REGARDING STEN #6:
THE RETURN OF THE
EMPEROR
“What’s the matter with the sons of bitches, Marc?” Chris
was saying into the phone. “They’ve got enough money from the Rambo movies and
Terminator Two alone to choke a herd of Wall Street fat cats, but they can’t
seem to cough up the fifty grand they owe Bunch and Cole.”
He listened a minute, then snorted derision. “Oh, fuck
Carolco,” he said. “The money is two months overdue. You tell that asshole at
Business Affairs that if you don’t see a check in his office by Friday we’re
calling the Guild.”
This threat obviously produced panic because I heard frantic
babbling on his line. Chris held the phone away from his ear, grinning at me.
Mouthed the words “He’s fuckin’ freaking out.” When the babble died down he
said, “We’re not bluffing, Marc. They can pay up, or feel the union heat –
bigtime!”
The call ended. Chris returned the phone to its cradle. He
said, “Rock bottom, all agents are chicken shits. Even those clowns at CAA.”
At the time, CAA was the most powerful talent agency in
Hollywood – which meant the world. Chris and I had signed with them after
dumping the Weasel, whose namesake we’d killed – and killed Gully Foyle filthy
– in Court Of A Thousand Suns. We weren’t regretting the decision; it was a joy
just to never her his whiny voice again. But so far we were less than impressed
with CAA’s performance.
The situation was like this: It was time to write the next
book in the Sten series – Return Of The Emperor. We needed to shut down the
Hollywood business for a couple of months so we could get a healthy start on
the book, plus finish a proposal for an historical trilogy that we knew would
be a game changer in our fortunes.
But to do that, we needed fuck you money, which is defined
as a savings account large enough to tell purveyors of Hollywood bull pucky to fuck
off and pass on their projects. I mean, we were down so low at one point while
completing our Vietnam novel – A Reckoning For Kings – that we’d had to write
the pilot for a series titled – and I shit thee not - “Towtruck Boogie.”
Got the picture? Thought you might.
Anyway, we needed the fifty grand and we needed it now so we
could get down to some serious hammering of prose. But we had run into an
immovable object: Hollywood Greed. All companies in Hollywood are slow pays.
They hang on to the money as long as possible so they can collect the interest.
It is your agents job to keep on them constantly, but they also pulled down a
guaranteed salary every week and didn’t empathize with the plight of a
freelancer who must live by his/her wits or see no paycheck at all. Besides, in
the real world of Tinsel Town, most agents would rather piss off their
clients than the studios.
Carolco proved to be the worst of the lot. Their toupee
squad at Business Affairs made the guys at Universal Studios look like pinko
Commie people lovers. The thing is, the only reason we took the gig was because
of pressure from CAA. It was potentially a fun project – a movie of the week
for CBS about a futuristic Alcatraz. Robot guards, atrocities, etc. But we’d also
been offered a gig writing a script for John Milius’ production company. It was a supposedly true story about a young Teddy Roosevelt
leading a rescue party to save a group of girls kidnapped by Indians. Of the
two, we preferred the Milius project (Known for Apocalypse Now, Red Dawn among
others, Milius also turned out to be one hell of a nice guy), but CAA was
adamant that a gig for Caroloco was a much better career move. We later learned
they had a behind the scenes practice of bundling writers, directors and even
actors they represented and strong arming the companies to buy the whole
package. In this particular case it became obvious that there was more ten
percents to be made from Caroloco than little old John Milius, who after all,
was only a lowly writer at heart.
As Chris put it later: "And so, red asses that we were, we fucking fell for it."
After my partner hung up, I tried to work on my portion of the
outline for “Return.” Ended up just doodling as I mulled over our dilemma. And
the anger built.
The threat Chris made to call the guild was not an idle one.
The WGA (Writers Guild Of America – West) has strict rules about their writer
being paid on time. By contract, the producer was required to pay story money
within two weeks of ordering the story. And the script money was due within two
weeks of delivery of first draft. We’d done both over two months ago.
Of course, the danger of a writer actually calling up to
complain was that he/she was going to piss off the producer, which did not bode
well for future work. That’s what the agents insisted, at least. But Chris and
I had not forged a successful screenwriting career by being good little writer
mice. Squeaky wheels and cranky old lions tend to get noticed first.
Finally, I looked up at Chris, who I saw was looking at me –
amused. “You’re getting pissed, Cole,” he said.
