Welcome to the House of Remus
This is me
Learning is the engine of a wise mind
Dear visitors, thank you for coming and I hope you like the what you see.
I have to put a little bit about me below if you want to know, but I assure you, my work is far more entertaining and exciting; well, here goes in brief...
I’m Philip Remus, or simply Remus. I come from urban Southeast London. I hated school, it was a failing, under-resourced, underfunded inner London comprehensive school that did bugger all for dyslexic kids like me, and was an intellectual vacuum for enquiring minds, and I’ll leave it at that.
I moved to France and lived and worked throughout mainland Europe, which was a perfect base from where I could take off exploring archaeological sites, museums and concentration camp memorial sites such as Auschwitz-Birkenau and Dachau - yes, you did read right, under my other pen name Chris Black I write contemporary fiction along with a series of historical thrillers based in Nazi Germany and WWII, see Chris Black page for my novels and more details.
I've always had an inquisitive mind and my two true loves are creative writing and history, and thanks to my spinal injury, I've been given this open window of opportunity to combine these interests into some exciting and thoroughly researched novels.
My other passions is, global and local conservation. I have a deep love of animals, from humble spiders to noble lions, all life is precious, from the adorably beautiful to the repulsively ugly.
GREAT NEW REVIEW FOR GODS OF MEN, AMPHIPOLIS
From the Historical Fiction Comany
Gods of Men, Amphipolis Review In the fourth installment of the ‘Gods of Men’ series, Amphipolis by Philip Remus is a riveting continuation of his exploration into the complexities of ancient warfare and politics. This novel shines a spotlight on a lesser known but pivotal moment of the Peloponnesian War and delivers a pulse-pounding narrative as Spartan general Brasidas turns his sights on the strategically crucial city of Amphipolis. With Athens's military ambitions clashing with Sparta's relentless drive, the stakes couldn't be higher. As Brasidas seeks to seize this key stronghold, he faces not only fierce resistance but also internal betrayals and political machinations. His uneasy alliance with Perdiccas of Macedon adds another layer of tension, leading to unexpected twists and high-stakes drama. Remus brings to life the intense power struggles and personal conflicts that defined this era. The way the story is told, from the strategy, betrayal, and resilience of the characters is simply stunning. The story begins right in the middle of a siege—a firestorm ravaging Sphacteria, the embattled islet where Spartan forces, led by Epitadas, face a dire situation. Tension is high, and there is a palpable sense of foreboding as the Spartans, cut off from aid and struggling with the Athenians' blockade, prepare for an inevitable confrontation. Demosthenes proposes a strategy to land men from both the west and east sides of the island simultaneously, and close in on both sides to overwhelm the Spartans. Since it has been an ongoing siege, both the Spartan numbers and morale are low. Meanwhile, the Spartan side is in dire straits, in despair, feeling abandoned by the gods and resigned to dying on the island. They’re severely rationed on food, and have resorted to boiling the last of the oats and eating lizards, worms, and insects to survive. Attempts to smuggle food have failed, since the Athenians have blockaded Pylos and Sphacteria, cutting off all supplies. Remus deftly captures the grim determination of the Spartans and the shifting tides of Athenian strategy, showcasing a clash of philosophies between the war mongering Cleon and the more temperate Nicias. More on this later, but the character development in this book is simply brilliant. It is clear that Remus writes from a deep knowledge of history, but also of human psychology. As the Athenians, under Cleon and Demosthenes, plan a night assault, the tension builds as they plot and set in action a plan they have been preparing for. The battle sequences are vivid and intense, showing the chaos of war and the strategic brilliance and desperation on both sides. The surprise attack, with its stealth and ferocity, culminates in a significant Spartan victory that felt satisfying—Remus's skill in portraying the high stakes and brutal reality of ancient warfare has won the day. One of the novel's most compelling elements is its portrayal of Brasidas, a Spartan general whose audacious plans and personal sacrifices drive much of the plot. Remus explores Brasidas's character with loving depth, depicting him as both a tactical genius and a flawed hero. The political stakes are heightened by his interactions with key figures like Lysander and the Macedonian King Perdiccas. The layers of intrigue and betrayal keep adding up. ‘We should’ve died fighting, to the very last of us.’ Nobody responded; after all, what could they say, he was only saying what they were too afraid to say, but every one of them thought it. They had fought like Spartans, but they did not die like Spartans. Sparta must be ashamed of them … how could they not be? To their surprise, the Lakedaimonians were treated with a good deal of respect by their captors. Not one Athenian soldier spat on them, or hit them. Even the spectators seemed to afford the Spartans some measure of respect. It was entirely unexpected, and Styphon for one was relieved. Of course, it might all be a ruse to keep them calm while they were led away to be killed? They wouldn’t be the first Spartans to be put to death by the Athenians in this war. The novel also does an excellent job of exploring the human cost of war. The capture of Spartan prisoners and their subsequent treatment was an interesting contrast between Spartan honor and Athenian pragmatism. Remus doesn't shy away from showing the emotional and psychological impacts of these events, adding a rich, human dimension to the political and military maneuvers. Despite how intense the politics and the battles are, the characters are truly the heart and soul of the novel. Remus brings historical figures to life with a depth and complexity that makes them feel real and relatable. Each character has distinct motivations, personal struggles, and evolving relationships that drive the plot forward. Brasidas, for instance, is portrayed as a charismatic and determined leader whose tactical brilliance is matched by his personal vulnerabilities. His personal conflicts and the sacrifices he makes make him both admirable and deeply human. You most certainly want a Brasidas in your corner. Cleon, on the other hand, comes across as ambitious and fiercely driven, but also flawed and overconfident. His aggressive strategies and political maneuvering reinforce the high stakes of the conflict, while his personal interactions reveal a more nuanced, human side. Even the most war hungry, ambitious people are ultimately still human. The supporting characters, like Lysander and Epitadas, are also well-developed. Lysander's growth as the book progresses is satisfying to read and his relationship with Brasidas was wonderful, while Epitadas’s struggles and leadership challenges offer a grounded perspective on the Spartan side of the conflict. Overall, the characters in Amphipolis serve to enhance both the historical drama and the personal stakes of the story. The pacing is brisk, with each chapter driving the plot forward while providing ample historical and strategic context, drawing readers into the historical setting effortlessly. Remus balances deep historical accuracy with functional, precise prose that brings ancient Greece to life and allows his storytelling to shine. His descriptions are present without being overwhelming. This might not appeal to readers who prefer more languid and lush prose, but his style does bring an immediacy and authenticity to the story that works here. The dialogue was delightful, and captured the nuances of each character's voice and made interactions feel authentic and dynamic. The conversations are sharp and purposeful, often revealing deeper layers of the characters and advancing the plot in a natural way. The pacing is generally well maintained, with a good mix of action and introspection. Remus knows when to dive into detailed tactical descriptions and when to pull back and focus on character development or thematic elements. This balance keeps the narrative moving and maintains reader interest nicely. There are few bad things to say about Amphipolis. Philip Remus delivers a compelling addition to the "Gods of Men" series, combining historical detail with a gripping narrative. The novel stands out for its wonderful character studies, intense battle scenes, and its exploration of the moral ambiguities of war. Fans of the series will find much to admire, while newcomers will be drawn into a richly imagined historical saga.
******
“Gods of Men: “Gods of Men: Amphipolis” by Philip Remus receives 4.5 stars from The Historical Fiction Company
Gods of men
The Gods of Men novels transport you to another time, when the world was so different and yet so similar, bringing back to life one of the bloodiest and longest conflicts in human history. What the Athenians and modern scholars call the Peloponnesian War. The Gods of Men series of novels takes a uniquely Spartan perspective of the “Delian War” from the very beginning, 431-404 BCE among the men who shaped their world and beyond. The stories are woven seamlessly with the facts, so you get an exciting and dramatic story that brings to life one of the most feared and enigmatic city states of the ancient world, seen through the eyes of one of its greatest generals, Lysander of Sparta.
CRIS BLACK
MEET THE CHAMELEON
The Chameleon saga of novels are inspired real events and includes real personages as well as fictitious characters. In these novels, the stories are set within real events and in chronological order, with each book containing a stand-alone story with the recurring characters of the protagonists. I was inspired to write these novels by a dear friend who lived through these terrible times.
Kurt Eichhorn, codenamed Chameleon is an Abwehr spy and a conspirator against the Nazis, belonging to something called the von Wallenberg Orchestra (Partly inspired the “Black Orchestra” conspiracy), locked in a seemingly eternal struggle to destroy Hitler and reinstate democracy in Germany and eventually Europe and beyond).
So far there are four Chameleon novels, links and retails below.
You might say my mind is a bit wired, because from the past, my work diversifies to the future and the here and now with my near future thriller, “Twisted Maze” and a Dystopian far future sci-fi “NORAD’s Ghost”, and another near future, sci-fi horror “Mr. Ripple” (Coming in September 2024).
Reviews of my work so far
REVIEWS
GODS OF MEN, WHERE THE SPARTANS ARE MADE
Reviewed by Natalie Soine for Readers' Favorite
Gods of Men: Where the Spartans are Made by Philip Remus tells the story of Lysander, who is deemed a mothax (bastard). At the age of seven, Lysander is sent to the Rearing to become a Spartan. Paidonomos Kleisthenes, a Cyclops, commands the young Spartans with severe punishment if his strict rules are disobeyed. Lysander proves to be a strong fighter and is considered by his peers to be their herd leader. Lysander leads the young boy army in a war game against the ephebe army, which they have never won. Brasidas is to mentor one of the boys, who all dream of having Brasidas as their hero. But only one boy is worthy of him. Lysander must first go on the Phauaxir (Fox time). This is so much more than a simple test of endurance; it is one of solitude and survival. Of all the tests put to the boys of the Rearing, the Diamastigosis of Artemis-Ortheia is the most important, a rite of passage from the world of children into the world of men. Lysander takes part in the theater in the spectacle of the Hyakinthian Horsemen where he displays his riding skills. To become a fully initiated kryptes would be the greatest achievement of his life, despite how much Lysander had already achieved.
Gods of Men by Philip Remus is eloquently written and well researched with an abundance of historical information. The story is smooth-flowing and creates eager anticipation for the reader to find out what happens next in the life of Lysander. The interesting variety of characters all have their own personalities that are so well captured they seem to come alive on the pages, from the scary Paidonomos Kleisthenes to mentor Brasidas as well as Gylippos and Phrynikos. I especially enjoyed the poetry, fables, myths, and legends included in the story. The dialogue is perfectly written as it would have been at that time, including the humor and philosophies. There is a useful glossary of terms that assists the reader in understanding much of the ancient dialogue. Overall, a thoroughly enjoyable and educational novel, highly recommended for all ages. (**** 5 Stars)
VERIFIED READER REVIEWS
5.0 out of 5 stars Well written historical fiction
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 6 October 2016
Great book; engaging story that made me want to keep reading on. Well written with a distinctive style of prose.
I rather liked the character arc too.
Recommended.
Pavlina Marneri
5.0 out of 5 stars Warrior education in depth
Reviewed in the United States on 18 July 2020
I read both books of the trilogy, waiting for the third with anticipation. Remus has decided to tackle an extremely difficult subject and I dare say he is also the first to take that particular shot and having great results. Without resulting to dillude the story with the trivia of Spartan education, society and politics (something that plagues other stories of the type) he goes into depth on the multifasceted theme by having done actual research beforehand. The book's plot and characters manage to remain extremely engaging from start to finish which is a rarity in of itself. This work deserves much more time in the spotlight that it is being given. "Underrated" is a perfect description of this small masterpiece.
Gods of men, the Delian War
“Remus gets you to live in the ancient times...”
“The crafting of characters and differences in action between major and minor characters were some of my favorite features in the book…”
“The action and adventure in ‘God’s Of Men: The Delian War’ is an enticing book that gets the reader on edge with every new page…”
“The characters are supremely constructed, with the author creating variables and distinct features in the main characters to give them strong personalities…”
“Gods of Men: The Delian War will make you fantasize about military action, life as a soldier, and how to take care of obstacles while on a mission.
“Philip Remus’s creativity deserves an honorable mention as the author created scenarios that are not only mind-blowing but also captivating for any action and thriller lover…”
Reader reviews
4.0 out of 5 stars Gods of Men
Reviewed in the United States on March 22, 2021
The action and adventure in ‘God’s Of Men: The Delian War’ is an enticing book that gets the reader on edge with every new page. The characters are supremely constructed, with the author creating variables and distinct features in the main characters to give them strong personalities. ‘Gods of Men: The Delian War’ will make you fantasize about military action, life as a soldier, and how to take care of obstacles while on a mission. Philip Remus’s creativity deserves an honorable mention as the author created scenarios that are not only mind-blowing but also captivating for any action and thriller lover.
