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| The Wolf Worlds - Original Cover |
REGARDING STEN #2:
THE WOLF WORLDS
We were both nursing bleak moods at the bar of Bob Burns
restaurant in Santa Monica. Chris sighed one of his most dramatic sighs and
rattled the cubes in his empty glass.
The ever alert bartender sauntered over. “Another one,
boys?” he asked.
I nodded. “And one for yourself,” I said.
As he bustled about building two more Scotch and waters,
Chris gave another one his sighs. We stared at each other in the mirror behind
the bar. A long, long depressed silence settled over us.
The bartender delivered the drinks and we both took hefty
slugs. More silence. More depression.
Finally, Chris said, “The way I see it, Cole, we are in
danger of being bitten in the butt by Second Book-Itis.”
What Chris was referring to was the cause of our depression: the overdue second novel –
The Wolf Worlds, book numero dos of what would become the eight-volume Sten
series. And the “second book-itis” business involved a curse that has bedeviled
writers ever since the long forgotten author of the Epic of Gilgamesh failed to deliver a satisfactory sequel to history’s first novel back
in 2100 BC.
If plied with enough liquid spirits, most writers will
confess that when they sat down to write their second novel they suddenly found
themselves foundering under twice the baggage they’d carried penning their
first book.
All the self doubt comes charging back. Sure, you
successfully completed – and found a publisher – for novel number one. Good on
you. But wait, don’t be so quick with the congratulations, pal, your evil twin
taunts. You know damn well that was a fluke and, besides, the editor was
probably drunk. Admit it. In reality you are no-talent hack and this time
around they’ll find you out.
Anything you produce, your dark side will chortle, is
guaranteed to stink to the high heavens. The critics will mock you. Your
friends will laugh at you. Your disgraced family will abandon you. Your mother
will die of shame. And you will end your days living in a high-mileage junker,
taking hip baths in service station restrooms and competing with rats for
Chinese restaurant dumpster scraps.
Okay, okay, you tell yourself, overriding the evil twin. You
are just being paranoid. But the devil of darkness persists. You know damn
well, he’ll say, that most times all those fears come true. And the second
novel really will be pure crap. And sometimes the author will recover and
produce a fine third novel. And a fourth. And a fifth. And so on and so forth
until years later when we finally come to the death notices where the obit
writer may or may not say nice things about the ink-stained wretch’s career.
But you can be sure they won’t forget that lousy second novel. And the obit’s
lead will read something like this:
“Nobel Laureate Hortense Inkhorn Highbrow, who penned a
score of modern masterpieces in her lifetime - except for her second novel that
even the kindest critics consider a stinking pile of feces - died today after
losing a long battle with carpal tunnel syndrome…”
But back to Chris’ warning: we had embarked on that perilous
journey that is The Second Novel with high hopes, but we were already in peril
of foundering on the rocky shores of Boring Plotland.
In short, as Chris so eloquently put it, “our fucking story
sucks.”
I not only didn’t disagree, I drained my drink and called
for refills without bothering to check if Chris had done the same. From long
experience sitting at bars with my old partner, I knew that he’d quickly follow
my example – if he hadn’t already beaten me to it.
I said, “Why don’t we throw out everything we have and start
all over again.”
“That’s easy,” Chris said. “Right now we don’t have shit.”
“Fortunately,” I said, “Owen doesn’t know that. We told him
we were almost done with the first draft and were about to start rewrite.”
Owen was Owen Locke – our editor at Del Rey Books. And the
lie we told was perfectly forgivable, if not by him, then by just about every
other professional writer in the world. We all have big bags of lies that we
use on editors, producers and others of that ilk who have a ready supply of
even bigger, the-check’s-in-the-mail type lies of their own.
So we mentally junked everything but the title: “The Wolf
Worlds.” Which in our minds was the nickname for “The Lupus Cluster,” a region that
crouched on the edge of our imagined empire. (Interesting factoid: The Lupus
Cluster was named in honor of our old boss, Frank Lupo, a gent we first met
working on Galactica 1980.)
Our brainstorming session began. This usually started with a
discussion of everything and anything that had piqued our interest over the
past few weeks.
