The Short Read: Hermes

A journey through the centuries on the way to a threatened planet, Emily Chance’s astonishing visionary science fiction novel Hermes both reflects and redefines the history of our own world. The brilliant-white wheel revolved majestically through the emptiness of space, a glorious contrast to the blackness it was passing through. The station looked fully functional, its antennae spun around, searching out the heavens, and the docked vehicle appeared to be ready to journey into the deep, but the truth was quite different, this glorious testament to earlier achievements had been abandoned long ago. Onboard only one system was active, the scanner; and it was scanning the dead planet below. The scan had been triggered by the intelligence that, in the absence of the crew, now controlled the station, a keen, resourceful, intelligence, that had been crafted with noble motives; to build a space vehicle that would take its creator to the stars. Its mission, now, entirely different, was to scan for signs of life below, but there was nothing. The intelligence adjusted the station’s orbit over the planet. Paradoxically, the decision to initiate the manoeuvre was driven by an emotion, hope, not that there was much. The skies were toxic, electrical storms rent the sulphurous carbon dioxide-infested clouds. As the station continued its journey, the intelligence updated the log, written in the beautiful script of the nation of storytellers who, one hundred years ago, had commissioned its construction. However, for any future reader, it would be the last fifty years entries that they would be rivetted by; the story of the planet’s unremitting decay, of the creeping destruction of all life, overseen by the dominant species of the planet. One way and another, everything had the life choked out of it, and no attempt had been made to stop it from happening. However, there was to be one more act in this tragic drama, the scan’s beacon began to glow and resonate, four hundred and ten kilometres below, something was moving. *** He crawled up the dune on all fours. He was covered from the searing heat of the sun in tattered and torn remnants of what had once been a state-of-the-art environmental suit. The real problem now, though, was breathing. The atmosphere was so thin it felt like he was inhaling dust. He stopped to thump his chest and coughed. Could he remember a time when breathing was easy, when you could inhale cool mountain air and gather energy from it? Adam had moved up into the mountains of the South Island twenty years ago when the food riots had reached them. The riots had been going on across the rest of the world for many years, but his homeland, far off the beaten track, had managed to beat off any invaders and sustain itself. Eventually though, hundreds of thousands had arrived, overwhelming the local navy, and managed to make landfall. They were desperate, starving and war had quickly broken out. Well, not war – that sounds like something, coordinated, and organised. This was everyone for themselves and it was ugly. Anarchy had come within days, and he had retreated inland. He knew he could hunt and fish in the lower Alps and sustain himself. But so did others and there had been confrontations, which had led to death. He had survived in this manner for twenty years, isolated from the outside world without news of what was happening beyond the valley. Until now, when the forest fires had begun a few days ago. He knew if he was going to survive, he had to make it to the sea. The journey to the coast had begun with a climb to the head of the valley to spy out the land to the coast. He had brought his infrared binoculars so he could check the city. Even now, after all these years, he was shocked. Buildings were on fire, smoke rising into the sky. Some had collapsed, others were scarred, and external walls had disintegrated, exposing ransacked apartments, restaurants and offices. A story of ruin that global media had followed until it didn’t. There was something else he noticed. An eerie silence; no traffic, no aircraft flying, no movement at all. The wind got up, which was when he sensed something even more defining: the stench of death. It emerged out of bodies lying in the streets, and herds of cattle lying in the fields. A tale of unchecked rampant disease, of the thousand and one ailments of an unhealthy, disease-ridden population. He decided to go North and avoid the city. He only needed to crawl a little further to reach the top of the Dune. On he went, clawing his way to the top. At last, he was there, he scrambled over the top and looked out. It was over. Far above, the intelligence considered the lone figure, looking out across the dried-up ocean seabed. He seemed to falter, then collapse in a heap and finally, he turned over and looked up to the sky. That was it, the last man standing… falling. So, what should the intelligence do? It had been born out of a desire to facilitate but somehow it had at some point grown beyond that. It was now capable of having a point of view, which it could act upon, and most importantly a view shaped by the moral compass of its creator. For a long time, the intelligence considered what to do. The creator had hoped to set out across the heavens to a world, teaming with life, that had been discovered one hundred years ago but had never found the means to do so. Therein lay the answer. They must reach out to the world that the creator had planned to visit. On board the Barnamaj Station the calibrations were made, the data assembled, and a gentle stream of pulses passed out into the heavens. Their plea for help began its forty-light-year odyssey. In response ‘they’ made no judgement; they simply