In the book, we follow Lysander of Sparta, a warrior who will do everything to earn his place. Lysander is an interesting character. The author made him strong, witty, and likable. To some people, Lysander was trying too much. Going to challenge parties older and sometimes more experienced than his is not what many young warriors would do. The reader is entertained as the author narrates events happening between different empires and cities. ‘Gods of Men: The Delian War’ will make you appreciate historical fiction and the effort the author put to come up with the stories. Apart from the astounding narration, I liked the naming in the book. Both characters and locations had distinct and unique names that fit the features given.
‘Gods of Men: The Delian War’ is an easy read. The storyline flows smoothly and the plot gets more interesting with every major action. Some of the literary elements that made ‘Gods of Men: The Delian War’ an exciting read include vivid description, use of metaphors, symbolism, sayings, and comparisons. Philip Remus gets you to live in the ancient times as you experience modernity. The crafting of characters and differences in action between major and minor characters were some of my favorite features in the book.
GODS OF MEN, RISE OF THE WOLF
Ben O'Neill
5.0 out of 5 stars Recommended
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on May 10, 2022
Mind-blowingly accurate, unique perspective of the Peloponnesian War, with nail biting storytelling that I just couldn’t stop reading, much like in the other Gods of Men Books. Mr Remus is not only a superb storyteller, he’s an excellent historian, depicting the times very accurately. Great read from start to finish.
COLLEGIUM BROTHERTHOOD OF ROGUES
Reviewed By Deepak Menon for Readers’ Favorite
Collegium: Brotherhood of Rogues by Philip Remus begins with Gaius Octavius Julius Caesar (whose adoptive father was the great Julius Caesar), one of the principal protagonists, intoxicated by the fruits of victory, arrogantly looking at Agrippa’s fleet and gazing at the impressive fortifications that have done Egypt no good in the end. Caesar has taken the city by land in a broad pincer from which Antonius and Cleopatra could not escape. Caesar reflects on his mother's prophetic words that one day he would rule the world. He discusses his thoughts of cementing his power with his close friends and companions, Duilius, Agrippa, and Calvinus. Caesar explains that though Marcus Antonius has committed suicide, he has become even more dangerous than a mortal man, with many dangerous single-minded followers remaining. Caesar ignores Calvinus' pleading to avoid making the mistakes his father had made before him by allowing his enemies to live. In a nutshell, he puts his true desire to get 'imperium maius' (supreme command of all Roman forces) on hold.
Collegium: Brotherhood of Rogues by Philip Remus begins with a glossary, a pleasant digression from the 'glossary at the end' generally used with esoteric terms and words. From the beginning, the pace is fast and effortlessly generates tension in the reader's mind – it certainly had me turning the pages rather frantically to get to what follows. All the protagonists are powerful personalities with historical roles. Caesar sets the tone for the entire book by stating that he wants to return to Rome as her savior, not her conqueror since he desires people to love him. In Collegium, Philip Remus does not shy away from brutally laying bare the horrors of the times, including episodes of horrendous murder, rape, mutilation, torture, and others, which warrant an adult classification. The gripping pace and incredible story delivered a fast-paced, exciting narrative across numerous scenarios and has few equals in its genre! I am happy to award this wonderful work a glowing 5 stars!
CHAMELEON
5.0 out of 5 stars Worth the read!
Reviewed in the United States on November 9, 2020
Chameleon by Chris Black follows Kurt who is an orphan of WWI from the slums of Berlin. He is raised by a wealthy loving Jewish couple who give him the best that money can buy.
The story is set in the twenties during political turmoil with Hitler as an icon at that time. Kurt is not interested in the Bolsheviks or the Nazis. After graduation, Kurt becomes a counterintelligence agent and a commissioned Lieutenant. His father gets gunned down by a Nazis and this is a turning point for Kurt. Max, the head of Abwehr counterespionage recruits Kurt to intercept the missing dossier. On the mission Kurt falls in love and ends up fighting for his friend’s life, lover’s life and his own life.
This story was not at all what I had expected and is definitely full of surprises. Chris Black has done a great job crafting this suspenseful narrative keeping the reader intrigued. The story is written in the third person with dialogues mingled in the chapters and it is aimed at any type of reader. There are some sensitive topics in the book that the reader should be aware of since the book deals with politics and war. The main character Kurt is a complicated and complex character. His story was well developed that I felt like I knew him when I finished the book. Black’s writing is incredible and his ability to create such opposite characters in the story is applaudable. The drama, suspense, and solid plot kept me hooked from the beginning.
I believe Chameleon has a bit of everything and that is the reason why I loved it so much and it was hard for me to put the book down. Worth the read!
Paul
5.0 out of 5 stars A great read
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on September 20, 2022
Chris has a very clear grasp of the complexities of Weimar Republic political instability as well as building a genuinely real gay character rather then playing to typical stereotypes. This is a great insight into LGBT history and the rise of the Third Reich.
maple gum tree
5.0 out of 5 stars Dramatic love and loss
Reviewed in Australia on January 10, 2021
This was a book I couldn't read fast enough and yet didn't want to end that quickly. A profound story of a growing love and loss, not only once, but again. The gay person is no less immune to tragedy, disappointments and loss than his counterparts are. It is good to see that authors can recognize such characteristics and write about them without condemnation these days.
Chameleon, the Terror Begins
“Recommend it to anyone interested in reading a well-crafted story or a better understanding of the things that transpired in Nazi Germany…”
“I was captivated by this story from the first sentence to the last word…” (Online Book Club)
“The thrill, suspense, and anticipation the book stirred prompted me to keep reading straight until the end…” (Online Book Club)
“From different angles, the author gave an inside view of Adolf Hitler's reign of terror. I had a glimpse of what went on at different government levels, inside a concentration camp, and normal citizens trying to go about their day to day lives…! (Online Book Club)
“The narrative was how the author masterfully used a cliffhanger to end the book. Readers wouldn't feel that the story was inconclusive, yet they'd anticipate the next book in the series. I'd give a lot of credit to the author for this because I've read books that left me hanging in a bid to create anticipation for the next one…”
Chameleon is a powerful novel set in Nazi Germany, during World War II. The author depicts the harrowing events, bone chilling fear, inhumane violence and senseless cruelty which was rampant during that time with skill and heartfelt emotions. This can be a difficult read and certainly comes with a fair share of trigger warnings. However, this is due to the nature of the content of the novel as opposed to the writing itself.
The author has significant skill in getting to the heart of many of the issues during that time. One of the protagonists, Kurt, is acting as a double agent working both for the Nazi’s as well as engaging in vigilante justice against them. His perspective about the Nazi movement is on point after being accosted to constantly show his identity papers, “The Nazis were masters at the art of incrementalism, picking away at the threads of liberty one at a time so the unenlightened masses would hardly blink at it and even excuse it. But the noose was tightening, and the enlightened such as him could not only feel it, they could see it happening all around them every day, and some of the stories he had heard of torture and unspeakable brutality, turned even his seasoned blood cold.” This is a powerful statement about the extensive brainwashing campaigns which were occurring all over Germany and the susceptibility of the masses to this bombardment. It perfectly reveals the gradual process of indoctrination that the Nazi’s meted out and how people’s freedoms were plucked away bit by bit without them even realizing.
As well as Kurt, another protagonist who plays an important role within the novel is Victor von Ritter. He is the son of a high ranking Nazi and is forced into the party. However, a well kept secret is the fact that he is homosexual. This was an extremely dangerous orientation to have during this time as gay men and women were thrown in concentration camps and usually received the worst treatment from the guards. The fear that homosexuals faced during this time is palpable throughout the novel. The emotions stirred within Kurt depict this state, “Kurt took a drag from his cigarette. Watching them abusing and arresting his priapic brothers and not being able to help them was tearing him apart. It filled him with a murderous rage – and fear, such hideous fear, all the time, stemming from being terrified someone would find out that he was a One-SevenFiver too, and that he too would be dragged off by the Gestapo to be beaten, tortured and thrown into a concentration camp. It didn’t matter who he was. Jews and Homosexuals were Himmler’s and Heydrich’s pet hates, and they were on a crusade to eradicate both from Germany.”
Chameleon is well-paced and keeps the readers on their toes as to what will happen next. Chapter’s end on cliffhangers keeping readers on tenterhooks. The suspense, espionage, plot twists and subterfuge are skillfully implemented, completely entrenching readers in a different, more horrific world. The author’s descriptions of key authority figures within the Nazi regime is nothing short of chilling. This is captured when Victor meets SS-Standartenführer Nikita Solberg, “Solberg looked up from his chair, his pale blue eyes so bright they were almost incandescent like sea ice backlit by the sun. There wasn’t a single glimmer of meekness or humanity to be found anywhere in those cold, glowing beads of ice. They might have been vacant windows hiding a machine of cogs and springs that, like Heydrich, knew nothing of the human condition or of empathy. He existed purely on the basest of predatory instincts, always looking for the jugular before he looked for anything else.”
The lack of humanity truly is the most horrifying aspect behind all that occurred during this time, which the author retells perfectly.
Moreover, the author captures the atrocities faced by the concentration camp prisoners in heartbreaking detail. Through his descriptions, readers truly get a sense of the total loss in freedom and brutality the prisoners were forced to endure. This is evident through one of his descriptions of Dachau, “The horrors and daily hell of life in the camp were simply too much for some, breaking not only their bodies, but their minds too, and they withdrew into an inner world. And could not or would not be retrieved. Nothing, not even the threat of being shot would make them endure any more. They were soon taken away to be quietly murdered by the SS.”
Although Chameleon is a work of fiction, the author includes notes at the end of the chapters pertaining to information relating to some of the true historical figures. This adds a layer of depth to the story as well as anchors it into reality. It is too easy to read these sorts of stories and feel a sense of separation, as if the horrors enacted couldn’t possibly be true or committed by real people. However, the author emphasizes the point that the atrocities were real, committed by real people. This is such an important element to include as it reminds readers that we must collectively learn from our mistakes, value other human beings unconditionally, prize our personal and collective freedoms and not let these be taken from us under any circumstances.
Additionally, the author is particularly talented at developing the main characters. Readers truly get a sense of knowing who they are, their motivations and their values and ideals in life. Readers get extensive insight into the mental and emotional landscapes of their minds. The only potential weakness may be that there are many characters introduced throughout the course of the novel which resulted in a hefty mental load for readers to remember. Nonetheless, this did not interrupt the flow of the story nor the strong emotions and connection it evoked.
Chameleon could be perceived as a difficult read due to the powerful nature and emotions evoked within the story. However, it is crafted with such skill and interweaves noble themes such as freedom, love, humanity, truth and sticking to one’s ideals which this reader found made it an important read. The author obviously engaged in what must have been meticulous and extensive research to bring about this highly informative and heartrending story.
*****“Chameleon, the Terror Begins” by Chris Black receives four stars from The Historical Fiction Company
Reviewed by Natalie Soine for Readers' Favorite
Chameleon: The Terror Begins by Chris Black starts in May 1933. Mysterious marksman Kurt Eichorn is determined to destroy the Nazi regime. Having already executed Meister for murdering Hauptmann Wagner, Kurt becomes a member of the “Von Hagendorf Orchestra.” He lives by the law of the gun, killing Gestapo sadists when not working as a counterespionage agent for the Abwehr. Kurt embarks on a quest to save a man from the Dachau camp. Upon his return, Kurt is reunited with Untersturmführer Victor Graf von Ritter who is in Berlin to investigate the theft of a Gestapo list and forged identity papers. The two men team up to identify sinister powers behind the forgeries and halt an atrocity at the Nuremberg Rally, all while keeping a life-threatening secret. Kurt must choose between doing his duty and killing Adolf Hitler, even when he is in grave danger.
Chameleon: The Terror Begins is an incredible novel, filled with suspense, action, and thrills as Kurt and Victor risk their lives to solve many mysteries including the identity of Archangel. Author Chris Black has certainly done his research and provides a chronology for the period 1934-1935, an immense help in piecing the story together. There are many twists and turns as well as a few surprises along the way. The numerous characters are well described and easy to relate to – as are their relationships. The scenes and locations are accurately depicted in detail, helping to form a visual of each area. The historical details and information add an educational aspect to the novel. The story is well-written and smooth flowing, an absolute pleasure to read, and highly recommended to adults.
What do we do when we don't fit into the mold other people made for us? How do we combine duty and desire? These questions, and more, are treated by Chris Black in Chameleon: The Terror Begins; the second book in the Chameleon series.
The story was set in the time of the Nazi regime, during the reign of Adolf Hitler in Germany. It followed several characters' lives as they tried to make the best of their situations while avoiding death. Hitler had ordered the arrest, imprisonment, and execution of people he considered offensive, including Jews, gays, disabled people, etc. While trying to come to terms with a world where people were murdered and tortured for no reason, the three main characters found themselves involved in a covert plot against the German government.