I nodded. “Fuck them,” I said. I’m going to call the Guild
now.”
And so I did.
When I was done, I hung up, satisfied that the Guild rep was
pissed as I was.
I told Chris, “Why don’t we take our notes and have a long,
boozy working lunch?”
My partner brightened. Shuffled through papers on his desk.
He said, “We’ve got the book outline pretty much locked. One story line is the
gradual return of the Emperor, the other, Sten’s battle with the Privy Council
assassins, who think he knows why the AM2 delivery ships stopped the moment the
Emperor died. Plus we have the fallout from the end of the war with the Tahn.”
“What do you suggest?” I asked.
Laughed, he said, “The Kilgour joke. We haven’t picked a
shaggy dog story for this book yet.”
“Far clottin’ out,” I said, already getting back into Sten
mode. Grabbed my notes and my wallet and off we went to the Whales’ Rib where
they served fresh oysters, thick salmon steaks and strong drink by the barrel.
It was our self imposed rule that each Sten had to contain
at least one recipe from the Eternal Emperor and one very long, very bad shaggy dog story to be
told in the barely penetrable Scots accent of one Alex Kilgour, Sten’s
heavy-worlder best mate. Typically the joke would start near the beginning of
the book and wouldn’t be completed until near the end of the novel.
So, in between novels, we collected shaggy dog stories and
when it came time to write, we’d pick one to enter the InterGalactic Hall Of Bad
Humor.
At the Whale’s Rib, we ordered our drinks and salmon steaks,
pulled out crumpled notes and considered. By the end of lunch we had our
finalists.
Here are the three runners up:
Joke #1:
As we all know, the poor Tahn live in constant terror of
their government. And just before the outbreak of war with the Empire there
were mass arrests across all the planets under their power. People lived in
even greater fear, especially at night, expecting to be carted away by the Tahn
Socio-Patrolmen.
One night there was a loud knock at the door of a certain
house. The residents cowered in silence, afraid to answer it. The knocking
continued, getting louder and louder.
The residents didn't budge - pretending to be asleep.
Finally someone started to break down the door.
As he listened to the door give way, one resident thinks to
himself: "I'm an old man, I've got to die soon anyway. What am I afraid
of? I'll open up to them."
He gets up and goes to the door. A minute later he rushes
back to his family, shouting joyfully: "Get up! Get up! It's only a fire!”
Joke #2:
The Tahn Prime Minister read his report to the gathered
members of Parliament. Suddenly someone sneezed. "Who sneezed?"
(Silence.) "First row! On your feet! Shoot them!" (Applause.)
"Who sneezed?" (Silence.) "Second row! On your feet! Shoot them!"
(Long, loud applause.) "Who sneezed?" (Silence.) ...A dejected voice
in the back: "It was me" (Sobs.)
The Tahn Prime Minister leaned forward: "Bless you,
Citizen!"
Joke #3
A Tahn judge strolled out of his chambers laughing his head
off. A fellow judge approached and asked what was so funny.
The first judge said, "I just heard the funniest joke
in the world!"
"Well, go ahead, tell me!" said the other judge.
Still snickering, the first judge said, "I can't. I
just sentenced some poor clot to the firing squad for telling it!"
*****
We tested the jokes out on our waitress, then the bartender
and our fellow imbibers. (As usual, there was a large crowd at our favorite
local watering hole.)
They all got laughs of varying degrees. But here’s the one
that got the most laughs and ended up in the book. I’m giving this to you
exactly as it appeared in the book, including the many interruptions.
The Winning Joke:
Laird Kilgour of Kilgour, formerly
Chief Warrant Officer Alex Kilgour (First Imperial Guards Division, Retired);
formerly CWO A. Kilgour, Detached, Imperial Service, Special Duties; formerly
Private-through-Sergeant Kilgour, Mantis Section Operational, various duties
from demolitions expert to sniper to clandestine training, to include any duties
the late Eternal Emperor wanted performed sub rosa with a maximum of lethality,
was holding forth.
"... An' aye, th' rain's
peltin' doon, f'r days an' days i' comes doon. An' her neighbors tell th' li'l
old gran, 'Bes' y' flee't' high ground.'
