Wildfire Snippet 1

   So, there are 2 short story books to go with the Ragnarok trilogy, Wildfire, and Ashes. I am currently 40% done Ashes.

Wildfire is up next. Rea just has a go at it and it is in the hands of Goodlifeinc. 

  BTW: Embers, the last of the trilogy has been written, the cover is done, and it's in the hands of those Betas who want a stab at it. If anyone wants a go, let me know.

Anyway, here is the cover for Wildfire in case you missed it:

  Wildfire is a collection of 14 short (some very short) stories. They range from the mildly amusing parodies like Monster's Inc to stories that will serve as background for characters who will play a major role in Embers. (and some may pop up in Irons time maybe!)

  One story I wrote back over a decade ago, and I've been itching to get it into a book. It was gone over by many Betas over the years, it was sort of their intro into the idea of proof reading. I had a mild re-write of it and you can see snippets in Inferno.

The story is called 'The Littlest Tug That Could'. So, lets snag a scene from that:

Space sailor class 1 Jim Runningback, a young man fresh out of the enlisted training program, made his way to his new berth reluctantly. He was assigned to a crew of a boat, which should have made him happy. Ten percent of his class has been stuck manning a post in an orbital fort or station, or even the yard. He, however, wasn't at all happy with his posting; he'd gladly trade it with some of them if he could.

Being young, he was a bit of a glory hound wanting to be on a big warship sharing in adventure and glory, not on an old run-down beat-up tug in the Sol system. 8541 was ancient, over two hundred years old. She was outclassed by all her follow-on ships; they were bigger and stronger. Better in other words. Definitely better he thought with a pang. Cleaner too. 8541 had seen a lot of years and clearly missed a lot of paint. Her hull was down to bare metal in some places. Only her bumpers looked in good order. He was a little dismayed by the cartoon tug painted on either side of her bow above her bumpers.

The captain was an old female with braided white hair. He saw her briefly in passing. She didn't look up as the two enlisted stopped and came to attention. Scuttlebutt said she had refused further promotion, sticking to where she knew she was needed. Lieutenant Commander Drominger was a rarity in the navy. She loved her battered command.

Within moments of coming on board, the young man was nearly thrown off his feet as the ship lunged. “Inertials are out of synch,” he murmured, shaking his head slowly.

“No, she's got a kick to her when we go past the red line,” a rating said, waving him onward. He stowed his locker near an empty hammock, then turned.

“We're always in the thick of things, but you'll get used to it, kid,” Merlo said, shrugging. He was a small man of Latin decent. He had some Incan in him. He was barely a meter and a half tall, but he was well proportioned. His body rippled with muscle. He wore a sweaty green tank top and shorts. He shrugged.

“Get squared away, kid, and then report to the chief. I've got to get to my post so I can't babysit you."

Jim frowned as the rating took off, ducking under pipes and cables as he moved. He shook his head.

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Jim found the chief in engineering country of course, which was a deck down from the main deck. The chief was watching a repeater display, frowning. The lad came to attention to report for duty, but the chief waved him off with a shush.

The lad turned slightly so he could see what the big deal was. Apparently right off the bat, they had been sent into trouble, to bring a ship in that had been damaged. The kid was surprised that the little tug could do the job; the ship they had been sent after was a massive but badly mauled heavy cruiser.

He frowned, looking at the ship schematic next to the repeater. Everything was green; all systems were good to go. She wasn't even breaking a sweat hauling the cruiser around. But from the look of her shape, she even had a wheelhouse. Inside was the tiny bridge where the captain sat and monitored the situation. It had real windows, not screens like newer ships. He'd heard about that part when one of his fellow classmen had ribbed him about it.

“You Runningback? The new meat, kid?” the chief engineer asked, not looking away from the display.

“Ah, yes, sir. Jim Runningback, space sailor class 1, reporting for duty, sir.” He keyed his implant IFF registration and flicked it to the chief. He felt the chief and the ship's computer net acknowledge receipt of his ID. He'd done the same boarding the station and boarding the tug. He wasn't sure what all the security was about. He'd heard some weird rumors, but he didn't care. Protocol was protocol; you identified yourself properly when boarding a ship. He'd even saluted the battered flag painted on the airlock and asked Merlo for permission to board. Merlo had laughed. Now he wasn't sure what was going on. Sloppy, his mind thought darkly.

“You'll have to see the captain to report for duty. But she's a little busy now. I guess I should get the tour out of the way. Unless Merlo has taken care of that?” He turned briefly to the boy. Jim shook his head.