The plot started as seemingly innocuous, but as they uncovered more evidence and as more dead bodies kept turning up, they found out that it was bigger than any of them anticipated. While trying to catch up with their enemy, they also had to protect a secret that might destroy them.
I was captivated by this story from the first sentence to the last word. The thrill, suspense, and anticipation the book stirred prompted me to keep reading straight until the end, with very few breaks in between. From different angles, the author gave an inside view of Adolf Hitler's reign of terror. I had a glimpse of what went on at different government levels, inside a concentration camp, and normal citizens trying to go about their day to day lives.
I would love to commend the author's writing skills. As more and more players were added to the story and the subplots grew more and more connected, it did not create confusion but only increased the suspense. The amount of detail added to each scene was, in my opinion, enough not to derail the reader's attention; it was just enough to create an image of the scene in the reader's mind. I felt the book almost play out like a movie, with dialogues and actions all flowing smoothly.
My best part of the narrative was how the author masterfully used a cliffhanger to end the book. Readers wouldn't feel that the story was inconclusive, yet they'd anticipate the next book in the series. I'd give a lot of credit to the author for this because I've read books that left me hanging in a bid to create anticipation for the next one.
The characters were very consistent and natural in their actions, and many readers would see the struggles and challenges the characters went through. Each role was played to perfection, and there was no stiffness or unreality in the characters.
I thoroughly enjoyed this book. The storyline, the writing style, and the characterization were all superb to me. I'd rate it 3 out of 4 stars and recommend it to anyone interested in reading a well-crafted story or a better understanding of the things that transpired in Nazi Germany.
This book contains homosexual themes, so you might not enjoy some parts of the book if you're a homophobe. It also contains pockets of violence and descriptions of sexual activities. Hence, it will not be suitable for young readers.
******
Chameleon
READER REVIEWS
4.0 out of 5 stars A Detailed Narrative Based on the Nazi Regime
Reviewed in the United States on November 9, 2021
This is a book about three men's fight against a suppressive government. The amount of detail added to each scene was enough not to derail the reader's attention; it was just enough to create an image of the scene in the reader's mind. I felt the book almost play out like a movie, with dialogues and actions all flowing smoothly.
NORAD’s GHOST
5.0 out of 5 stars A dystopian fallout future with intrigue, high-tech and hope...
Reviewed in the United States on January 16, 2021
The fear of nuclear war will always scar us, since the bombs we remember were used for destruction and fury. These old scars get traced, with a foreshadow of fallout and the resulting dystopia for survivors five centuries after, making NORAD's Ghost by Chris Black a fascinating read.
Thundersky Reese is a worker sent on an unexpected high-stakes adventure when he discovers he is not at all who he trusted he was. Set five centuries into our future, Thunder is thrust into the elite Silosian empire, which has a tight rein on all citizens within its grasp. This does not include the scavengers, religious zealots, or cannibals that claw at the city borders, but they maintain a veil of safety from outside threats.
With the awakening of ancient, crumbling technology deep in a mountainside that had laid waste to the Old-World in 2025, this uneasy peace between factions will not save a soul if live nuclear warheads suddenly awaken then count down to detonate in ten days. Thunder and his sudden ally Tiger White team up with soldiers and a faction from the wilds beyond their borders to track down the missiles set to launch. Despite aid from the omnipresent yet mysterious AI named Arti, betrayal and manipulation from the highest levels of society threaten to stop the team. With the puzzle pieces of his past falling into place, and a new love falling into his arms, Thunder is put to the ultimate test.
The hierarchies here, a sort of caste system, work really well. The writing is vivid and descriptive, yet moves the story along at a fast pace; a good balance. Fans of high-tech, the low-rent dystopian drama will find a lot of meat on these bones. Reminiscent of William Gibson in this being recognizable as our world, 2525 is enough years removed that the feel of a space opera takes hold, as these characters are alien beings in so many ways. If there were no ‘Matrix’ in the titular film, the world surrounding that story would feel like home to the characters in Black’s alternative world.
NORAD, or North American Aerospace Defense Command, is a series of installations across Canada and the US as we know them and function the same now as they did in this book. This puts the story on the map authentically, as fiction fans with a love of modern warfare are more than familiar with NORAD. That said, even readers not as widely read in the genre can have a lot of fun here, as with other similar futurist properties like Planet of the Apes there are cities and states that are familiar or renowned.
A minor distraction is the use of creative but awkward compound words. We find similar wordplay in some great futurist or science fiction and fantasy work, yet the distraction here is that the words chosen don’t always fit as well as they could. Traction could be gained with restraint in choosing what words to stitch together or using fewer of them instead of a handful of curse words and slang strung into phrases. Otherwise, the creative glossary is varied and interesting while being mostly organically absorbed as the story unfolds and the reader gains footing.
Richly woven landscapes, from the new cites to those crumbling nearby and the forested wastelands in between, are more than memorable and well written. The characters are dressed with fascinating names, weaponry, and wearable tech so even being part of a large cast every one stands out with each more varied and interesting than the last. From battles to boardrooms, the pace of NORAD’s Ghost is taut and time well-spent.
A tale of a post-apocalyptic era ensuing from the events of a nuclear war in March 2025 leaves a permanent scar on the earth. The remnants of humanity struggle for survival through fatal conditions. NORAD's Ghost, written by Chris Black, is a science fiction story you don't want to miss.
The Genesis project, started by Utopia's scholars to put an end to infertility, the shortened lifespan of man, and radioactive-induced sicknesses, turned out to be a success. This breakthrough threatened the inhumane rule of the Scholastic Order. They destroyed the experiment and eliminated the scientists to mandate their rule over the dying masses. The key to preventing humanity's extinction is Thundersky Reece, a mysterious child who is immune to the effects of the current hazardous conditions. Hidden secrets and lies of the Scholastic Order are uncovered. Will Thundersky Reece and his friends bring salvation to humanity? Grab this book to get informed.
This book is one born out of great creativity by the author. I must commend the author on the explicit description of places, people, weapons, and events, creating images of the old world that existed before the war and how the new world emerged from the ruins of the war. This made the book fascinating. I love how the author created a storyline full of twists and suspense, carefully uncovering mysteries such as lies and corruption. This caught my attention and made the book impossible to let go of. Furthermore, the characters were well-built and played their roles perfectly.
Additionally, the author explored technological advancements that are extremely exciting. The use of technical terms shows that the author did an impressive job in his research. The author also explained such terms to help readers fully understand. The book talks about how men crave power and how it drives men to do anything to keep it. It teaches the values of courage and resilience. It also teaches the act of fighting for freedom and justice. Likewise, it talks about how humans' strive for survival brought out the worst in them—ranging from the savage ferals to the scavengers who traded valuable items they picked up to get food and medicine. He also spoke about the Dusteaters who fought for justice and the selfish Utopian Scholastic Order who oppressed the masses to get the services they needed in exchange for medicine.
Furthermore, I found no errors that altered its readability due to its professional editing. Therefore, I rate it 4 out of 4 stars. I did feel like the author tried to oversell the technological aspect of the story, and sometimes the book got a little boring, but these are not enough to affect my rating.
I recommend this book to sci-fi story lovers and anyone who loves fictional stories.
READER REVIEWS
5.0 out of 5 stars Fascinating!
Reviewed in the United States on January 25, 2021
Norad’s Ghost is a science-fiction post-apocalyptic novel written by Chris Black. This book follows the mysterious man, who defies all that it means to be topside. Those who are topside have lessened lifespans, radiation sickness, and infertility due to the war in 2025. Thundersky (the man who defies all) makes some discoveries about himself that he is supposed to keep secret. However, it is that secret that holds the potential future for everyone. As the secret unfolds, it also reveals the deception and corruption of the Utopians. It comes down to if Thundersky and his friends can help save everyone.
I cannot stress enough how much I love this book. Black has written such a fascinating and engaging science-fiction book. I had a hard time putting the book down from the start. The concept of the apocalypse and people living through part of that with dire consequences is such a good one. I love the idea of an old computer program that comes through to the new-age technology and has a domino effect on a well-crafted plot. From there, we discover so many aspects of Thundersky that are pivotal to future action.
There are so many secrets that are revealed throughout, but they come out in a way that leaves so much tension building. It kept me engaged and wanting more from the book and wanting more quickly. The storyline was easy to follow but had a lot of depth to it with layers of deception and explanation. I also liked how the story building occurred, telling us what happened that led to the current situation, including the science involving the secret behind Thundersky. One of my favorite parts was learning about the different types of people that evolved from the nuclear winter and the famines. I found this book to be thrilling, and if people like futuristic, science-fiction this book is definitely for them. There is supposed to be a sequel, and I am very excited about that!
TWISHED MAZE
Reviewed by Vincent Dublado for Readers' Favorite
So much of good storytelling is finding a new twist on common themes. In The Twisted Maze by Chris Black, a covert organization far more powerful than the Illuminati is pulling the strings that determine the fate of the world. The Founders have dedicated sixty years to the infiltration of the American government, law enforcement, military, and judiciary systems; quietly biding their time in silence for the day they will seize and take full control—and that time has come. As power struggles and the COVID-19 pandemic are upsetting the balance, the Founders make their move by trying to take possession of a cloaking device that they will use to detonate a nuclear device at the heart of the United States. Its inventor, John Crane, fears for his life. But his sister-in-law, a colonel at the British SAS, has a plan and will team up with an FBI special agent to stop what is undoubtedly an extremist group that has the means to succeed.
The story of secret societies has been told countless times in books and films. But The Twisted Maze takes it a notch higher when Chris Black decides that they take the forefront and not just work behind the shadows. Many of us have been fascinated by how secret societies operate and how much influence they wield in political power play. This is what Black has done to his conspiracy thriller, an excellent page-turner that doesn’t skimp on the necessary details and really grabs you by the neck. It’s a well-researched story, one that makes references to military tech and even classical literature. In the dynamics of gender roles, Black has opted to put a female protagonist in this action-packed thriller, and so far, it does not disappoint. I recommend this book to anyone who has a taste for well-structured thrillers.
There comes a time in every great civilization when the founders and forebears believe that its leadership has veered off course. A time when the fabric that holds the state together is ripping at the seams. Do they sit back and watch it play out or seize the mantle and salvage what is left of their beloved nation, whether or not their motives are noble?
The Twisted Maze by Chris Black follows the story of a group hell-bent on seizing political power and a woman on a mission to avenge the murder of her family.
Chris tells the story in the third person with lots of action and flair. The chapters have titles that give the reader clues of what to expect. Though it features many military and law enforcement jargon, the author explains most unfamiliar terms with a footnote.
Realistic and well-developed characters are my favourite aspect of fiction, and I didn't find the book wanting. It's refreshing to read a book with a female protagonist with actual power and influence that doesn't revolve around her looks and feminine wiles. I like how the author lets Elizabeth's personality take centre stage and shine without overly focusing on her appearance. The other characters were impressive, but Elizabeth was outstanding and proved herself a master strategist and competent leader.
Overall, I rate the book 3 out of 4 stars. I'm not an expert in military and law enforcement protocols, but the book seemed well researched.
If you enjoy adventure, political intrigues, sprinkles of science fiction, and action thrillers, check out the book. But beware, it contains sketchy details of the same-sex relationship, gruesome violence, and profanities. I sure wouldn't recommend it to young readers.
Ben F
5.0 out of 5 stars Twists and Turns Abound in the Maze of Deceit
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on August 5, 2020
Kept me engaged throughout with plenty of suspenseful and high-octane scenes. Characters are well defined and interesting, and the two main characters provide a dry humour that keeps the proceedings grounded. The stakes are high which drives the story along nicely.
SAMPLE CHAPTERS
GODS OF MEN, Where the Spartans are Made
!!!WARNING!!!
This novel is unsuitable for anyone under the age of 18 years of age.
Although this novel is fictitious, it is based upon and around actual events, people, places and cultural practices, some of which are not compatible with modern practices or cultural norms. In part this book deals with areas of cultural and institutionalized brutality and cruelty that are incompatible in the modern era and should always be seen in the contexts of its time and place based upon the factual historical template of Ancient Greece in general and Sparta in particular.
Part One
The sons of Ares
And Apollo’s Pythia said to Lykurgos the Lawgiver:
Hear me, Sparta of the wide space.
There are two roads, most distant from each other:
The one leading to the honourable house of freedom,
the other to the house of slavery, which mortals must shun.
It is possible to travel the one through manliness and lovely accord;
So lead your people to this path.
The other they reach through hateful strife and cowardly destruction;
So, shun this most of all.
Prologue
The Apothetae of Sparta, Eleusinios/February
Eponymous year of Kleandridas - 455 BCE
The old men poured over the child, their bony fingers pecking and poking at him until he cried.
