Gostegodd 013

For Prediction Fiction here
This weeks words: argue, petechial, spring

Olewydden became agitated, twitching as he processed Mark’s reply.
“But the Guardian is not in Petrichor!” he protested, a petechial rash staining his throat.

“Don’t argue, Olewydden. Bring him to me.”
“I, I don’t have that power,” he darted looks to the rear of the drinkshop.
Mark caught the creature’s forelimb and trapped it on the table top.
“You would not have been sent if he wasn’t able to watch me through you. Guardian, Twelve disembarked with me, do you not think that number is significant? Time is shorter than expected.”

Released, Olewydden sprang up, fled to a dark corner.

Gostegodd 012

For Prediction Fiction here
This weeks words: guardian, olive, straddle

The owner of the soft voice wore an olive cloak. Green, on this rocky planet. The colour associated with the chloropods, out in the emptiness of space. A risk, to wear this, but reassurance also.

“You are Archwilydd Mark?” 
“Not officially,” Mark replied, “Although until a replacement is officially announced, I’m straddling both the inquisition and the resistance.”
“I am Olewydden. I’ve found lodgings for you, and a role, so you can pass in society. Come.”

Mark’s nano-irises scanned Olewydden’s face, for tics that showed he might be untruthful, untrustworthy.
“No. I am only here to meet the Guardian.”

Gostegodd 011

For Prediction Fiction here
This weeks words: abnegate, core, whisky

Stones everywhere. Buildings aggregated in a palette of creams and browns, ochre and whisky, brick and ancient leather. Rock underfoot, for several kilometres, and far below, a molten rock core. The weirdness of planets. It oppressed Mark, so much concentrated matter.

Now in Petrichor city, the first challenge passed, he had to find his contact. He picked the fourth drinkshop he saw, because it was less brightly lit than the others, even in daylight it had a misty, gloomy air. Ordered a beaker of hot bitter stimulant. Waited.  Drank slowly, until a soft voice behind him spoke the keyword “Abnegation.”

Gostegodd 010

For Prediction Fiction here
This weeks words: entrails, kiss, perfect

Perfection, for Aonghasa, was when the shipserfs ran. Scuttling away through the service warrens, or further, into the ships entrails, ducting. How could they know where to run and hide better than the Captain? The Knave had been his for so long. However fast or cunning they were, he would find them, end the chase in a crushing kiss. The sensors weren’t even illegal.

Rioja had pulled the clothes around her, wishing to vanish deeper into the closet, waiting for Aonghasa’s next move. Had he seen the bug?

“You’re not on the roster!” Aonghasa blustered. “Where’s that brick skinned bint?”

Gostegodd 009

For Prediction Fiction here
This weeks words:  barge, elegant, wing

Rioja ran her fingertips over the dark material of the elegant cloak, hoping for hidden pockets, to find something she could use to demonstrate her usefulness, daring even.

But nothing. She would just have to follow her instructions, place the listening bug somewhere unobtrusive. She pulled it out of her cleaning trolley. It looked like a bug, all haematite shiny filigree lines and translucent wings. How it worked she had no idea, it might even be a bug, an intelligent one, for all she knew.

She’d just slipped it in a trouser pocket when Aonghasa barged into the room.

Gostegodd 008

For Prediction Fiction here
This weeks words: purse, theatre, travesty

The room didn’t really need cleaning, it sparkled like an operating theatre. The sleeping pod had been left out, though the green snuggler had been carefully folded and aligned with the pods corners.

Rioja pursed her lips and hissed her breath out. It was really too tidy in here. The tall man’s quarters were as secretive as his blank navy stare. The clothes were all unpacked, dark and spaced equidistantly in the closet. Nothing in any of the pockets.

She’d imagined being a daring spy, but the illusion crumbled to travesty in the face of the strangers carefully organised defences.

Gostegodd 007

For Prediction Fiction here
This weeks words: earring, park spearmint

Rioja hadn’t been assigned to manage the quarters of the tall stranger, but she’d swapped with Anneca after describing the jewel chest of the woman she had been allocated to.

