A Hurler On The Ditch (Waifs & Strays Book 1)

Book summary

Shakbout Mansard, an agent for the Public Relations Security Agency, is thrust into a mission that quickly escalates beyond diplomacy, threatening the stability of the Inhabited Systems. As political intrigue and the dark reality of the slave trade unfold, Shakbout must confront both external dangers and his own haunted past.

A HURLER ON THE DITCH is a gripping science fiction adventure, blending high-stakes politics and personal reckoning in a richly developed interstellar setting.

Excerpt from A Hurler On The Ditch (Waifs & Strays Book 1)

Chapter 1

I woke up, a minor miracle. The events in the Sickle Quadrant had drained me of the rage and purpose that had driven me. I did not know how to replace them. The best way to avoid engaging with the day was to get up and pretend to do so; I made my way to the wet room and stared at myself in the mirror. No change there: red hair, green eyes, unremarkable features, all present and correct. I was the same bottle-born firedrake that I was when I had looked the night before. Asher was moving about the space, the past shadowing that future in ways I was choosing hard not to think about.

Asher was in the terminal stages of pregnancy and nesting, so I gave her a quick kiss and got out of her way. I munched a tasty breakfast twist I’d bought at the transport stop and settled down to my last remaining pleasure: inventing a wholly different life for myself. I had plans and a purpose to spare there. In this life, I was successful, hardworking, competent, and with a very pleasing ability to rewrite everything whenever the need arose. Then I got off the transport and walked to my space in the PR Agency building.

Here, I was diligent, competent, and viewed with a mixture of fear, hostility, and creeping acceptance. As one of the first two bottle-born agents in the Agency’s history, I was too big a problem to ignore and too difficult to resolve.

The Agency had responded by creating the Department of Dead Ends, with my boss, Lincoln Bluefin, the other bottle-born agent, as the Inspector in charge.

Lincoln had operational freedom that others might have envied. It was a signal of the complete indifference that the Agency had to our activities. Lincoln gloried in the rank and operational freedom. The PR Agency was the perfect cover for her genuine work, the details of which I scrupulously avoided any knowledge of. The public attention I received from the Agency Overseer complicated the signal from the Agency—attention I would happily do without. I was a very convenient tool for the Overseer, and she had no intention of putting me away.

Lincoln and her partner Reyan were both pregnant. I was the father in both cases, which complicated my actual future to the point where I simply abandoned any thought about it in favour of anything that could distract me. A lengthy list of mundane and meaningless report completions and filings that awaited me at my workspace seemed like the best bet for distraction. If I was not actively looking forward to them, I did plan to sink into the work. I sat in my workspace and took comfort from the surrounding bureaucracy when Rosby arrived and put a stop to it.

Rosby was a bottle-born bred for the Thiegler public service. Two metres plus tall, olive skin, black eyes, and a pair of functioning white feathered wings sprouting from her shoulder blades, Rosby was the administrator of the DDE and a fierce Pitchfork competitor.

“Shakbout, first game of the tournament—excuse me, the new tournament—is tonight. I am First Wave with the LeapThrons. Will you be there?” Rosby spoke.

Rosby had perched herself on the edge of my desk to talk about non-official business.

“Congratulations, you deserve it. I will not be there; I do not think it would be a good idea.”

Rosby nodded. “OK, I just wanted to check. There is a reserved box with an excellent privacy shadow available if you want to use it.”

“All things being considered, as this is the first night of the new tournament, I think I should stay away. No need to distract from the main event. This will be your night; you should get all the attention you deserve.”

The tips of Rosby’s feathers had a slight pink glow, and they rustled slightly as she replied,

“You are sweet, thank you. I really appreciate that. I will dedicate my first slammer to you. The crowd will like that.”

There was a minor silence, then Rosby moved to the true reason for the conversation.

“A friend of mine is collecting an offspring from the Brew Home tonight. They are all eager. Hupre is a huge Pitchfork fan and a serious collector of memorabilia. I really would like to have something special for tonight.”

She slid a programme for the Pitchfork match-up I had taken part in over to me. I looked at it and struggled to keep the rush of memories and related feelings in check.

“If I am reading the situation correctly, you are asking me to sign this so you can give it as a homecoming gift to your friend?” I spoke without looking at Rosby.

“Yes, please,” Rosby said.

I had found myself a deeply unwilling player in a Pitchfork tournament that I had foolishly agreed to do. I could not wiggle out of it. It had been an unmitigated disaster from my point of view. Others, everyone else, remembered it differently. A signed tournament programme would be a precious gift. I had refused to take advantage of the merchandising opportunities that were thrown at me, as well as being completely silent, private and public, about the event. Refusing to give a homecoming gift to a new mother would be extremely rude. Rosby had me in a headlock and she knew it. I signed the programme as graciously as I could, adding a short personal wish for a joyful homecoming.

I offered a heartfelt prayer to Lanken that this would be the last ever conversation about the previous Pitchfork tournament and my part in it. Given the way I seemed to provide endless amusement for Lanken, I was not at all confident about it.