Some examples:
I had been struck by a recent National Geographic picture of
one-and-a-half million year old human footprints found embedded in what was
once muddy soil in Northern Kenya.
Chris had just finished a book about Masai warriors, the
seven-foot-plus giants of Africa who tended herds of cattle and hunted lions
solo, armed with only a spear.
The Vatican Bank scandal had been in the news of late – with
the disgraced former top banker found hanging by the neck under a bridge. Which
led to a discussion of the always interesting history of the church.
It was just about at this point that Chris’ eyebrows shot
up. I recognized the sign.
“Got something?” I asked, hope increasing my pulse rate.
Chris nodded – but hesitantly. “I think so,” he said.
Quickly I called for more drinks to lubricate Chris’ Muse
moment.
Chris said, “Didn’t you tell me once, Cole, that at one
point there were like three or four popes at the same time, all competing with
one another on who had the biggest hat?”
“Actually,” I said, “it supposedly happened several times
over the church’s history. As many as four popes, each supported by different
groups and countries. Church historians tried to clean it all up hundreds of
years later by declaring all but one of them to be ‘Anti-popes.’”
“Okay,” Chris said. “You’ve got it. Merry Christmas.”
I frowned. “Got what?” I said. “And Christmas is long gone.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Chris declared. “What we’ve got is
our bad guys. What we’ve got is three, maybe four competing popes, all engaged
in bloody religious wars over the supremacy of The Lupus Cluster.”
Christ on a popsicle stick, or any other bit of blasphemy
you care to supply. My partner had just nailed it. Most people think that the
hero of a tale is the most important thing. Not so. It’s the villain that makes
the story. Or, the terrible obstacle the hero most overcome. Or both.
Now we had not just one bad guy, but three, or maybe even
four. Religious fanatic bad guys. The worst kind, as history and recent events
have shown.
“Shit,” I said. “You’re right, partner mine. We’ve got it.”
“And Second Book-Itis can eat the big green weenie,” Chris
said.
And with that, I called for the bill, paid it, and we headed
back to the office to write.
(END NOTES: 1. When
you pick up the book and read it for yourself you’ll see that not just the pope
business found its way into the novel, but the footprints, the Masai warriors
and a dozen other bits and pieces that popped up during our brainstorming
session. 2. Over the years The Wolf Worlds has proven to be the most popular
book of Sten series. In every printing, in every language, it outsells the
others.)
*****
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| The Wolf Worlds: New U.S. Cover |
THE WOLF WORLDS
By Allan Cole
& Chris Bunch
CHAPTER ONE
THE GO
SIRENS ululated through the Jannisar cruiser. The thunder of crashing boots
died away. The ship's XO nodded in satisfaction as the STATIONS READY panel
winked to green. He made a mental note to assign extra penance to one laggard
ECM station, then spun in his chair to the captain. "All stations manned,
Sigfehr," he reported.
The
captain touched the relic that hung under his black tunic, then opened his
intercom mike. "Bow, ye of the Jann, as we make our prayer to Talamein.
"O
Lord, ye who know all things, bless us as we are about to engage the
unbeliever. We ask, as our right due, for your assistance in victory.
"S'be't."
The
chorus of "S'be't" echoed through the ship. The captain switched to a
double channel.
"Communications,
you will monitor. Weapons, prepare launch sequence. LRM tubes two, four, six.
Target onscreen. Commercial ship. Communications, establish contact with target
ship. Weapons, we will launch on my command, after surrender of enemy ship.
This is bridge, clear."
*****
The
cruiser's prey appeared to be just another obsolescent Register-class mining survey ship wildcatting through the galaxy's
outer limits.
Its
oval hull was patched, resprayed, corroded, and even rusty from its very
occasional atmospheric landings. Its long, spindly landing legs were curled
under the ship's body, and the mining grab claws were curled just below the
forward controls.
It
resembled nothing so much as an elderly crab fleeing a hungry shark.
Actually,
the ship was the IA Cienfuegos, an
Imperial spy ship, its mission complete and now speeding for home.
Extract, Morning Report, II
Saber Squadron. Mantis Section:
The following detached this
date, assigned temporary duty Imperial Auxiliary Ship Cienfuegos (x-file OP
CAM-FAR):
STEN, (NI). Lt. OC Mantis
Section 13, weapons; KILGOUR. ALEX. Sgt., NCOIC, Demolitions; KALDERASH, IDA.
