trash that collected in the lower levels was worth something to the collectors, so at least the deck was clean. Graffiti tagged to oblivion, but clean of random filth. Save for the lump of rags someone had left near the entrance to his sleeping spot.
The lump moved. Wadded up cloth became clothing. Random folds became limbs, a head appeared.
“Who’s there?”
Triple irises searched but landed on nothing.
“Name’s Martin. Not a good idea to sleep there. Get picked up by the unsavory types. Or worse. Tubes are cheap, but safe. Up one level and two rights.”
The transient tubes would take anybody, so long as the credits were good. Tubes were cheap to run, cheap to clean, and cheap to rent. The guy that owned them believed in volume sales. Seemed to work for him, more or less. Still far too small for him. Couldn’t even get a foot inside proper like.
“Can’t. No credits.” The woman replied.
“That’s a shame.” He thought for a bit. “You eat yet?”
“No. No credits. I need work, but nobody wants a blind girl for anything… respectable.”
Martin grunted.
“Can you cook though?”
“I can try?” Her voice made it a question.
“Good enough for me. Raw food’s cheaper than prepped. I’ve got a heat source. And pots and utensils. Need a lot of food, though. Have to eat a lot.”
“Accelerated metabolism?”
“Something like that.”
The stew she made wasn’t the worst thing he’d eaten. Vita, the blind girl, tried. That was enough for him. When he showed her the pallet in the corner by guiding her to it, she cried. Martin didn’t know what to do about that, so he patted her carefully on the back. It seemed the thing to do when someone was crying. Not that he’d ever had to be the one doing it.
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