" 'Nae,' she says. 'Ah hae
faith. God will take care a' me. Th' Laird wi' provide.' "
It was a beautiful evening. The
tubby man was sprawled on a settee, his feet on a hassock, his kilt tucked
decorously between his legs. Conveniently to his right were his weapons of
choice: a full pewter flagon of Old Sheepdip, imported at staggering—staggering
to anyone not as rich as Kilgour—expense from Earth and a liter mug of lager.
(Alex
is interrupted, but later continues stubbornly onward ...)
*****
An th' rain comit doon an' comit
doon, an' th' water's risin'. And her pigs are wash't away, squealin't. An'
the' coo's swimmin't f'r shelter. An doon th' road comit ae gravcar.
" 'Mum,' comit th' shout.
'Thae's floodin't. Thae must leave!' " 'Nae,' she shouts back. 'Ah'll noo
leave. Th' Laird will provide.'
"An' th' water comit up, an'
comit up, an' th' rain i' pel tin' an comit doon. An' the chickens ae roostin'
ae the roof. Floodin't her house't' ae th' first story. An' here comit ae boat.
'Missus, now thae must leave. We'll save y'!'
"An' agin comit her answer:
'Nae, nae. Th' Laird will provide.'
"But th' rain keep fallin't.
An' th' water keep't risin't. An' coverin't th' second story. An' she's
crouchin' ae th' roof, wi' th' chickens, an' here comit ae rescue gravlighter.
It hover't o'er th' roof, an' a mon leans oot. 'Mum! We're here't'save y'.'
"But still she's steadfast.
Once again, 'Nae, nae. Th' Laird will provide.'
"An' th' rain keep fallin't
an' th' flood keep't risin't. An' she drowns. Dead an' a'.
"An' she goes oop't' Heaven.
An' th' Laird's waitin'. An' th' wee gran lady, she's pissed!
"She gets right i' Th' Good
Laird's face, an shouts, 'How c'd y', Laird! Th' one time Ah aski't frae
help—an ye're nae there.' "
The com buzzed. The guvnor answered.
"Alex. F'r you. From your hotel."
"B'dam," Alex swore. But
he rose. "Hold m'point. 'Tis nae a good one, nae a long one, but be
holdin't it anyway."
(Once
again, Alex's progress is halted. Will this gag ever be clotting over?)
*****
He had a second for a final mourn.
"Nae m'friends'll nae hear the
last line:
"An' th' Laird looki't ae her,
an' he's sore puzzled. 'Gran, how can y' say Ah dinnae provide?
"Ah giv't ae car, ae boat, an
ae gravlighter!'"
And now, a sample of Sten #6 – The Return Of The Emperor.
This time I’m starting with Chapter Four, because I’ve always loved this
portrait of a gallery of villains. Also, it better fits the tone of the foreword.
Oh, and before forget:
Oh, and before forget:
CHAPTER FOUR
STEN #6 - THE RETURN OF THE EMPEROR
BY ALLAN COLE & CHRIS BUNCH
THE GETTING OF power had always been a complex thing with
complex motives. Socio-historians had written whole libraries on it, analyzing
and reanalyzing the past, seeking the perfect formula, saying so and so was the
right course to follow, and such and such was obvious folly.
Kin mated with kin to achieve power, producing gibbering
heirs to their throne. The threat of such a succession sometimes assured the
parents of very long and royal reigns.
Kin also murdered kin, or kept them in chains for decades.
Genocide was another favorite trick, one of the few
foolproof methods of achieving majority. The difficulty with genocide, the
socio-historians said, was that it needed to be constantly applied to keep the
edge.
Politics without murder was also favored—under special
circumstances. Power was won in such a case by constant and unceasing
compromise. Many voices were heard and views taken into account. Only then
would a decision be reached. A little artful lying, and everyone believed they
had been satisfied. Everyone, in that case, was defined as those favored beings
of material importance. A leader only had to make sure those same beings had
sufficient bones of imagined progress to toss to their mobs. The rule there was, that if one had too little, the prospect of more was usually enough to
satisfy.
There were other methods, but they tended to follow the same
paths.
The most certain way, those historians agreed, was to
possess a commodity that beings desired above all else. In ancient times it had
been food or water. A well-placed road might accomplish the same end. Sex
worked in any era, given the proper circumstances. Whatever the commodity,
however, it had to be kept in a safe place and guarded against all possible
comers.