Rosby stood and said, “Lincoln would like to see you in her office when you are free.”

Running and hiding were going to have to wait. I went over to Lincoln’s enclosed workspace and sat in the chair in front of her desk. Lincoln was a blue Aquatic Ornamental; she was the Mother God to the forthcoming Beautiful Blue. Lincoln’s mother, Hiral Lakeview, was one of my heroes, even though she had some strange ideas about my influence over Lincoln.

Lincoln waved a greeting at me and continued with the virtual meeting she was involved in. It seemed to be a staff meeting for the Overseer’s direct reports, which did not include Lincoln. The Overseer was speaking as I entered Lincoln’s space.

“Thank you for that illuminating presentation, Inspector Bluefin. Your considerable value to the Agency is clear to all. We will assess your intelligence regarding the money flows from the Credit Square. Investigator Mansard, nice to see you looking so well. Impending fatherhood suits you.”

With that, the meeting closed for Lincoln, who turned to me with a huge grin.

“If we do not poke them enough, they will get all worried and check up on us. We need to reassure them we are here clamouring for attention so that they can safely ignore us. It is a shame to sacrifice information, but that is the price of peace. I wonder who will get a bonus for the upcoming Credit Square work, a nice little nugget to polish up for display to the Standing Committee.”

“Speaking of the Standing Committee,” Lincoln continued without a pause, “now they are the Executive Cabinet. With the official ending of the Empire, a change seemed to be required. Expect title changes to be showering down in the coming weeks. No actual changes, of course, just a fresh coat of paint for fresh circumstances.”

Lincoln stopped and looked at me to see if I had anything to say. Reyan, Lincoln’s partner and a natural-born human, was Chief of Staff for one of the bottle-born leaders of the Executive Cabinet. Lincoln always had the most up-to-date gossip and information. I said nothing.

“Anyway, that is not why I want to talk to you. We have a minor problem that may be an opportunity hiding inside a problem. A request for help has come in from the Sherwood Cluster. No one wants to touch it with a Slapperhagen’s penis, and it has been bouncing around for days. Naturally, it finally made its way to us as there was nowhere else for it to go. I must accept or reject it.

If I reject it, I will have to explain to the Executive Cabinet why I am creating a diplomatic incident. Accepting it means travelling to Sherwood Cluster. Then I thought, why do I have a baitfish and go angling myself? I am delegating the work to you. There’s no need to thank me,” Lincoln said as I opened my mouth. I had not planned on thanking her. She continued, rolling right over me.

“I am sure that Asher is in full nesting mode and will be delighted to have you out from under her feet for a few days. Try not to break anything and if you could avoid starting any wars, that would be helpful. I have organised the links at the transport bay. You look like you have a question. Ask away.”

Having solved the problem to her satisfaction, Lincoln was now ready to listen.

“Why don’t you go? If this is a diplomatic matter, then sending lower-level staff may be an insult,” I asked, feeling I had landed on solid ground to fend off the unwelcome task.

“Screw-Top, for a lifeform who knows everything, there are surprising gaps in your knowledge. I am over seven months pregnant. They advise against using portals in late-stage pregnancy. The impact on Beautiful Blue could be severe.” Lincoln looked angelic as she spoke. I had not heard that about portal travel before. It was plausible, however, and I did not have the energy to challenge it. I gave up and retreated to my workspace to contact Asher and update her regarding my trip.

“Sherwood?” Asher said, “Are they the cluster that officially recognised Thiegler last month, the last holdout they were called?”

“Yes, they are not the actual last holdout. There are a few specks across the Aldehiem Quarter that are officially still at war with Thiegler. At some point, someone will remember and there will be a clean-up. Sherwood was slightly different. Sherwood claimed the Quill Alliance had specifically excluded them from capturing mining rights in Allsur. They maintained the war status with Thiegler as a protest. The rights reverted to them three months ago, so the diplomatic dance music changed and here we are. I don’t know what they could want from the Agency, and it finally fell to Lincoln,” I said.

“And then down to you,” Asher pointed out.

“Rock bottom,” I agreed.

“Ok, be careful. Love you.” With that, Asher signed off.

I turned around in my chair and saw that Tobel was standing at the entrance to my workspace with a packed bag at their feet. Tobel was a natural-born survivor of a hideous transformation, brutally pulled from their own time context. They were managing better than I was in the current one. They had permanently assigned Tobel, the only Forensic Analyst in the Agency, to me.

Tobel was short and wore an elevator charm to lift them up to the average height of natural-born citizens. They had tailored the coverall they wore to look like it covered the correct body proportions.

“Got a call to be ready to travel. Where are we going?” Tobel asked.

I gave them the details as we headed down to the transport bay. Tobel nodded and made no comment. I could feel a stirring in my brain. My curiosity about Sherwood was coming alive and dragging the rest of me with it. Since the end of the war, Sherwood had remained isolated. If I was lucky, I would have some time for exploration.