Corporal. Pilot & Electronics; MORREL, BET, Superior Private, Beast
Handler; *BLYRCHYNAUS*. Unranked, Anthropologist, Medic. Team detached with
Indiv Gear. Units 45 & 46.
NOTE: OP CAMFAR under dir O/C
Mercury Corps, subsq. entries t/b cleared thru Col. Ian Mahoney, Commander
Mercury Corps.
Sten
stared approvingly at the nude woman strobe-illuminated by the hydroponic
lights. He walked to the edge of the plot and gently picked his way past the
two huge, black-and-white Siberian tigers.
One of
them opened a sleepy eye, emitted a low growl of recognition. Sten ignored it,
and it returned to licking its mate's throat.
Bet
turned then frowned, seeing Sten. Sten's heart still thumped when he saw her.
She was small, blonde, and muscles rippled under her smooth, tawny skin.
She
hesitated, then waded through the waving plants to the edge of the plot and sat
beside him. Sten was only slightly taller than Bet, with black hair and
brooding black eyes. He was slender, but with the build of a trained acrobat.
"Thought
you were asleep," she said.
"Couldn't."
Bet and
Sten sat in silence for a moment—except for the purrs of Munin and Hugin, Bet's
two big cats. Neither Bet nor Sten was particularly good at talking. Especially
about…
"Thought
maybe," Sten tried haltingly, "we should, well, try to figure out
what's going on."
"Going
wrong, you mean," Bet said softly.
"I
guess that pretty well is it," Sten said.
Bet
considered. "I'm not sure. We've been together quite awhile. Maybe it's
that. Maybe it's this stupid operation. All we've done for a long time now is
sit on this clottin' ship and playtech."
"And
snarl at each other," Sten added. "That, too."
"Look,"
Sten said, "why don't we go back to my compartment? And...” His voice
trailed off. Very romantic approach, his mind snapped at him.
Bet
hesitated. Considering. Finally she shook her head. “No,” she said. “I think I
want things left alone until we get back. Maybe—maybe when we’re on R and R…
maybe then we’ll go back to being like we were.”
Sten
sighed. Then nodded. Perhaps Bet was right. Maybe it was best—
And the
intercom sang: “If we aren’t disturbing the young lovers, we seem to have a
small problem in the control room.”
“Like
what, Ida?” Sten asked.
The
tigers were already up, ears erect, tails swimming gently.
“Like a
clottin’ great cruiser haulin’ up on us from the rear.”
Bet and
Sten were on their feet, running for the control room.
*****
A
relatively short man, about as wide as he was tall, scanned the display from
the ship's Janes fiche and grunted.
Alex was a heavy-worlder with steel-beam size bones and super-dense muscles.
And his accent - Scots because of the original settlers of his homeworld — was
as thick as his body.
"Naebody
w'knae th' trawble Ah seen," he half sung to himself as he glanced over
the description of the ship that was pursuing them.
Sten
leaned over his shoulder and read aloud: "619.532. ASSAULT/PATROL CRUISER.
Former Imperial Cruiser Turnmaa, Karjala class.
Dim: 190 meters by 34… clottin' chubby
ship… Crew under Imperial manning: 26 officers, 125 men…."
"Four
of us, plus two tigers, against 151 troops," Ida broke in. The Rom woman
mused over the odds. She was as chubby as she was greedy. Ida had her fingers
in every stock and futures market in the Empire. "If anyone's taking
bets,” she said, “I'll give odds… against us."
Sten
ignored her and read on: "Armament: Six Goblin anti-ship launchers,
storage thirty-six in reserve… Three Vydall intercept missile launchers,
storage forty-five in reserve… four Lynx-output laser systems… usual
in-atmosphere AA capability… single
chain gun, single Bell-class assault laser, mounted unretractable turrets above
A deck. Well-armed little bassid... Okay, now, speed…."
"Ah'm
kepit my fingers linkit," Alex murmured.
"Clot,"
Sten said, "they can outrun us, too."