The Eternal Emperor had had AM2. It was the ultimate fuel
and the cornerstone of his vast Empire. In the past, he had merely to turn the
tap one way or the other to maintain complete control. His policies had been
supported by the largest military force of any known age. The Emperor had also
kept the AM2 in a safe place.
More than six years after his assassination, his killers
were unable to find it—and they were about to lose the power they had committed
regicide to claim.
Even if they had possessed the key to the Emperor's AM2 treasure
chest, it was likely the privy council was headed for disaster.
Times had not been kind.
In the aftermath of the Tahn wars—the largest and most
costly conflict in history—the Empire was teetering on the edge of economic
chaos. The Eternal Emperor's coffers were nearly bare. The deficit from the
tremendous military spending was so enormous that even with the highly
favorable interest rates the Emperor had bargained hard for, it would take a
century to significantly reduce said deficit, much less pay it off.
When the Emperor was still alive, Tanz Sullamora and the
other members of the council had strongly proposed their own solution. It
involved freezing wages below the pre-Tahn rate and creating deliberate
scarcity of product, forcing sharp increases in the price of goods.
And a hefty surtax on AM2.
Through those means and others, the debt would be quickly
paid, and corporate health assured for the ages.
The Emperor had rejected those proposals out of hand.
When the Emperor rejected a thing, it was law. With no
appeal.
His Majesty's postwar plans called for a directly opposite
approach.
The late, never lamented Sr. Sullamora had detailed the
Emperor's views to his fellow conspirators without editorializing:
Wages would be allowed to rise to their natural levels. The
war had been costly in beingpower—especially, skilled beingpower. This would
result in immediate higher costs to business.
Prices, on the other hand, would be frozen, putting goods
within easy reach of the newly prosperous populations.
Of course, the war had been a tremendous drain on supplies.
To alleviate that, the Emperor fully intended to temporarily reduce taxes on
AM2—immediately—making goods and transportation cheaper.
In time, he believed, a balance would be achieved.
Where the lords of industry had once seen a future of sudden
and continuous windfalls, they now faced a long period of belt-tightening and
careful management of their resources. Unearned perks and hefty bonuses would
be a thing of the past. Business would be forced to compete equally and take a
long-range view of profitability.
That was unacceptable to the privy council. They voted
no—with a gun.
The vote had not been unanimous. Volmer, the young media
baron, had been horrified by their plan. He wanted no part of it, despite the
fact that he disagreed with the Emperor as much as anyone on the council.
Although he had no talent for it, Volmer was a fervent believer in the art of
persuasion. But he had always had whole battalions of reporters, political
experts, and public relations scientists at his command, constantly feeding his
enormous media empire. All that was inherited, so talent wasn't necessary.
Like most heirs, Volmer believed himself a genius. It was
his fatal flaw. Even such a dimwit as Volmer should have been able to cipher
the precariousness of his situation when he broke with his peers. But the
bright light of his own imagined intellect had kept that fact hidden.
The elaborate plot that ensued claimed Volmer as its first
victim. The architect of the plot was the Emperor's favorite toady, Tanz
Sullamora.
For most of his professional life, Sullamora had licked the
Eternal Emperor's boots. For decades, he saw his ruler as a being without
visible fault. Certainly, he didn't believe him to be a saint, with gooey
feelings for his subjects. He viewed the Emperor as a cold and calculating
giant of a CEO, who would use any means to achieve his ends.
In that, Sr. Sullamora was absolutely correct.
He erred only by taking it to the extreme. Business was
Sullamora's faith, with the Emperor as the high priest. He believed the Emperor
infallible, a being who quickly calculated the odds and acted without
hesitation. And the result was always the correct one. He also assumed that the
Emperor's goals were the same as his own, and those of every other capitalist
in the Empire.
To their complete dismay, many others had made the same
assumption. But the Eternal Emperor's game was his own. It was his board. His
rules. His victory. Alone.
As for infallibility, even the Emperor didn't think that. In
fact, when he planned, he assumed error—his own, as well as others. That's why
things mostly worked out in his favor. The Eternal Emperor was the master of
the long view.
"You tend to get that way," he used to joke to
Mahoney, "after the first thousand years."
The Tahn war was the result of one of the Emperor's greatest
errors. He knew that more than anyone. But the conflict had been so fierce that
he had been forced to be candid—to Sullamora, as well as to others. He started
thinking aloud, running the logic down to his trusted advisors. How else could
he seek their opinions? He had also revealed self-doubt and admitted his many
mistakes.
