In front of a three-bar gas fire, a large ginger cat was dozing.
"This is ridiculous," said TripleDee. He was out of the wheelchair now, but still moving cautiously, his body a mass of bruises and slowly mending torn muscles. He was pointing at the television. "I mean, what the hell is that? This is the twenty-first century. How big is that screen? Ten inches?"
"Twenty," said Saffi. "Now sit back, I can't see. Here, have a biscuit."
"It's not even a flat screen," said TripleDee.
Saffi put a hand on Daniel's leg, and he shifted position so he could put his arm around her.
"Launch in three minutes."
A crowd of thousands had gathered at the Baikonur Cosmodrome, and billions were watching online and on television. It wasn't every day you witnessed the last members of an entire species leaving their planet.
TripleDee checked his phone for the tenth time in the past hour.
"Hey, she emailed! Sophie, I mean. She's back at home with her mum and dad. Well, I'm her dad, but you know what I mean. He brought her up and everything, and I only met her last week. Okay, to be fair, he's her dad, you're right. Sorry."
"We didn't say anything," said Daniel.
"You didn't have to. You were thinking it. Well, I said you're right, okay, so give it a rest."
"Whatever you say, Trip." Daniel smirked as TripleDee flinched at the nickname.
"I've told you about that, Daniel. How would you like it if I called you... um?"
"Dan?" said Daniel.
"Yeah. Dan. How would you like it, eh?"
"Dan's fine, Trip."
"Oh, piss off."
"What does she say?" said Saffi. Trip looked back at his phone.
"She's still in touch with the rest. Not emails or texts, like. I mean they're still, you know, they're still doing that thing they do. Like onemind but different. That whole connection hoobeejoobee."
"Hoobeejoobee?"
TripleDee ignored the interruption. "She's taken up the guitar. Bet she'll be brilliant. I'll have to give her some tips on who she needs to listen to. Foo Fighters, Pearl Jam, Johnny Marr for some old school stuff, Prince of course..."
He read more of the email and looked up at Daniel and Saffi.
"She says she wants to play like... ah, no way. Ed Sheeran? She's no daughter of mine."
"One minute to go," said Saffi, pointing at the screen. TripleDee took another biscuit.
Daniel offered the packet to Saffi, but she shook her head. "Doesn't seem right, does it? Marking an occasion like this with a custard cream?"
"Maybe you're right," said Daniel. "I'll get Jaffa Cakes."
He stood up, but Saffi pulled him back down to the sofa. "Don't you dare miss it," she said.
They all looked up when the doorbell rang.
"Bloody great timing," said TripleDee as Daniel got up to answer the door. "Tell them to sod off."
Daniel opened the door. "TripleDee says to sod off," he said. "Oh. Hello again. Come in."
TripleDee and Saffi turned round to see Bardock walk into the room. She was dressed in jeans and a shirt.
"Hello," she said. "Sorry to intrude. It's not an official visit."
She saw the television.
"Oh," she said, "it's happening today. I'd forgotten."
"You'd forgotten?" repeated TripleDee.
"Shh," said Saffi, turning up the volume.
Bardock and Daniel stood behind the sofa as the countdown descended from ten to one. A plume of smoke blossomed under the Kestrel Giant, billowing out towards the camera. The massive rocket eased away from the launchpad, slowly at first, as the power beneath it continued to grow. Flames were visible now, a white heat hard to look at even on TV, the brightness levels fluctuating as the camera struggled to deal with the intensity of the light.
No one in the small front room said anything as the rocket built up speed and headed towards the heavens. It escaped Earth's gravitational pull after two and a half minutes. The nine engines that got it there shut off, and the first stage dropped away. The next camera shot was from the Kestrel itself, as stage two engines ignited, and it began its journey into the unknown.
"Cup of tea?" said Daniel.
Bardock shook her head.
"It's been a strange few weeks," she said. She sat down in the chair Daniel pulled out for her. "I have always felt separate. Different. Alone. I was used to it. Now, I have half-brothers. And hundreds of nephews and nieces."
She sipped her tea. The others waited for her to speak again.
"In that moment—the Moment, everyone calls it that now, don't they?— I was me, then I was everybody. Which is what we all experienced. When I was me again, I had changed, but I was the same. Is this making any sense?"