It was
Ida's turn to grunt. "Clottin" computer, all it tells us is that
we're swingin' gently, gently in the wind. Any data on who those stinkin' bad
guys are?"
Sten
didn't bother to answer her. "What's intercept time?" he snapped.
Ida
blanked the Janes display and the
screen relit: AT PRESENT SPEED WILL BE WITHIN WEAPONS RANGE IN 2 SHIP SECONDS
FOR GOBLIN LAUNCH. CONTACT WILL BE MADE IN-
Bet cut
the readout. "Who cares? I don't think those clowns want to shake our
hands." She turned to Sten. "Any ideas, Lieutenant?"
Ida's
board buzzed. "Oh-ho. They want to talk to us." Her hand went to the
com switch.
Sten
stopped her. "Stall them," he said.
There
was a reason for Sten's caution. The problem wasn't with the control room — the
Cienfuegos was indeed an Imperial spy
ship — but except for its hidden super-computer, a rather sophisticated
electronic suite, and overpowered engines, it still was pretty much the
rust-bucket inside as it was on the outer skin.
The
problem was its crew: Mantis section, the Empire's super-secret covert mission
specialists. Mantis troopers were first given the standard one-year basic as
Imperial Guardsmen, then, assuming they had the proper nonmilitary,
nonregimented, and ruthless outlook on life, seconded first to Mercury Corps
(Imperial Military Intelligence) and then given the two-year-long Mantis
training.
Clot
the training, Sten thought while trying to come up with a battle that offered
even a one-in-ten chance of survival. The problem was really the team's
physical appearance: Munin and Hugin, two four-meter-long mutated
black-and-white Siberian tigers. One chubby Scotsman. One fat woman wearing a
gypsy dress. One pretty woman. And me, Sten thought. Sten, Lieutenant,
commanding Mantis Team 13, suicide division.
Whoopie,
he thought. Oh, well.
Sten
motioned to Doc while Ida fumbled with the com keys, making confused responses
to the cruiser.
Doc
waddled forward. The tendriled koala's real name was *BLYRCHYNAUS*, but since
no one could pronounce his Altarian name, they called him Doc. The little
anthro expert (and medic) held all human beings in absolute contempt. Though he
was mostly considered a pain in the lower extremities, he had two indispensable
talents: He could analyze culture from small scraps of evidence; and (as one of
the Empire's most formidable carnivores) he had the ability to broadcast feelings
of compassion and love for his adorable self and any companions.
"Any
idea who they are?" Sten asked.
Doc
sniffed. "I have to see them,"
he said.
Sten
signaled Ida, who had taped a crude frame to the com pickup so that she would
be the only creature visible on the ship.
"Once
more onto the breach of contract," she said and keyed ANSWER.
Three
stern faces stared at her from the screen.
"G'head,"
Ida yawned. "This is Hodell, Survey
Ship P21. Ca1 Cervi on."
"You
will cut your drive instantly. This I order in the name of Talamein and the
Jannisars."
Out of
sight of the Jann captain, Doc studied the man. Noting his uniform. Analyzing
his speech patterns.
Ida
gave the captain a puzzled look. "Talamein? Talamein? Do I know him?"
The
eyes of the two men beside the captain widened in horror at her blasphemy. The
senior officer glared at Ida through the screen.
"You
will bring your vessel to an immediate halt and prepare for boarding and
arrest.
"By
the authority of the Prophet, and Ingild, his emissary in present-time. You
have entered proscribed space. Your ship will be seized, you and your crew
conveyed to Cosaurus for trial and execution of sentence."
"Y'sure
got yourself a great justice system, Cap'n." Ida rose from her chair,
turned, and planted her bare, ample buttocks against the pickup. Then, modestly
lowering her skirt, she turned back to the screen. She noted with pleasure
she'd gotten a reaction from all three black uniforms this time.
"And
if nonverbal communication ain't sufficient," she said, "I'd suggest
you put your prophet in one hand and your drakh in the other and see which one
fills up first."
Without
waiting for an answer, she broke contact.
"A
wee bit d'rect, m'lass?" Alex inquired.
Ida just
shrugged.
Sten
waited patiently for Doc's analysis. The bear's antenna vibrated slightly.