‘What say you, Tellis,’ said one elder, his low resonant voice filled with disappointment.
‘Weak,’ Tellis responded pitilessly.
‘Small,’ said another elder.
‘Unworthy,’ snarled the fourth.
It was the cruellest pain, keen like a sword through the hoplite’s heart. Crushed by shame and despair, the hoplite looked down.
‘A poor sample of Spartiate blood,’ added the fifth elder with finality.
‘Cast him out!’ demanded the first elder who spoke. He pointed steadily to the yawning mouth of the gorge and in his low resonating tone said: ‘Give the child to the crows...’
Of all the sad and cruel places in the world, it is the Deposits of Sparta, called Apothetae, that are the saddest and cruellest of them all. It is said the gods themselves weep in this chasm of sorrow and death, where you can hear their laments carry mournfully upon the wind’s icy breath.
It is said among the Lakedaimonians, that when the Elders of the Deposits gather, so too do the crows, black as Thanatos’ cloak. Their hungry rasping caws echo through the chasm in pronouncement of doom, for it is here in this place of rejection that the mountain consumes the weakest of Sparta’s sons.
Aristokleitos could feel his guts knotting as he looked at his own sleeping child cradled in his powerful arm and considered a father’s love and a Spartiate’s duty. That he might have to surrender one to honour the other, filled him with dread. His son came into the world upon a favourable omen, but the child had tainted blood flowing through his veins, and for this alone they might cast his son out.
Tellis, who was made lame by war, shuffled over to the anxious hoplite on his staff and looked intensely into the hoplite’s eyes. ‘There is no place at Sparta for this child,’ he said remorselessly.
The warrior’s face crumpled. ‘Look again, I beg you,’ he pleaded in a staccato voice. ‘He will grow. He will become stronger-’
Tellis raised his hand in front of the hoplite’s face. ‘There is nothing to be done. Nothing to be said. What is kindest for him is best for Sparta,’ he said evenly. ‘This the gods command of us before all others. For the strong to endure, the weak must die.’
The hoplite bowed his head and hid his grief behind a wall of Spartan stoicism. Aristokleitos tried to hide his dread of their judgment on his own son behind the same wall.
Tellis turned away and limped back to the others.
The hoplite reluctantly turned to the path hanging his head in sorrow and shame, daring not to look at Aristokleitos and unable to bear what dreaded fate now befell his son, he slipped quietly away into the trees and oblivion.
Aristokleitos looked up at the crows circling the chasm. Their hungry rasps took on a new meaning now, echoing menacingly through the mountains like the cries of all the babes that had come to their deaths by this terrible means. May Zeus cast them dead with a lightning bolt, he cursed – forgive me, he repented immediately after, fearing that Apollo, who is lord of ravens and crows, might put a curse on his son to punish him for his ill thoughts.
He looked down into the slumbering infant’s face, unperturbed by the great matter at hand upon which his very life hung.
Tellis carried the rejected baby to the edge of the gorge, the wind whipped around him, his robes flagging in the wind’s howling roar across the void, his long grey hair and beard blowing wildly as he faced the swirling heavens and held his hands with the screaming baby over the chasm at arm’s length and declared, ‘It is written: Put about your city a wall of men, for that city is well fortified which has a wall of men instead of stone! Let one stone be weak, and so fall Sparta!’ He pulled his hands apart and the screaming infant plummeted into the gorge of death, his cries quickly silenced on the rocks below and the crows dived down like the Kêres, the sisters of carnage, to gorge on hot blood and tender flesh.
The elders gave the child no more regard than a broken pot. What does not serve its function is discarded and forgotten. Is it any crueller than leaving a babe exposed on a hillside as they do elsewhere, to endure a long death or a ravaging by wolves and wild dogs?
The elders turned their dreaded attention to Aristokleitos, who had witnessed this barbarous act of hideous murder in un-blinking silence. His heart had long ago hardened to the toughness of Spartan bronze and he could not be moved by what he could not change.
Tellis stepped towards him. He stopped a pace in front of Aristokleitos and raised his face and hands to heaven. ‘Apollo, hear me! Ares, Hear me! Artemis … hear me!’ His voice carried in the wind. ‘Let he be favoured by thee, who gives unto Sparta his living son!’ He lowered his hands and face, his passionless eyes resting steadily on Aristokleitos. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘a man must bend to the cruellest fate and cast out the weak in favour of the strong; for the strong to live, the weak must die. Do you now surrender your son to Sparta and the tests of the Deposits?’
Aristokleitos nodded. ‘I do.’
‘Then bring the child before us. He must be judged,’ said another of the elders.
Aristokleitos looked at his beautiful son once more, possibly for the last time; innocent of human corruption and pure of heart, on trial for his life. The bond between father and son was already strong, and when Aristokleitos carried him to the elders, he could barely lay the babe upon the boulder for their tests, such was his love for the boy.
‘Give us your name, brother.’
‘Aristokleitos of the House of Herakles, decadarchos of the First Mora,’ he stated proudly, making them aware that his was the most sacred blood of all, from which cometh heroes, princes and kings.
‘Put your petition to us, Aristokleitos of the Herakleidai.’
‘I am of purest Spartiate blood,’ he said, ‘honoured in battle and winner of three laurel crowns at the Isthmian Games.’ He looked at his son. ‘I bring my son and say, he is a son of Sparta, strong and worthy.’
Tellis, who, at fifty, was the youngest of the elders stepped over to him, his dark watery eyes glaring at the steadfast father. ‘And is the child of purest Spartiate blood?’ he asked lowly, knowing full well that he was not.
Aristokleitos’ heart trembled in his chest. He looked at the elders, waiting to hear his answer. ‘His mother is Penelope, daughter of Xuthos, a hoplite of the Third Mora who went honourably to the Beautiful Death at Tanagra. Xuthos’s woman, Penelope’s mother was a Helot woman born into the house of Gryllus of Gytheion,’ he explained to them at length.
The elders looked at one another, not so much startled as disappointed. Not so much angry as contemptuous, for the Helot is all but slave, they are the vanquished and the conquered, subjugated hundreds of years ago by Sparta’s Dorian ancestors. By law, no Spartan can marry a woman of the Helot caste and their offspring are deemed mothax, bastards.
‘Then the child’s blood is tarnished,’ Tellis declared, ‘Come him one-part Spartiate and one-part Helot.’
‘Of impure blood!’
‘Cast him out!’
‘Give the child to the crows!’
Aristokleitos stepped towards them, determined his son would not die without a fair hearing. He said with passion: ‘Of all the judgments of men, yours are feared most of all. But as one part of my son is a Helot, so too the rest is Spartiate. And I bid no more of you than to judge my son as you would any other son of Sparta!’
The old men stared at him without comment.
‘If you judge that he is rejected for weakness or infirmity, then so be it,’ he continued firmly. ‘I’ll not argue or grieve. The weakly have no place at Sparta. But cast him out without casting your eyes?! What justice is that for a warrior who gives his only son to his country’s honour!?’ He levelled at them. ‘What judge is better than the iron of a man’s deeds, and the courage in his heart?’ He looked at his son, helpless and vulnerable. It was up to him to defend the child, and defend him he would, such was the bond of love. ‘The warrior lives by one law – that with it standing, or laid upon it dead, he will not yield his sacred shield to any mortal enemy, lest it be for Sparta first, second, middle and last! I ask you: What greater proof must I give to you than what springs from my loins is as worthy as what sprung from yours! In whose name do you cast Herakles into the firmament for the tarnish of his armour? That the armour is strong and will grow stronger is proof enough of its worthiness. I have not flinched from battle, neither shall my son, who is strong and without blemish.’ He pointed to the baby. ‘He came into the world upon the howling song of a lone wolf! Will you now have him leave it upon the mocking laughter of crows!?’
‘The howling of a wolf, you say?’ Tellis interjected, raising his bushy brows, the parallel furrows across his forehead deepened. The potency of this sign was not lost on any of them.
‘Aye,’ Aristokleitos confirmed. ‘Like the howling of Cerberus calling from the gates at the Marsh of Hades.’ He took a deep breath. ‘So, cast him out, you of ancient bones, doomed to die in your beds like women. But know this before you kill my son for his tarnished blood,’ he warned. ‘Never more shall Aristokleitos hinder you with his sons, but instead put them to the sword in sacrifice to Hephaistos at his altar, and bid of him, that those who put my son to death today for the blemish of his blood, be cast into his eternal flames for the offence they put against Herakles, the son of mighty Zeus. There, let their flesh sizzle until the stars no longer burn in the heavens, and let them think of Aristokleitos of the Herakleidai, and know how they have offended him this day!’
The elders glared at him in muted silence, his curse still ringing in their ears.
Tellis nodded his head and turned to the others and said, ‘It is to the discretion of our majority to decide.’
‘Then let us be mindful that Aristokleitos carries that most sacred blood of all-’
‘From which cometh heroes, princes and kings-’
‘That through his veins flows the iron of Herakles.’
‘But most of all,’ Tellis said, ‘let us be mindful that this boy came into the world upon the song of the wolf-’
‘A powerful omen-’
‘A sign from Artemis.’
‘This boy is favoured by gods and destiny.’
‘He is beloved of the gods.’
‘Put this child aside for the blemish in his blood, in that it is one part Helot,’ said Tellis, ‘and we forsake the other part, which is Herakleidai-’
‘And we forsake ourselves in the casting out of the strong in the favour of the weak.’
‘And so, fall Sparta.’
‘Then we are agreed?’ Tellis said. He looked at the elder furthest from him.
‘Agreed,’ he said.
He looked at the next:
‘Agreed.’
And the next elder:
‘Agreed.’
And to the last:
‘Agreed.’
Tellis stepped to Aristokleitos and asked: ‘Was the child bathed in wine in accordance to our tradition?’
‘He was,’ Aristokleitos replied.
‘Was he left on the threshold under the watch of the stars, as Ares commands?’
‘He was, and the wolf did not take him, but lingered close to the house until the dawn broke, and then it was gone.’
Tellis, a deeply religious man, said, ‘The wolf was the god who favours him. Cursed are we, who deny these facts.’
‘We must enquire at the temples,’ said one of them.
‘That we might know this god.’
They all agreed.
‘Then we must put this babe to the tests of the Deposits, as law and gods command.’
They huddled around the boulder and hunched over the baby, scrutinizing every part of him, murmuring among themselves in debate of the baby’s fate and the favourable omens that accompanied his birth.
They pinched the baby’s skin until he cried.
‘He did not come quickly to his tears.’
‘A favourable sign.’
‘He is without blemish.’
‘He has strong lungs.’
‘Then his heart too shall be strong.’
‘There lies the heart of the wolf in this child.’
‘A gift from the gods.’
‘His destiny is written with divine hands.’
‘The gods have spoken. Their will shall be done.’
Tellis, who delivered death to the weakly, picked the baby up and carried him in his hands to Aristokleitos. ‘It is written,’ he began. ‘Put no wall about Sparta. For that city is well fortified, which has a wall of men instead of stone. Let one stone be weak, and fall Sparta.’ He handed the baby to Aristokleitos. ‘Take him to his mother and let him be raised the Spartan way for the allotment of seven years, whence he will be brought to the Rearing for his education.’
‘What will be his name?’ one of the elders asked, stepping forwards, his dead eyes glaring at Aristokleitos.
Aristokleitos met his stare and said: ‘Lysander. His name is Lysander.’
CHAMELEON
Five
Berlin
January, 1927
The Café Josty was as busy as ever, situated in the Potsdamer Platz where the traffic converged from five streets like spokes connecting to the hub of a giant wheel. The traffic flowed into the Platz, regulated by elevated traffic lights. Cars, vans, horses, carts, trams and omnibuses were all in constant motion. The air was filled with the mechanical clatter and roar of the modern world while the old world could barely hold on.
Boris was one of the few who braced the freezing winter’s day to sit outside on the pavement terrace under the snow daubed canopy, where he watched the restless traffic merging into the Platz. The pavements were just as busy as the roads with pedestrians huddled in their winter coats, hats and scarfs, walking hunch-shouldered, browsing the shops and cafés.
Boris dragged on his cigarette and watched Oberleutnant Jollenbeck making his way over, wrapped up warm in a long grey overcoat and Fedora hat and a woollen scarf wrapped around his neck.
Jollenbeck clicked his heels and sat down.
‘Coffee?’ Boris signalled a waiter.
Jollenbeck nodded his head. ‘Danke.’
‘Two more coffees,’ said Boris as the waiter approached. (The waiter walked away). ‘Well?’
