Angel Rising, a New Ceres Novella

By Dirk Flinthart

The New Ceres planetary charter forbids the use of all modern technology. Law confines the people to the ways of 18th Century Earth. But beneath the surface, rebellion and revolution simmer constantly.

Proctor George Gordon, a hidden protector of New Ceres, knows all too well how easily these can bubble over, but nothing can prepare him for interstellar warfare in his own technologically challenged backyard.

What odd coincidence brings him to the Sunrise Isles to be confronted by ninja and warrior nuns? Who is the strange but compelling amnesiac girl he finds in the convent, and what do the offworld nations want with her? And how can he really be sure who to trust?

Reviews

Angel Rising is an exciting, funny and engaging adventure romp

Keith Stevenson, Aurealis

Angel Rising is a quick, invigorating read, with swordplay, technology and frock-coats.

Liz Grzyb, Ticon 4

Dirk Flinthart’s writing is punchy, the action smoothly written and his characterization of George Gorden has left me wanting more stories with this protagonist.

seandblogonaut, Smashwords

The story itself is a fascinating one, and highly enjoyable, but Gordon himself is the key drawcard. It’s somewhat amazing, but in 51 pages Flinthart manages to sketch Gordon’s character (it’s by no means necessary to read the first story) and also develop it.

Alexandra Pierce, ASif!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twelfth Planet Press
• Release date: Oct 14, 2009
• ISBN: 9780980484113

Dirk Flinthart

Dirk Flinthart writes from the northeast of Tasmania, where he has settled to raise dangerous children and wait out the coming environmental, economic and social shitstorm. He's been writing for over ten years now, though mostly in small press, and favours speculative fiction — not least because (having three small children) he mostly writes short works. Recent years have seen his work in Twelfth Planet Press, Andromeda Spaceways, Agog! Press, Ticonderoga Press and a bunch of other like-minded places.Flinthart's interests, like most writers, are too varied to bother mentioning here, but shortlisting them to martial arts, cooking,offbeat cinema, animation and glass mosaic-work would be a good start. He's editing an anthology called "Canterbury 2100: Pilgrimages in a new world" for Agog! Press, is training for an advanced ju-jitsu grading, studying Iaido, and has just signed up for a course in fencing. The smart money says Flinthart is certifiably mad. Having no money to speak of, Flinthart laughs at such trifles — albeit somewhat manically.

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

New Ceres was designed as a playground for authors who believed there just wasn't enough swashbuckle in science fiction. The original concept was a future world ruled by anachronists, enforcing the mores and social structure of Eighteenth Century Earth on their populace.

Over time, each author who dipped a toe into the green waters of New Ceres added more depth and colour to that world, mingling their styles to develop and expand the scenery and society, picking up and remixing that which had gone before. As a writer involved in the early stages of the New Ceres project, what excited me most was the creation of characters who lived and breathed New Ceres, combining those tantalising ingredients of regency history and science fiction. Dirk Flinthart was one of those authors who didn't just dip his toe into the waters, but leapt in with both boots. His George Gordon may have started out as the bastard child of Lord Byron and James Bond, but he took on an existence all of his own, and I'm delighted to see his snarky, dangerous self let loose again,

This time in a novella. With samurai. And ninja. And nuns. Dirk Flinthart also happens to be one of my favourite people. If I ever needed to cook salmon for 50 people, build a fallout shelter or defend myself from a horde of Mongols, he'd be the bloke I called to help me out. He writes the best fight scenes in the business, his historical research is so tight it makes my eyes water, and he always manages to make me laugh along the way.

Samurai. And ninja. And nuns! What are you still reading this for? Start the story!

Tansy Rayner Roberts,

2008.

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Twelfth Planet Press would like to thank Simon Petrie, Kathryn Linge, Tansy Rayner Roberts and Ben Payne for their help in producing this book, all the authors who have helped bring New Ceres to life so far and Gillian Polack who created the original blueprints for the backdrop to this wild story.