“Course not,” the chief said with a sigh. “Not his job obviously,” he grunted. “That's okay, I need a walkabout and a look over anyway,” he said waving a hand. "Let's go stretch our legs."

The chief took him on a quick tour, which wasn't much since the ship was only two hundred and fifty meters long and most of that was power plant, bunkage, shields, and engines. Great big, massive engines, with great big tractor emitters.

“Galley is that way. We eat, sleep, and breathe in each other's pockets, so don't go starting shit. Trust me; the captain is a hard ass when it comes to discipline.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were expecting barracks?” the chief asked with a sniff.

“I didn't know what to expect, sir. I had no idea I'd draw this duty,” Jim said, trying to keep his resentment and bitterness under control. He wasn't too keen about sleeping on the deck or in a hammock.

“Get over it, kid. Right way, wrong way, navy way. You go where the navy tells you to go. Same here,” the chief said, tapping his chest meaningfully. He waited a beat, then turned. “The crew lives on this little sub-light ship. If you haven't noticed, we’re in a war. The navy can't afford to waste the fuel and time to go back and forth to the yard hab barracks daily.”

Jim nodded at the logic of that.

“We're on call twenty-four-seven so get used to not getting much sleep. Hopefully, you can sleep with the thrum of the engines, smells and all that. We don't have a crew quarters. Even the captain is stuck sleeping in her office.”

“Yes, sir. I'll make do.”

“You'd better make do, kid. You better get used to sleeping in a hammock too.”

“I did when I was in school, sir, and before that when I went camping. I'm also a spacer, sir. I came from Mars.”

“Ah. A red. Good. Still, the first couple of nights might be rough. Don't be stupid and put earplugs in; you will regret it if you do. You'll miss klaxons and alerts if you are blanked out.”

“Aye, sir.”

"You'd be surprised how easy it is to bed down when you are exhausted."

“This little girl may be small, but she has got a big heart,” the engineer told him, tapping the power plant. Unlike other ships, the fusion drive on the tug was enormous for her size. It also had an antimatter plant, but that was apparently out of fuel. There was no telling when they would get more. From the look of it, the crew had been scavenging the antimatter equipment for parts for some time. “We've kept with the upgrades; she's got a cruiser's fusion reactor and engines.”

“She's all fuel tank, engine, and power plant. Her shields and wedge are scaled to match a cruiser's. She's a bundle of energy in a tight dress. Too tight sometimes. We don't have any frills here, though, so don't go looking for any lace.” There was some pride in that description and challenge to refute it. He was fairly certain he'd get his head handed to him if he did so he stuck to what was safe.

“I see that, sir.”

“I hope so, kid. We're here.” The engineer rapped on the door then stepped back.

“It's open!” a hoarse female voice called. The engineer smiled and left without another word.

Jim opened the door and stepped through the hatch. He shut it behind him, then came to attention before the captain's small desk.

Deedee Drominger, captain of 8541, was nearly as old as her tug. She was weathered with time and hard living like her tug. But he realized, looks were deceiving. Definitely where packaging was concerned, hers might be as battered as her command's but only on the surface. The captain might have tattoos and be a bit wrinkled, but she had muscle and fire in her belly. She had an ancient little golden book with a picture of the cartoon tug on the cover. It was wrapped in plastic and framed in a cabinet.

She smiled at the lad. “I know what you are thinking, what you must be feeling. I know this is the last place you want to be; a youngling like you wants to be where the action and glory are. On the front I bet,” she said, shaking her head. “You think we're holding you back; we're not. Being a tug pilot isn't a glamorous job. I didn't expect it to be. It's a hard life but a necessary one. A job the navy, the Federation needs doing. Doing right in the worst way. It takes a delicate hand to man a tug; AI can handle some of it but not all. We do the grunt work others can't. Our job helps shave time and is a safety for those ships. Do ya think they can swan around the yard so easy, boy? No? Course not. Those big whales aren't set up for it.”

“One missed turn and they'll hit something. Which is where we come in. It's our job to make sure that doesn't happen. They are too fat-assed and too pigheaded to look after themselves, and the yard is a dangerous place. We've got to look after them, which is why the big boys don't fly around the yard on their own. We move them ourselves."

"Ah. Yes, ma'am."

"We'll be moving everything you can think of. Recovering ships, moving ships from one slip to another, the occasional Dutchman, shuttles in distress, freight—you name it, we'll tow or push it, mark my words. Now, go get sorted out and I'll see you at dinner."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, trying to salute but knocking his elbow on a low duct.

"We don't stand on ceremony here, son," the captain said with a small smile. "Just get it done."

"Aye aye, Captain."

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