‘They’re planning a march through Spandau tomorrow, to disrupt a Communist rally. There’ll be between a hundred and fifty and two hundred SA. And Dr Goebbels has been schmoosing some of Fritz Thyssen’s industrialist friends from the Ruhr who are in Berlin for some sort of conference. Goebbels is taken them to dinner at the Kaiserhof on Friday evening. He has a private dining room reserved for ten diners. Fritz Thyssen’s paying for it.’
Boris nodded his head.
The drinks arrived and the waiter withdrew back into the Josty. Boris took a final drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray.
‘Shall I pass the information about the march through Spandau to the polizei, sir?’
Boris shook his head. ‘No. Let the Fascists and Communists knock the shit out of one another.’ He stood up. ‘Stay and finish your drink. I’ll see you back at the office.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Boris slowly pulled his gloves on and turned the collar of his overcoat up and walked away.
Back in Max’s office, they sat by the fire. A lit cigarette rested in the ashtray, rafting curls of smoke as it smouldered away with a growing column of ash clung to the hot cherry. Max nursed his cup and saucer in his lap as he listened without interruption to Boris’s report on the activities of the NSDAP in Berlin and nationally.
Boris explained that Dr Goebbels had cut a lot of members of the Berlin branch loose, expelling them from the Party due to their ineptitude and for not taking the Party seriously enough or paying their membership dues. He had cut the Berlin membership by almost half, to around six hundred men and a few women, who did clerical work for the Party office, which was now in swankier and more visible premises on Lützowstrasse. Boris said that Dr Goebbels had begun recruiting new members, choosing them carefully and utilising their skills to good effect.
Yesterday, Dr Goebbels organized a party rally in a bierkeller in the Wedding district, in a staunchly communist neighbourhood, to antagonise the Bolsheviks who had already had several violent clashes with the Nazis since Goebbels arrived in Berlin. There were some serious injuries and one fatality on the communist side.’
The communists were forced to withdraw. A humiliating defeat for them, a glorious victory for Dr Goebbels and the stormtroopers; the police had either been powerless, or they had turned a blind eye, Boris explained. ‘Tomorrow they’re planning on disrupting a Communist meeting in Spandau.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘There’s some evidence that the NSDAP are starting to get supporters within the polizei and middle-classes. On Friday, Dr Goebbels is taking some industrialists to dinner at the Kaiserhof…’ He paused to take another swallow of coffee. ‘He’s targeting every district in the city; his main objective appears to be to destroy the Bolsheviks and stir up anti-Jewish feelings in the working-class neighbourhoods, a message that appeals to many.’ He set his cup down and looked at Max, seated opposite him in the wing backed chair, the warm glow of the fire rippled on one side of his face.
‘Should we be worried about them?’ Max finally asked.
Boris looked at his cigarette burned away. He reached for it, using the pause to think about the question. When Max first asked him to look into them, thought Boris it was a waste of time and resources. But now…? He took a drag from his cigarette. ‘They pose no threat in the short term.’
‘And the long term, Boris?’
‘They might, especially if they gain the support of more industrialists like Thyssen. The better financed they become, the more effective they’ll be. I’d say it’s worth keeping a regular check on them, but is that really our Job, Max?’
‘No, it’s not. Pass everything we have on them over to the Prussian Ministry of the Interior?’
Boris nodded his head.
COLLEGIUM, Brotherhood of Rogue
PART ONE
IMPERIUM
Prologue
Alexandria, Egypt, August 1, 30 BC
Across the immense harbour, the feluccas were returning with the day’s catch. Their small black silhouettes emerged from the shimmering haze into the amber hue of the late afternoon like a flotilla of ghost-ships, the sea around them scattered with solar jewels flaring and glinting on the rippled surface. Like dragonflies, the feluccas darted swiftly this way and that, their single sails bringing the winds easily to their command.
Gaius Octavius Julius Caesar watched the nimble flotilla of little ships whipping through the water in the busy harbour, nipping deftly between the huge grain ships anchored in the bay, waiting to be loaded and sent back to feed the incessant hunger of Rome. They passed dexterously between the creaky old dahabeah, the cargo ships of the Nile that had entered the harbour from the canal laden with plunder.
He could smell the sea carried on the warm breeze blowing in from the bay, fresh and pleasant in his face and through his short-cropped hair. Still intoxicated on the fruits of victory, he had an air of arrogance about him as he looked over to Agrippa’s fleet anchored in the harbour beneath the majestic structures along Cape Lochias. His eyes followed the sea walls and the impressive fortifications upon them. They did Egypt no good in the end, in fact, they proved to be of no tactical advantage whatsoever. Caesar had taken the city by land in a broad pincer from which Antonius and Cleopatra could not escape.
Overawed by his own success, was Duilius’s thought as he wiped the sweat from his grimy face with the back of his hand, dust and desert sand abraded his skin like needles. His tongue squeezed between his dry, cracked lips and swept from left to right, the cracked skin like jagged shards of glass. I need a drink, he thought, stifling under the blazing sun beating down its oppressive heat, roasting him alive inside his cuirass like a joint of meat. This was how Icarus must have felt when he’d flown too close to the sun; too close to exalted power. It was excruciatingly uncomfortable.
There’s something inhuman about Caesar, he thought, being perfectly comfortable out here in that scorching heat. Forged in Vulcan’s workshop like his uncle, he thought, then withdrew the thought at once. Considering Caesar’s usual sickly disposition, he hardly felt Vulcan’s workshop an appropriate comparison. The constitution of a lizard perhaps, if he might make so bold as to ponder the thought of scaly flesh under all that unblemished armour. Army life never did agree with Caesar, it was merely the means to the end, and now that end had been reached, only Caesar was left standing, all his enemies finally vanquished after years of bloody civil war.
He was more than a general now – he was the most powerful man on earth. The sickly and somewhat insipid boy had blossomed to the point of deification.
‘… We’ve come a long way since Velitrae,’ said Duilius, invoking the name of their home town in the Alban Hills, where they had been boys together.
Caesar felt the tug of his ancestors and recalled the processions and festivals of Jupiter Latiaris at his hilltop sanctuary, where his mother Atia Balba Caesonia, niece of the great Julius Caesar, once told him that on the night he was born, Jupiter’s burning finger had arced across the heavens over the sanctuary, auguring that a great destiny was written for him, and one day he would rule the world.
Here he stood, these years later, prophesy fulfilled.
He could hear her now, calling him from the afterlife, telling him that this was just the beginning. He blinked and her voice was gone. He looked at Duilius. ‘Happy days, Duilius.’
‘The happiest of days, Caesar,’ Duilius replied as he looked out across the bay, supplanting the heaving sea beyond with the rolling hills of home, lush with olive groves and vineyards climbing into the haze of hot summer days. ‘I think I shall go home,’ he said wistfully, ‘and have an idle summer on my estate. Get drunk every night on passum and ravage my beautiful young wife until my pippina drops off…’
The four men chuckled lowly.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little longer before you see Velitrae again, Duilius,’ Caesar said. ‘We both shall…’
Agrippa and Calvinus looked at one another.
‘Such melancholy,’ said Agrippa. ‘Riding into Rome at the head of your victory triumph with the riches of Asia and Egypt and the Greek whore following behind you will be the happiest of days.’
‘Firstly, we must consolidate our power, Agrippa,’ Caesar said as he walked towards the edge of the terrace, watching another dark shape metamorphose from the shimmering obscuration beyond Pharos Island, approaching the peninsular from the open sea, her broad white sail bloated to the wind as she slipped gracefully towards the harbour mouth, It was an Italian cargo ship.
It was an immutable feeling of elation, joy, power, disbelief and dread. It was as if he were walking in another man’s caligae, experiencing another man’s life, and for a moment he wondered if he might be dreaming, because he had dreamt of this day every night for the past fourteen years and had experienced it in a thousand scenarios. Antonius’ suicide had denied him the pleasure of seeing him paraded in chains with his queen through Rome, but it was a pleasure worth forfeiture in the cold reality of the here and now, and when he thought about it, he decided it was the best thing for expedience sake. Taking Antonius back to Rome alive would have been a risk, but then, it had never really been an option. Nobody was in any doubt that Marcus Antonius would never have allowed himself to be taken alive.
And as if reading his mind, Agrippa said: ‘Tomorrow, the sun will rise on a new era, Caesar. You have changed the world forever.’
Caesar looked at his three companions, and at length, he said: ‘For the first time in a hundred years, Rome is at peace with herself. But now is not the time for complacency. In fact, now, more than ever, we must be vigilant in what we do and there’s still much to be done. There are still Antonians out there, and they’re single-minded now more than ever,’ he warned. ‘Now Antonius is more than a mortal man, he’s even more dangerous.’
There was a long silence.
Duilius fiddled absentmindedly with the pommel of his sword, rubbing the ivory Aquila’s head with his thumb, stretching his sore lips across his teeth, feeling the skin pulling apart like opening fissures. ‘Rome is there for the taking,’ he said, looking out to sea. ‘You have the loyalty of the legions; no one will dare oppose you.’
Caesar shook his head. ‘No, Duilius. That’s not the way. I’ll return to Rome as her saviour, not her conqueror. As the man who preserved the Senate and saved the Republic from madness and endless war, not the man who subdued and destroyed her. The people must love me, not despise me. Under my guidance…’ he went on, watching the Roman merchant ship coming into the harbour’s broad expanse, ‘I command legions that Alexander the Great would have envied. I do not have to use threats or force, gentlemen. They will give me everything I want without needing to resort to either.’
Calvinus gave him a cautionary look. ‘Then I urge you, Caesar, do not make the same mistakes your father made before you, by allowing your enemies to live, or you bear your throat to your assassins,’ he warned ominously.
Caesar looked reassuringly at him. ‘Rest assured, old friend, by the time I’m done, it will be they who bear their throats to me. And I will strike ruthlessly and without favour or prejudice, any who plot against the good of Rome. My mercy does not come without a price.’
Calvinus fanned himself with his hand to no effect. Any breeze that did render them relief from the heat was as brief as a dying gasp. ‘They bear watching, Caesar. And all the while the Antonian renegades are on the loose, your position is threatened. As you said yourself, Antonius’s name now holds the divinity and mysticism of a god.’
Caesar wasn’t going to let a dead man usurp his destiny, as he tirelessly tried to in life. He had to see his vision through, no matter where it might take him. ‘We must make certain our enemies are either in chains or dead.’ He looked at Calvinus and Agrippa in turn.
Conversation returned to consolidating Asia Minor and how to deal with the Senate back home.
With care, Calvinus thought. One always handles snakes with care.
Caesar was now patronus of Egypt, claimed as his personal spoil of war, giving him de facto rule over all Egypt as a man had over his own slaves and estates. Not only did he control the legions and the navy, he also controlled the grain that fed Rome, and that gave him an edge when it came to dealing with the Senate. Antonius and Cleopatra had already demonstrated the consequences to Rome when the grain ships from Egypt no longer sailed into Italian ports. It led to starvation and angry mobs. The revenue and grain would be vital assets in securing his position.
Every victorious general named his own terms, and his terms were simple … he wanted to control the Empire and to Romanise the world. He wanted to build a legacy that would endure forever. He wanted to control the Senate rather than destroy it. Through the Senate he could enjoy legitimacy and the Republic would be the veil that hid his throne. He wanted imperium maius, supreme command of all Roman forces and oversight of Rome’s foreign policies and provinces.
He could risk everything in a single gambit and seize power by force as Duilius and Agrippa had urged him to. For a while at least, it would probably work, but he knew the Roman heart would soon sour and plot against him as it did all tyrants. The Patient way was what was needed now, and that required a strong nerve and firm vision. Caesar had both in abundance. ‘Now we must battle in the Senate with words and deeds,’ he said. ‘And we must win the heart of Rome.’
‘You already have Rome’s heart, Caesar,’ said Agrippa. ‘And when they see the grain ships, you’ll have their souls too.’
‘And I intend to keep them by loving them back, Agrippa,’ Caesar responded. ‘We must return as Romans delivering victory to the Senate and the People of Rome in humble humility. We must return as benevolent heroes who have destroyed the deadly enemy. There will be no legions crossing the Rubicon this time.’
Duilius and Agrippa exchanged a worried look, men of war cowed by a sure-footed politician wearing a general’s garb.
Calvinus was much older than the others – a hero of Pharsalus, where Pompeius Magnus had been soundly defeated by Julius Caesar’s numerically inferior, but tactically superior forces eighteen years ago. He was a son of the Domitii, an old and influential family of the ordo patricius, and one of Caesar’s most trusted advisers and closest friends. He was clever and wise and commanded Caesar’s spies. Caesar had learned a great deal from Calvinus. Tactics and diplomacy, but above all, calculating patience.
‘At least let me take the fleet back to Italy.’
‘No, Agrippa,’ Caesar said sharply. ‘We must do nothing provocative. You’re a soldier and you think like a soldier. Now is the time to think like a politician. We must show Rome that the war is over, and we must show a different sort of strength by going among our enemies in friendship and reconciliation.’
