SFFSat 26-4-14 - Black Ice part 2

This is my snippet this week for SFFSat. SFFSat is a place where a number of authors post snippets from their written works, and give the opportunity for comments, support and encouragement. Please also explore the other blogs that are part of this set - you can find the information here. 


This is part two of the Anton deGama story, Black Ice. Anton's crawler is sliding towards a deep trench on Titan...

Anton abandoned his futile struggle with the controls, and turned to climb out of the cockpit. He estimated he had around two minutes before reaching the drop-off, but if the rate of slide increased faster... He paused fractionally, and twisted round briefly to punch in the crawler's autopilot. He scrambled back out of the cockpit, ignoring the blaze of red warning lights that blossomed across the displays.

The crawler's main hold was stacked with stencilled styro-crates and hardware. The rear of the hold was dominated by the new radio dish; in front of that were the carefully packaged replacement computer units and sensor arrays.

He was supposed to be tracking down and repairing a fault in an automated weather research station at the top of the range of hills. The job should have been a quick, straightforward task to bring in a bit of cash while he waited for his new single-ship to grow. Anton sighed, and eyed the components and the cases of tools briefly, looking vainly for something that might assist. If the worst came to it, there was a suit hooked on the rack behind the cockpit. He could bail out, try to get over the slide, and leave the crawler to fall. Anton suspected the suit's integrity would be pushed to the limit for him to walk back to Titan Groundstation, but it was a better chance than going into a trench.

As always, comments welcomed!

 

SFFSat 19 - 4 - 14 Black Ice -1

This is my snippet this week for SFFSat. SFFSat is a place where a number of authors post snippets from their written works, and give the opportunity for comments, support and encouragement. Please also explore the other blogs that are part of this set - you can find the information here. 


This time, I'm starting the second Anton deGama story, Black Ice.

The harpoon slammed into the sliding permafrost, getting no grip at all, and doing absolutely nothing to stop the crawler's descent. The craft lurched sideways again, methane mist snarling around the racing tracks. Anton keyed in to haul back the harpoon, and eased off on the throttle, hoping that slowing the engine might regain control of the sliding ground-craft. According to the manual, VauxHall-Douglas claimed the duranium-alloy heated tracks could maintain a secure grip whatever the surface, whatever the gradient, within reason. Presumably, Anton murmured to himself, VHD did not consider 30 degrees to be within reason.

The ammonia permafrost beneath the crawler was sliding faster, sending more mist and debris up around the cockpit, reducing visibility further. The vehicle had already slipped 80 metres down the hillside, and was gaining speed. More worryingly, according to the chart Titan-B had provided, there was a drop-off only a thousand metres below him. Anton had a shrewd suspicion that VHD's guarantee of the durability of the crawler would be invalidated by a 30 kilometre fall into one of Titan's justly-feared trenches.

 I can't claim responsibility for the image, which is stolen from somewhere on the internet and photoshopped to fit the story - if the copyright holder objects, I will remove it again, and there is no intent to challenge the copyright holder's rights to the image.

Comments welcomed.

SFFSat 12/04/2014

This is my snippet this week for SFFSat. SFFSat is a place where a number of authors post snippets from their written works, and give the opportunity for comments, support and encouragement. Please also explore the other blogs that are part of this set - you can find the information here. 


This time, I'm putting up a new snippet from chapter three of Sorrel in Silver, the third volume in Sorrel's saga. Sorrel has been in the pub too long...

Berindyl turned at my expiration of breath, and glowered at me. 'You have a better idea?'

I glared back at her. The cider was not helping my skill at diplomacy. All right, so most people will tell you – rightly – that I am about as diplomatic as the average toddler, but with the amount of alcohol I had consumed my skill in that direction was approximately non-existent. My fists were clenching - I was spoiling for a fight.

Wrack's hand rested heavily on my shoulder, pressing me down into the soft fabric of the chair. 'Enough stupidity' he growled. 'Need to think more clearly in the morning.'

He looked at me levelly, daring me to disagree with him.

Which was more than enough to make me do just that.

'Volg off, Wrack! If she wants a fight, she can have one!'

'Sorrel assumes that she can solve everything with violence' Berindyl said caustically.

I was on my feet, about to fling the remnants of my cider into her face, before I realised that doing so would prove her right.

As always, comments welcomed!

SFFSat 5/4/14

This is my snippet this week for SFFSat. SFFSat is a place where a number of authors post snippets from their written works, and give the opportunity for comments, support and encouragement. Please also explore the other blogs that are part of this set - you can find the information here. 


This time, I'm putting up a snippet from Sorrel in Silver, the third volume in Sorrel's saga. Sorrel is in an aerial duel with an acid-spitting snarq. She ducked into a column of smoke, just as the brute's spittle connected.

I hauled back on the stick. An unwise inhalation of smoke made my lungs burn. Beside me, over the roar of the engines, I could just hear Kelhene coughing, too. The Cygnet was climbing, and the cockpit was suddenly awash with light again from the nearest lantern tree. I stared round us wildly, trying to spot any of the snarqs – or Wrack.

Four of the acid-spitting brutes had soared into the air as we neared the burning ruins of Telzanrik. Wrack had peeled off instantly and dived towards the first of the blue horrors. I'd barbecued a second with a blast of fire from the magerealm moments later – no way I was letting Wrack have all the credit for the kills – before the third one had swung around behind us. The smoke from the inferno below us was coating the wings with soot; but the canvass on the upper right wing was a nasty shade of yellow, the doped cloth disintegrating as I watched. If the acid went on eating into the aeroplane we were in real trouble.

  As always, comments welcomed!