Jason M. Kennedy’s THE BLOOD COAST

Read an extract from The Blood Coast by Jason M. Kennedy – A GRITTY SPY THRILLER FROM A FORMER INTELLIGENCE AND PARAMILITARY PROFESSIONAL. In an adrenaline-fuelled ride along the Cornish coast, Peter Krane, a world weary MI6 agent, comes into contact with a rogue Government agent that he thought was dead, and beyond that into the secret world of weapons testing and a shocking family revelation. 1. ON THE FAR SIDE of England. Deep in the West Country. Things where winding down. Drawing to a close in a simple quiet Cornish way. The same as it always had. It was the end of yet another warm sunny day. And the night was slowly drawing-in. The sky was blood-red and seemed almost angry. But in the small harbour community nobody noticed. Things seemed the same and nothing out of the ordinary. The last of the small fishing boats had already come in and landed their catch. And the seagulls had long since flown away to their roosts. And the last of the dockside trades had closed up. But further out, just past the point, another wasn’t ready to come in yet. The calm gentle sea gently lapped against the side of the old fishing boat. Wave after wave rolled over, danced and fizzed as it chugged along. Silhouetted against the horizon and the pitch of the bruised red sky, it didn’t look out of place. It was probably one of many, that had past that day. And no-one ashore would think any different, even perhaps if it was seen. But it sailed on. It had a purpose. An intent. And the two men aboard were bringing to a close the final stages of a dark one. Banking around the boat sat broadside. The engine was cut and the small vessel was allowed to drift on the gentle current. The two occupants in the wheelhouse gazed out at the vast sea surrounding them. And surveyed the shore-line through an old pair of battered German Naval binoculars. They were alone. Totally alone. No activity in the harbour. No other vessels coming their way. Not even a seagull flying above. The sun continued to sink slowly and majestically into the sea. And now only the harbour lights and bluff-point were faintly visible in the hazy shadow of the fading light. The darkness was now starting to take hold. Becoming ‘Witching-Hour’. The door to the wheelhouse creaked open and together the two occupants slowly strolled out onto the old, weathered deck of the little trawler. They stared hard in unison at the large grey parcel that lay there. They seemed to be gauging it. It was really no bigger than a small under-croft fridge. So at least perhaps manageable. They circled it. Several times. Then their hesitation vanished and they both stooped and grabbed the ends as best they could. It was heavy. Slippery and cumbersome. The contents were uneven and even appeared to move and fight back at being man-handled. They struggled on. Then heaving it up, landed it with a thud onto the stern-cover. Just above the now silent engine. They paused studying it. Then with a shove, rolled it over and it splashed-down into the sea like a depth-charge. They both reeled, avoiding the spray, then finally leaned forward. Scanning the surf to make sure it had sunk. There was no mistake. It was gone. No sign of it. Only the tell-tale fizz and foam of where the sea had been broken in its wake. The older of the two turned and gave a slight nod. And the other sauntered back to the wheel house and started the engine and with a burble the little boat gathered pace and slowly moved away. The man on deck flexed his chest, taking in the salty breeze. Then reached in through his over-coat and pulled out a slim pencil-like cigar. He twirled it in his fingers then tore-off the wrapping and cast it out into the sea. With a flick of his silver Dunhill lighter, he breathed a spit of flame into it. And finally with a strong powerful exhale, kept a watchful eye on the last of the bubbles, just to make sure. *** The turbulence was heavy. And seemed relentless. The 747 had a smooth flight. But as it neared the UK the bad weather kicked in and the sheer hulk of the plane rocked countlessly from side to side. Coupled with dropping attitude several times like a kite dancing in a gale. Those who weren’t awake, were now. Nervously shook from their slumber by the cabin floor coming up and almost hitting them square in the face. But finally, the wheels of the 747 screamed as they touched-down at Heathrow. And seat belt clicks reverberated through the cabin like metal castanets. As everyone made a sudden and eager scramble for their bags and the exit. But one person remained still. He wasn’t in any hurry. And leaning forward from his seat, he glanced down the aisle. He could see the plane was almost empty. So realising this he finally made his move. He liked to hang at the back. As no one ever paid any attention to who was last. Everybody on board just wanted off. After almost 30 years of tirelessly serving the government. Peter Crane was ready for some leave. Indefinite! And long-overdue. Grabbing his bags at arrivals he sauntered through customs via a secret route. Being an operative for MI6 had its perks. Crane breezed on unseen down through a side corridor. And to his left through mirrored glass, he could see the holiday makers queuing-up. There were only two guys checking passports, so they would have a long wait. He’d seen this so many times. It was almost second nature. Tired mums and dads. Screaming kids. And grandparents who looked like death-warmed-up and ready to give-in and collapse were they stood. Luckily, there was no sound. Crane was thankful for some small mercies and the genius of