‘They’re snakes,’ said Duilius.
Caesar looked at him. ‘Then we will dine with snakes, Duilius, and we will smile at them and flatter them, and if they dare try to bite us, we’ll cut off their heads.’
TWISTED MAZE
SIX
The Warrior
Kestrel Team, Anglo-American Special Ops
Alborz Province, Northern Iran
Three months later
The air vibrated to the beating THUD-THUD-WHOOMF-THUD-THUD-WHOOMF-THUD-THUD-WHOOMF of an apache Longbow attack helicopter growing louder as it rose up from the darkness like a bird of prey, its guns locked and loaded, missiles primed. Its engines echoed up the near vertical cliffs – THUD-THUD-WHOOMF-THUD-THUD-WHOOMF-THUD-THUD-WHOOMF…
The Revolutionary Guard fired a flare and it streamed up into the dark, moonless heavens with a distant crack as it exploded into a bright phosphorous light that glowed ethereally into the valley, descending slowly to earth on a parachute.
There it was, coming in fast and mean, an Apache attack helicopter, engine roaring in the ethereal phosphorous glow…
On the other side of the valley the night sky started to flash, followed by distant BOOMS of thermobaric missiles detonating along the enemy’s southern defenses – the opening salvos of an American offensive against Russo-Iranian strongholds in the mountains, digging in for the long haul. The night sky flashed with the distant booms of exploding ordnance.
If Elizabeth was hoping the attack would be a useful distraction for her incursion, she was mistaken; Revolutionary Guard opened fire on the Apache with a fifty-caliber machine-gun, coughing out two dozen hot glowing rounds that traced through the sulfurous glow into the valley.
‘Bollocks! Incoming fire, one o’clock,’ Elizabeth said urgently, taking evasive maneuvers. ‘Kestrel Leader to chicks,’ she barked into the comms. ‘We’re taking fire, hold your positions.’
‘Copy, Kestrel Leader,’ came an American voice.
‘We’re going in, Ed. Say thank you mummy and kiss your arse goodbye,’ she said to her co-pilot, Lt. Eddy Waring, who sat behind her. She reached to the console. ‘Switching sight to target weapons control…’ The monocle over her right eye switched to tactical and became the Apache’s targeting system, the chain gun following her line of sight as she pulled up sharply and banked left as the fifty caliber rounds whizzed and zinged past them. She pulled right, sourcing the muzzle flashes on a ridge midway up the mountain. She came in fast and opened fire.
The chain gun roared to life with a quick burst, spitting white-hot bullets through the darkness as the flare dimmed and burned out, plunging the valley back into darkness. They strafed the ridge where the fifty caliber was firing, blasting chunks out of the cliff.
She flew in closer, coming up over the enemy’s position, using thermal and infrared imaging. She fired on the exposed hotspots, the chain gun spitting death and carnage.
The fifty fell silent and a dozen bodies lay on the ground, glowing in the thermal imaging, including the blood spilling from their bodies.
The enemies were dug into the mountains in an extensive network of bunkers spreading for several kilometers inside the mountains and hills.
The sky flashed and boomed with more explosions ten miles south from the US infantry attack taking place on the far side of the valley, assaulting the enemy’s main strongholds with half a dozen Apaches, softening them up ahead of the ground offensive planned for dawn. It was supposed to act as a diversion for Kestrel Team to fly its birds in over the enemy lines. It was an Anglo-American Special Forces team, consisting of Elizabeth’s Apache and two Westland Lynxes as well as fourteen team members. Five American Green Berets, a US Marine, a Navy SEAL and seven British SAS, including their commander, Colonel Elizabeth Brooks.
Elizabeth flew in close, too close for Eddy’s liking. They could see the glowing shapes of Revolutionary Guard fighters running about in the thermal imaging, firing AK-47’s at them, running in and out of the caves and tunnels for cover as the chain guns responded.
The Apache’s engines roared as it drew back like a rearing warhorse, sweeping left, firing another volley from the 30-millimeter chain-gun, strafing the upper ridge, the explosive bullets blasting rock into dust and men into scattered flecks of bloody flesh, bone and dismembered limbs.
Another fifty-caliber opened fire below them. Bullets whizzed past and around the Apache, some struck the fuselage with hard thuds, zings and pings.
The fifty needed taking care of before it did any serious damage. Using her IHADSS, (Integrated Helmet and Display Sighting System), she brought her big black mechanical bird of prey up above the target and dipped the nose majestically, the chain gun swiveling on its turret; locked the target and opened fire, pulverizing the ridge and everything on it. The fifty was out of action.
Elizabeth pulled back on the stick and nosed up, climbing parallel to the enemy on the upper ridge, facing them full on.
Revolutionary Guards were firing at them with pistols and AK-47’s, several shots careened off the fuselage. One smacked into the side window beside Eddy’s head and cracked the glass. He jerked sideways with shock and looked at the fractures in the glass, rooting out jaggedly from where the bullet struck. He took a deep breath. Bollocks to this for a fucking game of cowboys! He spotted a dozen insurgents hurrying to the ridge from the right with a Russian Verba MANPAD surface-to-air missile shoulder-launcher. ‘Heavy hostiles, two o’clock!’
Elizabeth looked right and spotted them, the chain gun swiveled with her head and she pressed the fire button on her joystick and gave them a six second burst. The chain-gun shredded them like meat through a mincer, cutting the Iranians to pieces and the barbarity of war was revealed in all its thermal ugliness.
She activated the missile targeting system and honed in on the caves, plotting on her tactical screen. ‘Have this on King Charley,’ she said and fired.
SWOOSH! An AGM-114N thermobaricmissile was away, shooting off in front of them in a trail of smoke and fire. They hovered and watched as the missile disappeared into the gaping mouth of a cave.
‘Nice one! Hole in one, Boss!’ Eddy complimented.
Then a deep resounding KABOOM sounded from deep inside the earth and the mountainside shook loose rubble and boulders along the side of the mountain like an earthquake. Tremendous waves of energy rippled out in concentric arcs like a stone plunged into a millpond – jets of fire, smoke, dust, earth and body parts flew out from the cave mouths, incinerating everything combustible, human or otherwise in an instant. Then there was a secondary, even bigger explosion that blew out a huge hole from the side of the mountain, sending thousands of tons of rock and rubble crashing down the mountainside in an avalanche.
‘Fuck! We must’ve hit an ammo store,’ Eddy said.
Elizabeth looked at Eddy. She thought for a moment of the death she had wrought. There were probably kids in there too, and once more she reminded herself of the raw ugliness of war.
‘Kestrel Leader to Chicks. Hold your positions at Zulu-Foxtrot. Repeat. Hold your position at Zulu-Foxtrot.’
‘Copy. Holding position at Zulu-Foxtrot.’
Elizabeth kept the Apache hovering parallel to the ridge, weapons locked and loaded, a second thermobaric missile ready to go. Nothing moved but the dust and debris falling back to earth in a thick gray cloud.
‘Kestrel Leader to Hawkeye. You can have that one on us.’
Someone laughed and a Texan accent thundered in her ears. ‘Uhm, copy that, Kestrel Leader. Much obliged, ma’am.’
‘You can buy me one at the Cat’s Whiskers, Hawkeye.’
The American laughed again. ‘It’ll be a pleasure. Y’all stay safe out there.’
‘You too Hawkeye. Kestrel Leader to Chicks. The road’s open, on my vector.’
Harry’s voice responded, ‘Copy that, we’re coming in from your seven.’
She had them on her radar screen, three kilometers behind them.
‘We’ve got you five-five,’ said Eddy.
Four RAF F-35 Lightning II fighter jets screamed through the sky overhead, scrambled to intercept six Mig-29 fighters flying in from Syria. She had heard the radio traffic through her comms several minutes ago.
There was a bright flash over the horizon and more explosions from the Hawkeye team’s positions, blowing the hell out of the enemy.
Elizabeth maneuvered up and banked to port into a gorge cleaved into the mountains for a ten kilometer stretch of twisting canyons, keeping the height thirty meters below the ridge, chicaning through its contours left and right in the dark. A piece of piss, she thought.
The two Lynxes, Kestrel One and Kestrel Two, which was flying empty (except for Charles and Martin on the guns), roared in behind them, their engines echoing through the gorge, their lights blacked out.
In the Apache, thermal and infrared guidance systems displayed the terrain on their IHADSS.
They emerged from the ravine into the semi fertile hills over some olive groves, where the thermal cameras picked out the spectrally glowing outlines of sheep and goats scattering beneath the trees, startled by the helicopters’ engines.
‘Okay, we need to go west two degrees. Climb to three thousand feet,’ said Elizabeth. ‘ETA three minutes. Stay sharp on those guns, lads. Kestrel Leader to Shadow Company, sitrep, over?’
‘We’re at the rendezvous standing by.’
‘We’re almost there, Shadow. I could murder a ciggy,’ she said to Eddy, feeling the adrenalin beginning to surge again as they neared the rendezvous. Here was where things could get very dangerous.
And suddenly, they did. The proximity alarm started buzzing loudly in the cockpit.
‘INCOMING!’ Eddy shouted urgently.
Elizabeth yanked on the stick and the apache pulled up sharply at speed with a beating scream and roar of rotors, while the Lynxes veered sharply to port, both diving towards the ground.
The missile locked on the Apache and was coming up fast.
Elizabeth responded quickly, making evasive maneuvers. ‘The bastard’s on us like a greyhound up a hare’s arse!’ she said. ‘Standby to deploy countermeasures…’
Eddy’s finger was hovering over the launch button.
Elizabeth watched on her viewer with an unnaturally steely calm. ‘Not yet, Ed. Not yet, sunshine…’ She watched the blip fast approaching.
The seconds seemed like minutes, Eddy’s finger as stiff as a rod of ice over the button, his face pocked with beads of icy sweat, anxiously waiting for her order. He watched the missile closing in as she maneuvered the Apache, weaving through the air at extreme angles, like a mosquito looking for a vein.
‘DEPLOY! DEPLOY! DEPLOY!’ she yelled.
Thank God for that! Eddy pressed the button.
A volley of infrared decoy flares shot out from either side of the Apache in wings of crimson fire as they burst into bright hot infrared light – Elizabeth pulled up sharply, climbing almost vertically.
Eddy’s butt-hole clenched like a vice as he was thrown back in his seat and glared goggle eyed through the windshield at the stars glimmering across the pitch-black heavens in front of him. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he gasped.
The missile honed on the flares and exploded into a hillside in an inflating ball of flames that briefly turned night into day.
Elizabeth dived and banked round. Thermals picked up a heat source and plotted the trajectory of the missile to its launch position. ‘Target acquired.’ She fired a Hydra 70 missile immediately.
Eddy watched the image on the screen from the missile’s onboard camera. He saw men running in all directions, growing fuzzily on the monitor. Too late, the missile detonated with a bright flash and K’BOOOOMMM of high explosives along with a huge fireball.
‘Target destroyed,’ Eddy confirmed.
‘Kestrel Leader to Chicks. How are you boys doing down there?’
‘Enjoying the fireworks.’
‘And so’s half the Revolutionary Guard for fifty miles in every direction, so let’s get this done; I need a gin,’ she said.
NORAD's Ghost
PART ONE
Genesis Child
PROLOGUE
High Grand Scholar Blackstone Washington was looking at the latest GRC statistical data and it made uncomfortable reading. Ninety-seven-point zero nine percent of the surface population over the age of thirty, were cancerous to various degrees, and were receiving the Omega #9 treatment. About fifty percent of the surface populations had fallout sickness and were receiving Iodinicine. The data showed that there was a reduction of zero-point zero seven percent in the cancer rate and a one-point four percent reduction in fallout sickness cases over the past five years. Small glimmers of hope, that the city’s radiation defenses were at least reducing the amount of Plutonium-239 and Carbon-14 from the great Carolina Fallout Zone. They had built huge filtration systems and a number of counter defenses against the fallout that blew in when the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, including gravity shields activated from orbit that reduced contamination by a staggering sixty-nine percent.
It was the infertility statistics that worried Blackstone the most. The infertility for sub-surface dwellers had increased by two-point zero-eight percent in just five years, and that was a worrying trend.
All the surface population in Silosia were sterile or incapable of producing healthy offspring, and they accounted for eighty-one percent of the total Silosian population.
Out in the wastelands, however, the technologically backwards Dystopians, the fertility statistics were unknown, but there was anecdotal evidence from captured Dusty terrorists, that in the safe zones at least, fertility was as high as fifteen percent of the population, compared to barely five percent in the advanced Utopians.