"Not pirates or privateers—at least these beings do not so consider
themselves. In any case authoritarian, which should be obvious even to these
odiferous beasts of Bet's."
Hugin
understood enough of the language to know when he was being insulted. He
growled warningly. Doc's antenna moved again, and the growl turned into a purr.
He tried to lick Doc's face. The bear pushed him away.
"I
find interesting the assumption of absolute authority, which would suggest
either a fuehrer state of longstanding or, more probably, one of a metaphysical
nature."
"You
mean religious," Sten said.
"A
belief in anything beyond what one can consume or exploit. Metaphysics, religion,
whatever.
"My
personal theory would be what you call religious. Note the use of the phrase
'In the name of Talamein' as a possible indicator.
"My
estimation would be a military order, based on and supporting a dictatorial,
puritanical religion. For the sake of argument, call this order the Jannisars.
"Note
also that the officer has carefully positioned two aides to his either side.
Neither seemed more than a bodyguard.
"Therefore,
I would theorize that our Jannisars are not a majority in this… this Talamein
empire, but an elite minority requiring protection.
"Also
note the uniforms. Black. I have observed that in the human mind this indicates
a desire for the observer to associate the person wearing that uniform with
negativism—fear, terror, even death.
"Also,
did any of you notice the lack of decoration on all three uniforms? Very
uncharacteristic of the human norm, but an indicator that status is coupled
with the immaterial — in other words, again, an indicator that we're dealing
with metaphysical fanatics."
Doc
looked around, waiting for applause. He should have known better.
"Ah
a'ready kenned they wa' n'better'n a lot'a Campbells," Alex said.
"The wee skean dubhs th' had slung a' they belts. No fightin' knives a man
wae carry. D'ble-edged, wi' flat handles. A blade like tha's used for naught
but puttin' in a man from the rear."
"Anything
else, Doc?" Sten asked.
"The
barrel that walks like a being said what I had left out," Doc replied.
Sten
rubbed his chin, wishing, not for the hundredth time, that Mantis had been able
to assign them a battle computer before the mission. Finally he looked up at
everyone. "The way I see it, we have to let them play the first
card."
NEXT: STEN #3 –THE COURT OF A THOUSAND SUNS.
*****
CLICK HERE TO GET ALL 8 STEN NOVELS IN TRADPAPERBACK AND KINDLE
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INCLUDING EMPIRE'S END
*****
CLICK HERE TO GET AUDIO EDITIONS OF ALL 8 STEN NOVELS,
INCLUDING EMPIRE'S END
*****
NEW AUDIOBOOK:
THE WARS OF THE SHANNONS
By Allan Cole & Chris Bunch
Narrated By Scott Larson
A NATION AT WAR WITH ITSELF: In Book Three Of The Shannon Trilogy, young Patrick Shannon is the heir-apparent to the Shannon fortune, but murder and betrayal at a family gathering send him fleeing into the American frontier, with only the last words of a wise old woman to arm him against what would come. And when the outbreak of the Civil War comes he finds himself fighting on the opposite side of those he loves the most. In The Wars Of The Shannons we see the conflict, both on the battlefield and the homefront, through the eyes of Patrick and the members of his extended Irish-American family as they struggle to survive the conflict that ripped the new nation apart, and yet, offered a dim beacon of hope.
*****
LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!
THE WARS OF THE SHANNONS
By Allan Cole & Chris Bunch
Narrated By Scott Larson
Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide:
Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
- "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
- "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus.
- "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com
*****
NEW: THE AUDIOBOOK VERSION OF
THE HATE PARALLAX
THE HATE PARALLAX: What if the Cold War never ended -- but continued for a thousand years? Best-selling authors Allan Cole (an American) and Nick Perumov (a Russian) spin a mesmerizing "what if?" tale set a thousand years in the future, as an American and a Russian super-soldier -- together with a beautiful American detective working for the United Worlds Police -- must combine forces to defeat a secret cabal ... and prevent a galactic disaster! This is the first - and only - collaboration between American and Russian novelists. Narrated by John Hough. Click the title links below for the trade paperback and kindle editions. (Also available at iTunes.)
*****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan
After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.
BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization.
*****
Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Also: NOOK BOOK. Plus ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
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Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
|
In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself.
*****
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