They all nodded. Saffi leaned forward and took Bardock's hand, the way she had at the Devil's Chair. Bardock twitched, but didn’t pull away.
"After the debrief, I went home," she said. "We had reporters at the end of the drive for a week, but they didn't push me when I said I wouldn't talk to them. Reporters respecting a request for privacy. People have changed, haven't they? I tried to paint, but I couldn't, because it doesn't fit."
"I'm sorry," said Daniel. "What do you mean? What doesn't fit?"
"You," she said. "TripleDee. And Saffi. Your actions. Even now, watching the launch on television. Doesn't fit."
"We thought it would be too much of a circus if we went to Baikonur," said Saffi.
Bardock looked her in the eye. "Don't lie," she said, "it's pointless."
Daniel exchanged a look with TripleDee and Saffi.
"What are you talking about?" he said. "You're not making sense."
Bardock sighed. "Abos. Your father. You let him go."
Daniel coughed. "It was the decision of the First. The UN agreed. If they had stayed, there would always be the fear they might turn on us again. It was the right thing to do. However hard it was for us."
"Mm," said Bardock noncommittally. She stood up. "Like I said, not an official visit. I had to put all the pieces in place, see if I was right. I've done that. Now I can go."
She took a card out of her pocket and handed it to Saffi.
"I live in a beautiful part of Wiltshire," she said. "You might like to visit sometime. All of you. And I do mean all of you."
"Thanks," said Saffi, standing to see her out. When they reached the door, Daniel stood up.
"First, you say we're lying. Then you say you're right about something. What are you right about?"
"Forget it," said Bardock. "I'm retired. Don't have to report everything, do I?"
She opened the door and paused on the step.
"Lovely cat," she said.
Even though the ginger tom was curled up tightly, it was one of the biggest felines Bardock had ever seen. At the sound of her voice, its ears twitched, and it raised its head. The enormous cat opened one stunning, golden eye, stared at Bardock for a moment, then dropped its head back onto the rug.
Hundreds of miles above them, still accelerating, eight canisters of dormant superheroes and one of mushy peas began their long voyage to the stars.
THE END
Author’s Note
I'm a podcast fan. In the car, walking the dog, ironing. (Not ironing the dog. That would be wrong. I don't listen to podcasts while ironing the dog; I listen to audiobooks). My regular listens are Wittertainment—Mark Kermode and Simon Mayo's film review show—Mastertapes and Desert Island Discs from the BBC, and Adam Buxton's podcast (even the adverts he records for his sponsors are funny.) I've always enjoyed radio, but podcasts allow me to create my own station. Radio Sainsbury. It's a great listen, but I would say that, wouldn't I?
I also listen to podcasts about the craft and business of writing. Mark Dawson's Self Publishing Formula, Joanne Penn, and The Bestseller Experiment have become favourites. I've binged on The Bestseller Experiment recently, and it's been a fascinating listen.
Hosted by Mark One and Mark Two (no, really, Mark Stay and Mark Desvaux,) TB
E's conceit is that the two presenters would try to write, publish, and market a bestselling book in fifty-two weeks. Spoiler alert: I came late to this party. The fifty-two weeks were up long ago, and, sure enough, Back To Reality hit number one in its Amazon categories, even dislodging Neil Gaiman from the top spot in comedy fantasy. Independently published, like me. Not too shabby. I bought it. I think I owe the Marks that much for all the great content. (Which is part of the secret to their success. I imagine most of their regular listeners bought the book. We're invested in their project, so it's the least we can do.)
Many episodes of TBE feature an interview with a successful author. They're fascinating. It's educational to hear the variety of ways they approach their work. Some write at night, others in the morning. Some go to a coffee shop, others put their computers in front of a blank wall at home (me included.) There are writers who have a soundtrack for each book, and they play their chosen music loudly while writing. Others must have silence. I have wind and rain noises, or—a recent discovery—dark ambient music, on my headphones. Ten thousand words a day is routine for a few writers, but there are some bestselling authors out there who are delighted to get five hundred words down.