Blossom sat on the opposite side of Blackstone’s desk, her mind adrift on the croon of the air purification system, soft and barely audible. It was a spacious office, comfortable and instead of a window, he had an Intsoglass wall showing Old-World images of Alaskan wilderness. Yesterday, it was an African savannah, tomorrow it might be coral reefs. Who needs windows with views like that? This is how it is in the subterranean world of Sub City, which lies a couple of hundred feet beneath Silo City and neighboring Surfer Town.
Sub City had been excavated out of the earth over two hundred years, extended from the old missile silos and the fallout shelters, where the Old-World government had evacuated finest minds of their era before the apocalypse.
For twenty years they and their offspring lived under the earth. They even grew their own food down here, dedicating themselves to reconstruction and to create a new world and a new world order that they called Utopia. Instead of governments, they would be governed by scientists and philosophers, humanely and equally. They called themselves the Scholastic Order, and upon their science and medicines … so what the hell went wrong?
‘The boy?’ he asked.
His deep steady voice broke into her mind and she looked at him as he lifted his eyes from the data pad and looked her.
‘The healthiest human being alive,’ she said. ‘His levels are pre-atomic age,’ she added, trying not to sound too dramatic. ‘There are no traces of radiation in his system.’
‘We’re going to have to come to a decision about him soon,’ said Blackstone. ‘He’s too healthy for his own good and the longer we leave him up there, the more chances there are of him being discovered. If the Triple S find him, they’ll kill him.’
Flora was silent.
Chapter One
It was a five-minute ride on the Elmag to Downtown Silo City. The stop was almost opposite the sprawling Intsoglass block of the Genetic Research Center on the corner of Main Street and Sub City Plaza. The closer they got, the more uneasy Thundersky became. The GRC had an infamous reputation for human experimentation. It’s where the Silosian Security Service sent captured Ferals, murderers, Dusty terrorists and others, to be experimented on. He was neither a criminal or a Dusty of course, but it didn’t make him feel any easier. His heart pounded heavily in his chest as dread grew like a radioactive rash inside him. His belly tightened with knots of anguish. The penal labs, were located a hundred feet below the surface, where the screams could not be heard.
Thundersky tucked his hands tightly between his knees, feeling so anxious he thought he might collapse into a gibbering wreck at any moment. Cold beads of sweat pocked his face, seeping through the pores of his skin like icicles. He couldn’t for the life of him think why the GRC wanted to see him? He was just a mudsurfer.
The Elmag car shot silently along the El above the sprawling colony, the city lights flashing and glinting nebulously into the darkness.
He looked warily at the GRC tech sat opposite him. A slight upward curl in the corners of his closed mouth that reminded Thundersky of a constipated cat trying to squeeze out a stubborn turd. He gave the tech a nervous smile.
The tech could see his unease and seemed to be getting some sadistic pleasure in seeing the mudsurfer antsy with inner turmoil, feeding vampirically from the fear oozing from Thundersky’s wide gray eyes.
The shuttle stopped in Sub City Plaza and the tech stood up. ‘This is us.’
It was always busy in and around the Plaza, it was the heart of the Utopian Empire, a city of lights and fine Intsoglass buildings, as well as a few ancient Old-World buildings. Sub City Plaza was the administrative district, and an entertainment zone, making for a strange mix of officials and revelers every night. The Intsoglass buildings, towering thirty floors were lit up with Old-World images of the diverse and beautiful world that once was; before the Twenty-Fivers destroyed it. Some building displayed magnificent light-shows in a myriad of colors and merging shapes like kaleidoscopes. But aesthetic beauty was the last thing he was thinking about.
Thundersky’s feet felt as though they were made of lead as they walked towards the looming Intsoglass tower of the GRC. He wanted to turn and run away. He wanted to know why the hell he was here.
Security was tight outside; it had been targeted many times in the past by Dusty terrorists with sonic bombs. The façade was looping Old-World wildlife archives which covered every square centimeter of the building from the roof to the street. The west wall was an African savannah, the south side was a South American rain forest, the north side was an Arctic wilderness with Polar bears and penguins, and the east wall was an underwater exploration of beautiful coral reefs along with an array of magnificently colored fish and subaqueous plant life. It was a world that no longer existed, a world filled with life, beauty and wonder. A world destroyed one fine March afternoon in Old-World year 2025.
A black clad sentinel took retina and DNA scans with a hand scanner. The little red light on the scanner turned green, the sentinel let them pass and they entered the facility.
The tech led Thundersky across the bright lobby, where other scholars and techs were crossing this way and that, pristine in their clinical white Intsofiber jumpsuits, clasping their data-pads, heading for their labs – some, undoubtedly, were from the penal labs. They said you could live for years down there, permanently sick and infected with viruses, cancers and radiation, while the medical scholars tested new medicinals and vaccines. It was all supposed to be humane, but the rumors that came out of that place suggested anything but humanity. As the New-World Utopian Puritans said, there was nothing that could excuse medical experimentation on living beings. They often protested outside the GRC and the Center of the GHC (Grand High Council), projecting their protest holographs and chanting their rhetorical slogans.
More sentinels wearing red Intsofiber jumpsuits which denoted them as the uniformed branch of the infamous Silosian Security Services (SSS), were posted all over the building. Every inch was under constant surveillance, everybody’s movements meticulously recorded by the security nanites in the Intsoglass walls.
The tech took Thundersky into a medical examination room on the ground floor, where a scholar was waiting. She nodded to him and the tech left.
High Scholar Blossom Flora was a robust woman of fifty or so, big boned and big breasted with short auburn hair that had started to turn gray. As a rule, mudsurfers such as Thundersky didn’t live long enough to develop gray hair. The scholars however, living down in Sub City where the air was filtered and purified, could live for a hundred years without a day’s sickness.
‘Have a seat.’ She gestured to the sensor chair on her right, not lifting her eyes from what she was reading on her data-pad. ‘I’m High Scholar Blossom Flora. Head of Genetic Research, Special Projects,’ she said, glancing at him, giving him a benign smile. ‘I’ll be right with you, Thundersky Reece.’
‘Accessing data. Alpha Two Zero-Nine. Beginning passive upload,’ Inner Voice said, and it had never been clearer, or more audible – or more startling. Inner Voice, as Thundersky called it, had always been there in his head for as long as he could remember. It was always counting down to something, or “Updating primary systems,” or “processing,” or “initiating,” and other strange computergenic babbledick. He used to try talking to Inner Voice, but Inner Voice never responded. Sometimes he worried that he was going mad, other times he wondered if he was some sort of cyborg. He even thought he was an autonomous droid when he was a kidling, but he knew he wasn’t, he had seen his bio-scans, he was completely human. Besides, humanoid droids are illegal on earth. They have some on Mars in the Martianite mines, and some of the asteroid mining outposts use them, but they didn’t look human. They had Intsoglass bodies, and no faces. Inner Voice, he decided, was nothing to worry about. A quirk in his personality. And he knew he wasn’t mad. But it was like having someone else sharing his brain, someone who talked like a computer’s AI. He had never told anyone about Inner Voice, worried about what they might think of him, and if there was any sign of mental defect, they would never admit him to the Tech Academy, which was his dream. To become an astro-physics tech, where he could work on his designs for new propulsion systems, especially utilizing antimatter/matter fusion impulse propulsion. He had so many ideas and he had read everything from Isaac Newton to Blackstone Washington.
Blossom Flora looked up from her data-pad and gave the nervous youngster another pointless smile.
‘Upload complete. Initiating bio scans,’ Inner Voice said.
‘You have to sit back I’m afraid,’ Blossom Flora said. ‘Or the sensors won’t get correct readings. Just relax. There’s nothing to worry about.’
That’s easy for you to say, he thought to himself. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’ He sat back uneasily, feeling the soft rubbery sensor nodules cushioning his back, butt and the backs of his legs, arms and head. The chair vibrated slightly as the sensors scanned him internally and externally, monitoring his vital signs, which were now displaying holographically from a holo-projector behind Blossom Flora, every organ from his brains to his privates and everything in between displayed in three dimensions like a Feral’s dinner menu. ‘Is that what I am, ma’am? A special project?’
‘Huh? We’ll see,’ she said vaguely.
‘Is it because I don’t get sick?’
‘As I said. Let’s wait and see.’
Thundersky’s heart bucked in his chest, and the monitor showed elevations in blood pressure, heart rate and adrenalin.
‘Just relax,’ she said without answering him. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Really there isn’t.’ She finally put her data-pad down and picked up a blood pump. ‘A slight sting coming up,’ she said, pressing the blood pump to a vein in the crease of his elbow. It made a Pfft noise as the sensor targeted a vein and shot its hair-fine needle into his arm, and the glass vial filled with blood. She removed the vial and inserted it into a multi-spectral bio-analyzer. ‘Full spectrum analysis please, Arti,’ she said to the computer. She turned to the viewer and looked at the brain scan. Cerebral activity was off the chart. The cerebellum, the right and left hemispheres of the cerebrum, the corpus callosum, the cerebral cortex, the medial temporal lobe, the hippocampus; they were all showing incredible neuro-electrical activity with no detectable dormancy in any region of his brain. She stared incredulous at the image and data readings for a long time. She had been expecting some enhancements, but this … this was like nothing she’d ever seen before.
Eventually, she turned to Thundersky, hiding her excitement behind a façade of casual normality, adding another benign smile. ‘Do you think you should be a special project, Thundersky?’
‘No. Not especially, ma’am. But I’m wondering why you would?’ he said perceptively. He knew there was something in that scan that interested her; something about him. ‘Is there something wrong with my brain? You seem very interested in it. Have you found an anomaly?’
‘Anomaly?’ She looked at him. It was more than anomalous; it was goddam miraculous.
GODS OF MEN, AMPHIPOLIS
Copyright © by Philip Remus 2024
This book is a work of factually inspired fiction, some characters are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to people living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional.
All Rights reserved
Sword of Damocles
!!!WARNING!!!
Unsuitable for anyone under the age of 18.
The following novel is based entirely around actual events and real personages and contains graphic dramatizations of ancient warfare that some people may find upsetting.
Some areas of this book include cultural practices contemporaneous to the period which are incompatible to the modern era and should always be seen within the historical and cultural contexts of their time.
I have endeavoured to stay as close to the facts as possible. In some instances, where historical and archaeological records are ambiguous, I’ve hypothesised. As these novels primarily concentrate on the life of Lysander, I’ve included him as a character in the Northern campaign. There is no written or archaeological data to suggest that Lysander was present at Amphipolis, but there’s equally, no records to suggest that he was not there either.
Please note that I have used the Spartan calendar. Both Spartan and Attican calendars can be found at the end of this novel with bibliography and additional information.
PART I
Second Front
CHAPTER 1
Let a man learn how to fight by first daring to perform mighty deeds…
Tyrtaios, 7th Century BCE
Islet of Sphacteria
Eponymous Year of Angenidas, 425 BCE
Through the swirling black smoke, came the hot glow of the firestorm that had broken out on the island, and the vegetation, parched as it was by the hot summer sun and weeks without rain became deadly kindling as the flames spread and grew; it was like a living thing with a thousand fiery tongues lapping at the night all at once, its roaring voice filled with the promise of death, growing fiercer and wilder as the wind swept them hither and thither, roaring in its frenzy, whipping and lapping at the night, advancing steadily, ever more hungry, consuming everything that lay in its path, leaving a black scab of smouldering ash in its wake.
The glow of the inferno could be seen for miles around, like a beacon lit by the Olympian gods; belching columns of thick black smoke that swirled into the night, spread amorphously across the sky, laying an impenetrable fog that glimmered with glowing embers and tumbling sparks.
It couldn’t have been worse for Epitadas and his men, trapped on this forsaken islet, and with no means of fighting the fires or escaping them, the Lakedaimonians were driven back to the ancient fortifications built in the time of King Nestor at the tip of the island where the cliffs drop precipitously to jagged rocks below, like blackened teeth through which the sea spumed along the narrow strait into Pylos Bay.
They sheltered behind the ancient remnants of Nestor’s fortress and there they had to wait it out until there was nothing left for the fire to consume, and then, Epitadas knew, the island would be naked and there will be no cover to be had against the enemy occupying Pylos and the promontory where the House of Athena stood proudly in the distance.
Once behind the walls, beyond which the fire continued to devour every stick and blade of grass, the Spartans among them, knowing that the enemy will follow these flames, and upon this barren rock, they will die as Spartans must, in glory, worthy of their dread creed, withdrew to tend to their own funereal obsequies before embracing the beautiful death. They sang to the of glory to Artemis-Ortheia as they oiled one another’s bodies and combed each-others long hair and platted their braids, to go to the afterlife in their best and noblest condition.
‘O, Artemis, you fill me with your love as Ares fills me with his strength. And to thee we honour in death as in life,’ Epitadas sang as he combed Abreas’s long thick black hair. ‘We will be joined in the afterlife, where we join with our fathers and their fathers, brother.’