That was a terrible blow to Tanz Sullamora. His hero was
revealed to have feet of definite clay. The corporate halo was tarnished.
Sullamora lost his faith.
Murder was his revenge.
To protect himself, he kept the actual details of the plot
secret. He guarded his flanks by demanding that his fellow conspirators equally
implicate themselves.
They had all fixed their prints to documents admitting
guilt. Each held a copy of the document, so that betrayal was unthinkable.
But the particulars of Volmer's murder, the recruiting of
Chapelle, and the subsequent death of the Emperor remained unknown to the other
conspirators.
The members of the privy council watched the events at the
spaceport unfold on their vidscreens along with the rest of the Empire. And
there were no more fascinated viewers. They saw the royal party veer to the
receiving line at Soward. They cheered Sullamora as their private hero. They
waited in anticipation for the fatal shot. The tension was incredible. In a
moment, they would be kings and queens.
Then the Emperor died.
Mission accomplished!
The explosion that followed surprised them as much as anyone
else. The bomb might have been a nice touch. But it was inconceivable that
Sullamora would commit suicide.
The council members assumed the madman, Chapelle, was merely
making sure of his target. Oh, well. Poor Sullamora. Drakh happens.
Although it meant there were more riches to divide, they
honestly mourned the man. As the chief of all transport and most major ship
building, Tanz Sullamora could not be easily replaced. They also badly needed
his skills at subterfuge, as well as his knowledge of the inner workings of
Imperial politics.
His death meant that they had to learn on the job.
They didn't learn very well.
The Emperor had stored the AM2 in great depots strategically
placed about his Empire. The depots fed immense tankers that sped this way and
that, depending upon the need and the orders of the Emperor. He alone
controlled the amount and the regularity of the fuel.
Defy him, and he would beggar the rebel system or industry.
Obey him, and he would see there was always a plentiful supply at a price he
deemed fair for his own needs.
The privy council immediately saw the flaw in that system,
as far as their own survival was concerned. Not one member would trust any
other enough to give away such total control.
So they divided the AM2 up in equal shares, assuring each of
their own industries had cheap fuel. They also used it to punish personal enemies
and reward, or create, new allies.
Power, in other words, was divided four ways.
Occasionally they would all agree that there was a single
threat to their future. They would meet, consider, and act.
In the beginning, they went on a spending spree. With all
that free fuel, they vastly expanded their holdings, building new factories,
gobbling up competitors, or blindsiding corporations whose profits they
desired.
The Emperor had priced AM2 on three levels: The cheapest
went to developing systems. The next was for public use so that governments
could provide for the basic needs of their various populaces. The third, and
highest, was purely commercial.
The privy council set one high price to be paid by everyone,
except themselves and their friends. The result was riches beyond even their
inflated dreams.
But there was one worm gnawing a great hole in their guts.
It was a worm they chose too long to ignore.
The great depots they controlled had to be supplied. But by
whom? Or what?
In the past, robot ships—tied together in trains so long
they exceeded the imagination—had appeared at the depots filled to the brim
with Anti-Matter Two. Many hundreds of years had passed since anyone had asked
where they might come from.
An assumption replaced the question. Important people
knew—important people who followed the Emperor's orders.
Like all assumptions, it rose up and bit the privy council
in their collective behinds.
When the Emperor died, the robot ships stopped. At that
moment, the AM2 at hand was all they possessed. It would never increase.
It took a long while for that to sink in. The privy council
was so busy dealing with the tidal wave of problems—as well as their own
guilt—that they just assumed the situation to be temporary.
They sent their underlings to question the bureaucrats at
the fuel office. Those poor beings puzzled at them. "Don't you know?"
they asked. For a time, the privy council was afraid to admit they didn't.
More underlings were called. Every fiche, every document,
every doodle the Emperor had scrawled was searched out and examined.
Nothing.
This was an alarming state of affairs, worthy of panic, or,
at least, a little rationing. They only panicked a little—and rationed not at
all.
They were secretive beings themselves, they reasoned. It was
an art form each had mastered in his or her path to success. Therefore: An
emperor had to be the most secretive creature of all. Proof: His long reign—and
their momentary failure at figuring his system out.
Many other efforts were launched, each more serious and
desperate than the last. Real panic was beginning to set in.