Jewelled earrings and thick ropes for twining in the hair, around the arms and neck, in luscious wine reds, and the brilliant spearmint of a stun-gun discharge. By the armful! So tempting, but Rioja had dozens of long-orbits left on the ship; Anneca only a short term hire. A parked favour in case their paths crossed again.

Her back against the closed door, she wondered where to start…

Gostegodd 006

For Prediction Fiction here
This weeks words: flaccid, lullaby, sack

Stonesblood. Mark didn’t know how old it was, but it had that preserved look of planetbound cities. Of course, there were towers, with cracked bells clanging out sonorous lullabies. Flaccid socks of gaudy materials designed to flap when the atmosphere span at a different speed to the rock. A whole language built up around those.

Rock everywhere.

The walls, rock dozens of hands thick, conjuring up armies camped outside, waiting for their opportunity to sack and loot the riches inside.  Stealing money was very different these days.

He passed through the scanners; and let his breath slide between his teeth.

Gostegodd 005

For Prediction Fiction here

This weeks words: channel, hike, petrichor

Mark hiked his carrysack crosswise over his shoulders, ready for the short freefall shuttle trip down to the planet, and to the unyielding Petrichor. The city complex was also called Stonesblood by those who came to make complex trades with it’s hard but slippery inhabitants.

He and the dozen others were channelled through the scanners at the shuttle door. Mark wasn’t entirely sure that his credentials would pass muster, but they were the best the Wrthiannau could make. If not, it was all over, and the implant on the palm of his left hand would be activated.

The suicide button.

Gostegodd 004

For Prediction Fiction here

This weeks words: alpha, convulse, refulgent

Aonghasa, captain of the Knave of Dschubba, swung his feet up onto the refulgent instrument panel and leaned, grinning, far over the back of the chair; it seemed his spine would crack.
Six more orbits at this end-of-run port, and then back home for Alpha Centauri, and then a break before he hired himself and the ship out to Canopus Cruises for a lucrative but mind numbingly dull jaunt around the local galaxy tourist hotspots.

He waited for the call from Gearraid, almost convulsed with excitement at the amount of money promised for the guns in the hold.

Gostegodd 003

For Prediction Fiction here

This weeks words: bramble, drift, sally

Rioja tore herself away from watching the disembarkation, realising she was late for duty, too late even to clean herself up, or tidy her bramble-wild hair. 

The tall stranger, some sort of authority figure, was not the only traveller waiting for the shuttle, twelve others were there, some of them mirror faced, others in suit-cloaks. The Knave was scheduled to drift for six standard orbits before the shuttle would return, and her cleaning of guest pods had to be completed. 

It started so inauspiciously, this first sally of the war, yet to be named by commentators.

Gostegodd 002

For Prediction Fiction here
This weeks words: awry, freelance, fulsome

When shrouded by his navy cloak, it was hard to make out his eyes. Mark still wore the twilight uniform of the Penultimate Archwilydd, even though he was now a freelance financial inquisitor.
He had reason to be wary of awry glances, he couldn’t expect fulsome applause as a gamekeeper turned poacher. His own gaze, nano-enhanced, irises of iridescent navy was curiously opaque.
Certain types of travellers always wanted to crash his personal barriers, seeing silence as an affront, itching to work out his mystery. But a dangerous fool could challenge him, could unmask him as a fake Archwilydd…

Gostegodd 001

For Prediction Fiction here
This weeks words: knave, rioja, boot

As the Knave of Dschubba drifted towards the next port of call; Rioja watched the slow spiralling dance of the background stars on the graph-screen in the staff canteen.

The quieter the port, the more privacy had been bought, and the richer the planet. This one was even unnamed, so that only those who knew more about it could even go there.
Rioja dreamed of one day setting boot onto a planets surface, stepping away from the constant jabber of people, machines, monitors.

She saw the tall man whose attention she’d tried to hook, navy cloaked, prepared to disembark.