‘The gods are watching us, Epitadas.’
‘Then let’s not disappoint them...’ He looked up; the dark smoky sky glowed with a deep flickering orange light, like a spring dawn. The heat was almost unbearable, the stench of scorched fettered thew.
The men sat below the walls, shielded from the worse of it, their grimy sweat slicked faces glossed in the glow.
Some of the men were wounded from the last Athenian assault, when the Lakedaimonians repelled them from the island, and when next they come, as come they would, it would be in greater numbers with fresh warriors. When next they come, these men knew they were going to die.
They were all tired, hungry and thirsty, they had been on this barren islet for countless days, blockaded by the enemy, harassed by his archers, under siege with very little in the way of food and fresh water getting through.
Epitadas watched the ferocity of the fire, like a monster, raging a hundred strides beyond the parapet eating its way across the island. Sphacteria has become a torch, he thought. They were going to die on this accursed isle of misery, unworthy of the worms beneath their feet.
How infuriating it was, how tantalising, knowing a Spartan army lay encamped just beyond the horizon. Even now, Spartan lookouts could see the island burning and there was nothing they could do with the dogged enemy well-dug in and fortified on the promontory, the seaward approaches blockaded by Athenian warships. Only a man like Brasidas would tempt the blessed sisters of fate with some bold move against those arrogant whores of the sea, he thought, but Brasidas fell at Pylos … dead or alive, none on that island knew?
Before the fire, taking the island was a Sisyphean nightmare for Demosthenes. Despite his forces vastly outnumbering the Lakedaimonians, they just could not take Sphacteria and it had turned into a long siege in the hope of starving them into surrender or death.
The Spartan navy had made attempts to break the Athenian blockade, but were driven back by the superior strength and seamanship of the Athenian navy. Loyal helots had smuggled food and fresh water to the island, but now, even that access was cut by the arrival of more ships under the command of Cleon.
For both Athens and Sparta, this had become a far bigger affair than a small incursion into a Spartan province. The Lakedaimonians on Sphacteria were trapped there, and they had become a matter of high politics, and so desperate were the Spartans to avoid the catastrophe of witnessing the defeat of the one hundred and twenty Spartans who were among the men on that doomed island, they sued for a truce, and in surety of the truce, the Spartans surrendered her ships to guarantee the truce whilst the Kings sent their emissary to Athens to negotiate a peace to the honour and satisfaction of all belligerents, in order to secure the lifting of the blockade and the freeing of the men besieged on Sphacteria.
At first there had been indications of a good outcome with Nicias and many other influential Athenians in favour of ending the war. A war that had cost so much in money and lives on all sides already. A war that had seen men of quality reach unbound depths of barbarity and depravity, as to stain the very honour of all Hellas forever after.
Not since the Trojan war had there been such a muster of arms avowed to the cause of Ares. The Hellenes had unleashed a storm the like of which no Greek had before witnessed, and now, honour, anger, hatred and vengeance were mingled into a poisonous brew of misery and weeping women as to sadden the heart of Achlys herself.
Surely then, reason would show itself to be the strongest advocate for peace? But reason hardly got a word in, and the talks were nothing but a fruitless vine, thanks to the intervention of that master of words, Cleon, who rekindled the dulling flame of war with stirring speeches and lies, poisoning any hope of an honourable peace. He roused the Athenian spirit beyond heights reality could not reach, and the clear cracks in the Spartans, as Cleon saw it, were starting to show.
Sparta, he arrogantly argued, was spent. It was finished. Athens, he said, had to press the war until Sparta was on her knees. Why settle for a negotiated peace, when all out victory was so close to hand, he proclaimed.
He convinced the Athenians that Sparta was already on the verge of collapse … a collapse that was inevitable, he told them. A collapse that would make Athens the undisputed first power of Greece.
Cleon was a master of words, clever at appealing to the basest of human instincts. He could conjure demons and phantoms of the mind and make you see enemies in every shadow. He could tell you the sky is green and the meadows are red; when Cleon spoke, he could convince you of anything at all.
Once they take the island of Sphacteria and those Spartans upon it, he told the assembly upon the Pnyx, so every citizen could hear him before they voted on the issue. The Spartans, he said, will surrender unconditionally, and her kings will become vassals to the will of Athens.
And then, something extraordinary happened. Nicias, who was an elected Strategos,[1] had one more go at steering the course back towards peace. Cleon was vastly underestimating the enemy, he told the people of Athens, an enemy who knew nothing of the sour fruits of defeat. An enemy, he told them, who are cast from the same flesh as was Leonidas and Herakles… ‘These are not men who will fall to their knees, or buckle before any master,’ he said, ‘I know this, even if Cleon does not,’ he told them. ‘I proposed a truce and to send a commission to Pylos to consider the situation before making any rash decisions one way or the other. Even to meet the Kings and their retinue. But I warn you, Athenians, you may injure Sparta, you may make them pause, but you’ll not make them stop, and Cleon is wrong to say it’s otherwise, for I know the nature of these men, and they would die before bending their knees to an enemy.’
‘Let them die standing up then!’ somebody shouted from the crowd, and a wave of laughter followed.
Somebody else yelled. ‘They’ll die just as well on the tips of our spears as any other mortals!’
Cleon jumped in. ‘To what end would we send a commission?’ he billowed, knowing his own fate and future lay in continuing the war. Peace will make him vanish like fog in the midmorning sun, and who will remember Cleon then? ‘By the gods, we’ll be old and grey before those haggling hens are done clucking! Time better spent concentrating on the Lakedaimonians on that island, and establishing a permanent garrison at Pylos, manned with Messenian hoplites to menace the Spartans, and rouse the Helots into rebellion. Sparta cannot fight both the Helot and the might of the Athenian Empire…’ He denigrated Demosthenes, who had thus far failed to take the island. How difficult can it be, taking one little island with just a few hundred half-starved men defending it? Then he turned on Nicias making the same accusations of ineptitude and procrastination. He boasted that even he could do better than they could.
Nicias, who hated the lowborn rabble-rousing son of a leather merchant, no better than a Piraean whore, decided there and then to wipe that smug grin off of Cleon’s face, and declared that he was going to step aside as strategos and relinquish his office to Cleon, who clearly thought he was the better man.
The assembly was plunged into a shocked silence, then there was an eruption of shouts and waving fists.
Cleon was at once horrified and flabbergasted; backed into a corner, especially now the senators were agreeing with Nicias. If Cleon was so clever, then let him go and prove it. The choice was now a simple one. Cleon must choose between his pride and his ambition. If he refused the challenge, they would accuse him of hubris, whereby he might be banished, or even stoned to death. He had no choice but to take up the dangerous office Nicias had relinquished to him, knowing that his failure, would almost certainly mean his execution, for Athens does not tolerate failure in its commanders.
Nicias may not have been smiling on the outside, but he was laughing his head off on the inside as he watched Cleon inwardly wrestling with himself. But the time would come, when Cleon was the one laughing, and Nicias would come to regret this day for the rest of his life.
Cleon took command as strategos in Nicias’s place, and soon after, he sailed with over three thousand reinforcements to Pylos, where he joined Demosthenes.
When it came to returning the Spartan ships, Athens reneged and kept the ships, a treachery that would be long remembered by one young Spartan...
[1] Modern equivalent of this rank is approximated to general.
COMING SOON
I'm working on the Fifth Chameleon novel "CHAMELEON, Countdown " which takes us into the fateful years 1939-1941.
as well as this, I'm editing a new horror novel, "Mr. Ripple". Would yopu like a sneaky preview? Sure, why not:
MR. RIPPLE
PROLOGUE
Interplan Astro-Research facility, Massachusetts
June, 2049, 9 months to contagion
Not everyone was happy about the Cares II mission. It started as a routine mining survey; the Cares II’s lander was to collect rock samples, run scans and analyze the solar system’s largest asteroid, or the smallest planetoid as some like Pam Edwards called Cares II. It was an exploratory mission to search for, and assess minerals and ore deposits for its mining potential in partnership with NASA, Interplan Astro-Technologies and the Cygnus Off World Mining Corporation.
Cares was worth its weight in gold as the saying goes, rare minerals, such as cobaltarthurite, one of the rarest minerals in the solar system was found in three locations, and Cares is rich in rare metals too, which was the real attraction; spectral sub-surface scans and core samples confirmed rich deposits of platinum, osmium, palladium, iridium rhodium, ruthenium, rhenium and tellurium. A cosmic treasure-trove. The CEOs of Interplan and Cygnus were overjoyed by the money-making potential and their stocks went through the stratosphere when the news broke that robotic mining operations were planned for 2058, less than ten years away.
But it was that other discovery that really had everybody excited … and worried. They had found complex biological organisms frozen in ice. The theory was, that the ice and microbes were left by the asteroid that had impacted Cares hundreds of millions of years ago had deposited the ice and microbes, which had miraculously survived.
When it was leaked to the press last year that the return ship had a kilo of the ice full of the biological organisms and microbes, the shit hit the whirlwind. The response was instant and global and varied in the extremes, from fear to elation, to religious denial. And the ubiquitous big conspiracy theorists, who saturated the web with all kinds of whacky theories from the government being controlled by aliens, to an alien invasion that was going to wipe out humanity, such as that extremist Preacher Winston who had famously predicted to his televangelist congregation, the Cares II probe was carrying death and pestilence to Earth. Ordinarily, this prediction would’ve gone unseen and unheard by most people. Had it not been for one of his congregation pulling a gun mid sermon and fired seven shots at the preacher and not one of them hit him. The video went viral. Two of Preacher Winston’s choir were shot dead and another four were injured. God had deflected the bullets and saved him. “I have heard the voice of God,” he declared, “and he told me that the Devil’s work is coming to Earth on that probe…”
Pam hated that guy. Since then, it seemed he had been on every discussion and debate show being aired about the ethics of bringing alien lifeforms back to Earth. Endangering the already declining eco systems on Earth, was one argument.
It wasn’t just the religious nuts who came out of the woodwork spouting all sorts of crud; the Ufologists were practically dancing in the streets waving, “We told you so” banners, and a good number of scientists, politicians and ordinary citizens around the world protested against the organisms being brought back, despite all the assurances that the samples would remain frozen in stasis and kept in a secure isolation laboratory under the strictest quarantine. But no system, no matter how robust is completely safe, not when considering unforeseen external forces.
People were scared, not of little green men with ray guns; they were scared of invisible microbes. It was understandable, Pam thought, even if it was irrational. There was no risk, there were fail safes for the fail safes. There was no chance of the organisms getting into the environment.
Pam stood in front of the big screen watching the Cares II lander’s liftoff from the cold dark barren rock adrift in the blackness, with the thousands of other asteroids and chunks of ice and cosmic dust, tumbling eternally in the asteroid belt.
Everything had to be perfectly timed to avoid collisions with the astral debris. She toyed absentmindedly with the polished Martian pebble pendant mounted in a gold clasp that always hung around her neck. A souvenir from the 2043 Mars mission, where she and four others were on the planet for almost three years at the International Mars Station. She stared transfixed at the live feed from Mission Control in Australia. This was the first step in the probe’s two-hundred and fifty-seven and a half million miles journey back to Earth…
‘A watched pot never boils, Pam,’ Charles said in his soft charming English voice. He pushed his spectacles up his nose with a finger. ‘All we can do is wait,’ he said.
‘I think of all the things that might go wrong during liftoff,’ she said.
‘Mission knows what they’re doing, Pam,’ Charles said. ‘This is all very routine for them.’
She looked at her older colleague and mentor. He was tall and lean and immaculately dressed in a navy-blue suit, and he always wore brightly colored bowties, and today, his bowtie was orange with black poker dots, whereas Pam was casual, wearing blue jeans with faded knees and a Boston Red Sox baseball shirt. She was good-looking 34-year-old brunette with dark brown eyes that looked almost black.
Charles had been her teacher and mentor during her university days, and he asked her to become his research assistant after she got her degrees, and she had been with him on the space program at Interplan ever since. They had gone to the moon and to Mars together.
‘There’s nothing routine about this mission, Charles. We can’t afford to lose that ice. It’ll be years before we can get our hands on another sample.’
Charles’s thin lips curled into a smile. ‘Well, it’s out of our hands now,’ he said. ‘It’s all up to mission control, Pam. There’s nothing we can do except wait. But it’s going to be okay, they’ve never lost a reentry vehicle yet, so go and have a nice cup of tea and a biscuit. We’ve got about a year of waiting to do.’
That was his way of saying, forget about it. She did admire his fatalistic and unflustered ways, his unnatural patience, though, sometimes, that damn well infuriated her. She had never been known for her patience. In the eighteen or so years she had known him, she never saw him lose his cool, not once. Science, especially xenobiology, which was completely theoretical … until now.
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