Finally a study committee had been formed from among their
most able executives. The committee's objectives were twofold. One: Find the
AM2. Second: Determine exactly the supplies on hand and recommend their
disposition until objective number one had been reached.
Unfortunately, the second objective obscured the first for
more than a year. If the Emperor had been alive, he would have howled gales of
laughter over their folly.
"They tried that with the Seven Sisters," he would
have hooted. "How much oil do you really have, please, sir? Don't lie,
now. It isn't in the international interest."
The council would not have known what the Seven Sisters was
all about, or the terrible need to know about something so useless and
plentiful as oil. But they would have gotten the drift.
When asked, each member lied—poor-mouthed, as the old
wildcatters would have said. The next time they were asked, they were just as
likely to inflate the figures. It depended upon the political winds about the
conference table.
What about the rest of the Empire? After they had been
treated so niggardly, what would the truth gain the council?
Actually, the first outsider who had been questioned soon
spread the word. Hoarding fever struck. There was less readily available AM2
than ever before.
Adding to the council's dilemma was a whole host of other
problems.
During the Tahn wars, the Emperor constantly had been forced
to deal with shaky allies and insistent fence sitters. When the tide turned,
all of them swore long and lasting fealty. That, however, did not remove the
cause for their previous discontent. The leaders of many of those systems had
to deal with unruly populations; beings who had never been that thrilled with
the Imperial system and became less so during the war.
Peace did not automatically solve such doubts. The Eternal
Emperor had just been turning his attention to these matters when he was slain.
The problems would have been exceedingly difficult to solve under any
circumstances. It was especially so for his self-appointed heirs. If those
allies of the moment had not trusted the Eternal Emperor to have their best
interests at heart, than who the clot were these new guys? The council ruled by
Parliamentary decree, but most beings in the Empire were cynical about the
Parliament. They saw it as a mere rubber stamp for Imperial orders.
The Eternal Emperor had never discouraged that view. It was
one of the keys to his mystique.
The Emperor had been a student and admirer of some of the
ancient czarist policies. The czars were among the last Earth practitioners of
rule by godhead. They had millions of peasants who were brutally treated. The
czars used the members of their royal court as middle beings. It was they who
wielded the lash and kept the rations to starvation level. The peasants did not
always submit. History was full of their many violent uprisings. But the
peasants always blamed the nobility for their troubles. It was the noble
corpses they hung on posts, not the czar's.
He was a father figure. A kind of gentle man who thought
only of his poor subjects. It was the nobility who always took advantage of his
nature, hiding their evil deeds from him. And if only he knew how terrible was
their suffering, he would end it instantly.
There was not one scrap of truth to this—but it worked.
Except for the last czar, who was openly disdainful of his
people.
"That's why he was the last," the Emperor once
told Mahoney.
It was just one of those little lessons of history that the
privy council was unaware of. Although if they had known of it, it was doubtful
if they would have understood it. Very few business beings understood
politics—which was why they made terrible rulers.
Another enormous, festering problem was how to deal with the
Tahn.
To Kyes, the Kraa twins, and the others, it was simple. The
Tahn had been defeated. To the victors go the spoils, and so on.
To that end, the privy council had gutted all their systems.
They had hauled off the factories for cannibalization or scrap, seized all
resources, and beaten the various populations into submission and slave labor.
They also spent a great deal of credits they didn't have to garrison their
former enemy. The rape of the Tahn empire produced an instant windfall. But
before they had time to congratulate themselves for their brilliance, the privy
council saw all that gain going over the dike in an ever growing flood.
The Eternal Emperor could have told them that tyranny was
not cost efficient.
An economic miracle was what the Emperor had in mind. At
least, that was how he would have portrayed it. Certainly he had reprisals in
mind. The purge would have been massive and complete. He would have wiped out
all traces of the culture that had bred War into the war-loving beings.
But he would have replaced it with something. The will to
fight would have been harnessed to the will to compete. Aid every bit as massive
as the purge would have been provided. In his thinking, such single-minded
beings as the Tahn would eventually produce credits in such plenty that they
would soon become one of the most important capitalist centers in his empire.
They would have made wonderful customers of AM2.
Which brought the dilemma of the privy council to full
circle.
Where was the AM2?
NEXT: STEN #7: VORTEX
*****
*****
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.
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
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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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