Bear with me. There's a point to all this, and here it is: everyone writes differently. But, once they find what works for them, they stick to it until it doesn't work anymore. When I sit down, put the headphones on, and stop looking at the sodding internet, I experience a moment of fear and doubt. I don't know if I can do it, put one word after another, populate that white screen with characters. And even if I do, why would anyone want to read it? What if it's boring, derivative, un-engaging, or just plain shit? What made me think I could do this?
I doubt Neil Gaiman has the same knot in his gut when he starts a writing session. Maybe he does. Maybe it's normal. The cure for it is—you guessed it—to write. One terrible sentence is better than no sentences. It can lead to a terrible paragraph. Once I've written a terrible paragraph, I can see how it can be improved. I go back and tweak, then I keep writing. That's what works for me... now. Ask me again in six months, I guarantee it'll be different.
The Last Of The First is my seventh book, and it's nearly three years since I wrote the first chapter of The World Walker. If I count up all the words before the books were edited, that's around six hundred and sixty thousand words of prose. Someone said (who is this someone person who says this stuff?) that it takes a million words before you become a competent writer. Three or four more books and I'll have no more excuses. I'm still learning, and improving, as a writer, but I suspect the process is never-ending. It's probably a good thing to sit down with that fear and doubt and write my way past it every morning.
There's a little more fear than usual this week. I'm starting something new. I had the basic idea for the story months ago while sheltering under a tree in a cemetery during a spectacular thunderstorm. Seriously. I am not making this up. I made notes on my phone, getting increasingly excited. And colder. And wetter. Last month, we had a family holiday, and I filled over twenty notebook pages with notes. I've written the opening of the first chapter twice... and abandoned both attempts. I've made more notes. Now I'm ready.
This week, I'll start properly. It's a fantasy book with one foot in our world. It deals with creativity and magic, grief, redemption, and the nature of evil. It may also feature a telepathic lobster that predicts the future.
Or I may not write that book yet. I might write something entirely new and come back to that idea later. It’s all part of what makes this scary, and fun.
I have so many ideas, and I want to be a better writer, which means writing more books. There's no other method available, no shortcuts. For this plan to work, I need readers, and you've stuck with me so far. For that, I'm extremely grateful. If you enjoy my books, please leave reviews on Amazon. I also love to hear from readers, so here's how you can get in touch and find out what I'm up to next.
My mailing list gets my book news before anyone else does, and I'll send you the unpublished World Walker prologue, plus some fun, action-packed chapters cut from Children Of The Deterrent. Sign up here.
My website and blog is where I post cover reveals, excerpts, and the occasional piece about writing
http://www.ianwsainsbury.com
The Facebook page is fairly active, and I'm good at responding to messages
http:///www.facebook.com/IanWSainsbury/
I'm having a bash at tweeting @IanWSainsbury
And there's always good old email - [email protected]
As always, thanks for reading. I love doing this, so if you love reading it, let me know, let your friends know, let your pet know (if they have an Amazon account), and, most importantly, let your aunt who works for Netflix know ;)
In the winter of 1986, I was on a train coming back from Leeds University (Philosophy degree, lasted a term, dropped out to join a band). My destination was Shrewsbury where I grew up (opinions differ as to whether this has yet occurred). I was reading a book, and I wish I could tell you what it was, but it was a long time ago. I suspect it was Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, or Stephen King. I was so engrossed that I missed my stop. When I looked up from the page, I was in Prestatyn, on the North Wales coast, and Shrewsbury was an hour and forty-five minutes in the opposite direction. I found a payphone and called my mother. She was unsurprised when I told her why I was in the wrong country.
Occasionally, I forget this is the best job in the world (for about ten minutes while I wrestle with a difficult paragraph), then someone emails me, or tweets, or posts on Facebook, because they enjoyed one of my books, and I am reminded why I'm doing this. I'm doing it because I want to write books that might, one day, make someone forget to get off the train at the right stop. Let me know if that's you.
Ian W. Sainsbury
Norwich, 30th July 2018
Also by Ian W. Sainsbury
Children Of The Deterrent (Halfhero 1)
Halfheroes (Halfhero 2)
The World Walker (The World Walker 1)
The Unmaking Engine (The World Walker 2)
The Seventeenth Year (The World Walker 3)
The Unnamed Way (The World Walker 4)
The Last Of The First Page 24
