Writing over Christmas and new Year proved to be a non-starter. I took my laptop on holiday with me as we went on holiday over the festive period, but got so little private time to actually boot it up and type anything that it was a wasted effort taking the laptop with me!
Now everyone is back to work, the sessions have resumed and we're off. A couple of cracking tweaks flashed into my brain from who knows where and the second Paragons novel is shaping up nicely. Here's a sneak peek...
Turning to look out the window
across the glinting cityscape before him, Bruce strokes his chin
pensively. This city is a concrete
jungle stuffed full of stressed out citizens in a technological hive, kept safe
by a security wall that keeps them in, and the bad guys out. Well, most of the time. If it could teleport, fly, turn invisible or
shrink, it could still get past the defences.
And that’s when they called The Sanctioned Trackers.
If he'd stayed at The Pound then
he could be dating other women, hunting down bad guys and banking a
fortune. No haughty shipping magnates
and their insufferable social climbing.
No using children as trophies and planning chess moves for prestige and
political gain.
Now he's got to play the role of
dutiful bread winner and significant other.
Be a pillar of the community.
Ha! How ironic. If only the community knew.
People are animals. No scratch that. Animals don't stab each other in the
back. In a pack of wolves, what you see
is what you get. One alpha male, one
female, the strong and the weak, the young bucks and the wise old ones. It's dog eat dog, kill or be killed, survival
of the fittest. But at least it's honest. No strategy, no game playing or tactical
moves.
Then there are the normal
humans, if you could call them that.
Some good, some bad, and most somewhere in the grey zone in the
middle. One big herd shuffling along
like cattle, being given enough titillation and fear to keep them
compliant. A basic wage and a SprawBall
team to support at weekends, plus as much meaningless marketing and propaganda
as they can absorb.
Some don't settle for their
lot. Some want everyone else's, and will
take it by force. And a few get away
with it too. The serial killers, the
slavers, the crazies. And that's where the Trackers come in.
It's OK to hunt down criminals
for money - cleaning up the streets, protecting society. Powder, Turk, being guided by the Watch Commander
and taking those fuckers down. It's a
dirty job but somebody's got to do it, and besides, it's way cheaper to hire a
mutant Gamma Hound [as the normals call the Trackers] than to train an Arbiter
for the fifteen years they need to be streetwise.
"Maybe I should have joined
Justice Department Psi-Corps? Nah, then
I'd have had to answer to that idiot D'Spatch," he says to an invisible
confidant.
Tyra's photos seem to follow him
as he slowly paces the room. His mind is all over the place, and that's even
with the wine. It's OK to make money
from your looks and your body too - if you've got it, flaunt it. That's how
Tyra has made her living. But she's also
kept her virginity, and her dignity.
Nothing sleazy, no porn, just glamour shots that even her mother
reluctantly approved of.
So many options. And how best to move forward from here? Carry a Bearpaw blaster, or a class
register?
With the former, not only would
he be gone for long periods of time, he'd come back smelling of who-knows-what
and covered in cuts and bruises. Plus
Tyra would never be completely safe. If
one of his bounties ever learned he had a wife, she could end up a hostage, a
casualty, or worse.
With the latter he's now getting
used to being a University Lecturer teaching biochemistry to a group of
semi-conscious youths who will probably never use it, or will use it to
manufacture synthetic drugs to keep them semi-conscious. Now he's going to do his best to fit in,
enjoy the family roast on Sundays and pay his taxes. Now he's leaving the perps to his
ex-colleagues.
"God I miss the thrill of
the chase..."
That's when he gets the phone
call. The sound isn't as piercing as he
was expecting. But he sensed who's
calling.
"God sometimes I hate being
psychic..."