Very special thanks to Cat Sparks who is ever patient and enormously talented.

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ANGEL RISING

The rugged little ship scudded past the seawall into Shusaeki Harbour. In the bow, George Gordon stood spraddle-legged, the breeze toying with his curling hair, his face turned to the sun. His manservant Stilton waited nearby, guarding Gordon’s bulky trunks as impassively as a human Stonehenge. Behind the shelter of the seawall, the confused breeze brought scents of the waterfront to Gordon’s nose. His lip curled. ‘Fish,’ he growled. ‘Wet, stinking fish.’ He clambered down to the crowded deck, and rubbed the shiny black surface of his largest trunk with a linen kerchief before seating himself on it. ‘That’s all they eat here, you know Stilton. Bloody fish. And not a piece of cheese to be had on the whole devil-damned archipelago.’

He hawked wetly, and spat into the water.

‘Exile. That’s the only word for it. Bloody exile. Damn the Lady governor and her damnable secrets. The Sunrise Isles are Michio’s patch. I’ve got no business here, even if Michio has managed to get his knickers in a bunch over a blasted meteoroid.’

‘The Lady Governor seemed most insistent, sir,’ said Stilton. ‘She appeared to believe your presence here is important.’

‘Hell with her, Stilton,’ Gordon replied. ‘She’s angry with me because I spitted that wretched Oxenbould man. And then, when I showed her the proof he was literally selling political refugees offworld, she started that song and dance about my drinking. She knows I have to drink. It’s in my character. Everybody knows George Gordon is a drinker. In any case, she also knows I’ve had my liver rewritten. Stuff’s like water to me.’ As if to prove a point, he dragged a glass bottle from somewhere under his jacket, drained the dregs, and threw it over the side for the seagulls to chase.

The memory nagged at him, nevertheless. After this long — how long had it been, anyway, that he’d been Proctor to New Ceres, charged with keeping the planet safe from provocateurs, infiltrators, saboteurs and enemies of all sort? His mind kept shying away from the answer, and he found himself patting at his pockets, looking for his flask of brandy.

Certainly, it had been a while. Not just as George Gordon, but by another name before that, and still another. The Lady Governor might be able to extend her lifespan legally, but no supposedly ordinary citizen of New Ceres should.

Sometimes it did get a little trying, he admitted to himself. Times when he wasn’t quite sure who he was meant to be any more. Even times when he briefly forgot who he had been first, when he had parents and a family. Trying times.

‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘Change is as good as a holiday, eh, Stilton? perhaps a bit of sightseeing, a little relaxation. Maybe the Lady governor has our best interests at heart after all.’

Stilton laid a big hand atop one of the smaller cases, imperturbably picking up the conversation where Gordon had left it. ‘I imagine you’ll be all right, sir. Three cheddar wheels ought to be enough.’

Gordon frowned. ‘I don’t know why I bothered, really. Good cheese calls for decent wine, not filthy saki. Rice wine! If the Lord had meant for us to drink rice wine, Stilton, rice would be red and sweet and juicy and grow on vines.’

‘Sir,’ said Stilton, with the air of someone who knew from long experience that saying anything more would be dangerous.

‘Oh, never mind,’ said Gordon. ‘Look — there go the hawsers. We’ll be on the shore soon enough. You stay with the gear. I’ll find some porters.’

The boat sidled up to the oiled wooden wharf. As it nestled into its berth, Gordon lightly vaulted the rail to the dock below. Recovering his balance, he took in the seething mass of humanity about him: dockhands making ropes fast about the bollards; laden porters staggering under baskets and bales; hawkers and pedlars crying their wares; beggars, travellers, sightseers, even children, darting back and forth underfoot. Despite the noise and apparent confusion, the islanders moved smoothly around him, not even brushing against the hem of his frock-coat as he got his bearings and looked around.

At the end of the dock, on the quayside proper, a few bare-legged men clustered in the shade of a