But this week I'm past the 10k words mark. I'm still not sure how long the book will be but I'm guessing 50k+, so a shorter novel. However, that's a guess. I might end with a novella, I might end up with 90k. Time will tell.
It's set in the Dryden Universe, same basic settings as A Matter of Trust and The Demon's Eye. The story has two main protagonists and the background conflict is the grand scale tension you'd expect from space opera. There'll be some planet-hopping, some action and adventure. And a dollop of romance.
Here's a small taste.
The noise in the bar
swirled around Brent Walker like a storm. Highs and lows, shrills and
flats, all meaningless sounds mixing with the cocktail of stale beer
and the unmistakable tang of carra weed. Swallowing the last of his
beer he shoved himself to his feet. There was no point in staying
here. In fact, he'd better get Vagabond
out of here before the station master impounded her. His stomach
lurched at the thought of losing his ship. Fuck Narvak. Brent had
only been an hour late, bugger all in the scheme of things. But
Narvak didn't wait for anybody.
Brent sidled past a
group of half-drunk miners. One of them had a girl sitting on his
knee, his gaze fixed on her tits. Huh. Brent would have been doing
the same thing if he'd had the credits. Oh well. At least Vagabond
had sexcapades in her database. The Yrmak bouncers eyed him as he
slipped past them into the street.
Outside the air was
cooler, even here in the middle of the station, which said more about
the heating level in the bar than the air circulation in the station.
Brent trudged off toward the transit system which would take him to
the distant docking bay where Vagabond
and the other tramp haulers were located. The street was virtually
empty in this industrial part of town. The din from the Wayfarer
subsided to a drone when he went around a corner. The warehouses
huddled together, virtually hanging over the street, the peeling
facades and faded signs a testament to the times. A streetbot beeped
toward him, gathering up the litter. Brent stepped around the machine
and was about to walk on when he heard someone trying to stifle a cry
of pain. He hesitated for a nanosecond, then moved on. Not his
business. He had his own problems. He'd taken two paces before
another sound jerked him to a halt.
That splat was
someone hitting someone. The woman's cry of pain was bitten off. A
male voice growled, the tone threatening. He knew that scenario all
too well, listening to his father beating up his mother. Anger
twisted his gut as the images surfaced; the bruises on her face, the
cut lip, the broken ribs. He'd been small then, too small to help.
But he wasn't now. Brent let his ears lead him to the narrow alley
between two buildings that he'd just passed.
In the shadows he
made out a hulking figure standing over someone on the ground. "On
yer feet, bitch. And don't try that again."
All subject to change without notice, you understand. That's how it is with first drafts.
All subject to change without notice, you understand. That's how it is with first drafts.
