The Constellation of Alarion and Other Stories

By John Houlihan

Ten insightful science fiction tales from one of British sci-fi and fantasy’s most intriguing authors.

Best known for his Cthulhu mythos and historical fantasy series, this is John Houilhan's first major collection of science-fiction stories, and includes debut radio play, Bomber Command.

•In Most Exalted, the hero of the seven systems now resides in retirement, but when a series of suspicious deaths rock his veterans’ home, will his dubious past catch finally up with him?

•In Charioteer, countries settle disputes the old fashioned way, trial by combat. As the eve of a great contest draws close, will Soola finally step out of her brother’s shadow and embrace her true destiny?

•In the Constellation of Alarion, a fabulous treasure lies hidden in the midst of a deadly labyrinth. Can three galaxy-hopping rogues overcome the maze’s lethal traps and their own bumbling inadequacies to claim it?

Explore ten tantalising tales and take a glimpse into a beguiling sci-fi future from one of fantastic fiction’s most fascinating talents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Houlihan
• Release date: Jun 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005369156

John Houlihan

John Houlihan has been a writer, journalist and broadcaster for over twenty five years, working in news, sport and videogames. He has been employed by The Times, Sunday Times and Cricinfo and is the former Editor-in-Chief of Computer and Video Games.com. He currently works for Modiphius Entertainment as a narrative designer and editor, as well being a video game consultant and script writer.His first novel was Tom or The Peepers’ and Voyeurs’ Handbook and he has also written The Trellborg Monstrosities, The Crystal Void, Tomb of the Aeons and Before the Flood in his Seraph Chronicles series (also collected in Tales of the White Witchman: Volume One). The Trellborg Monstrosities is also a game scenario for Call of Cthulhu and Savage Worlds which is published by Modiphius. He is also the writer of the Achtung! Cthulhu: Tactics videogame.He has published The Cricket Dictionary, a modern guide to the words, phrases and sayings of the greatest of games and has also edited a collection of short stories called Dark Tales from the Secret War which is set in the Achtung! Cthulhu universe. Other work includes contributions to sci-fi anthologies like The Hotwells Horror & Other Stories and Flash - A Celebration of Short Fiction.Away from the written word he has an unnatural fondness for cricket, football, snowboarding, cycling, music, playing guitar and all forms of sci-fi, fantasy and horror. He has an unnatural dread about writing about himself in the third person and currently lives in his home town of Watford in the UK, because, well frankly, someone has to.For latest news and information see http://www.John-Houlihan.net or follow @johnh259 on Twitter

Book preview

The Constellation of Alarion

and other stories

The Constellation of Alarion and other stories is copyright © 2020 JOHN HOULIHAN

Published by Jolly Big Publishing

All rights reserved.

First edition June 2021

All rights reserved, no reproduction in any form or media without written permission please (it’ll usually be forthcoming for polite requests via the website). Remember copyright and digital theft robs artists of a chance to earn their livelihood, support them by being proud to buy! Especially if you want to read any sequels.

This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to anyone living or dead is entirely coincidental. John Houlihan asserts the moral right to be recognised as the author of the work according to the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Any unauthorised use of copyrighted material is illegal. Any trademarked names are used in a historical or fictional manner; no infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any similarity with actual people and events, past or present, is purely coincidental and unintentional except for those people and events described in historical context.

John Houlihan has been a writer, journalist and broadcaster for over twenty five years, working in news, sport and videogames. He has been employed by The Times, Sunday Times and Cricinfo and is the former Editor-in-Chief of Computer and Video Games.com. He currently works for Modiphius Entertainment as a narrative designer, as well being a video game consultant and script writer.

His first novel was Tom or The Peepers’ and Voyeurs’ Handbook and more recently he has written The Trellborg Monstrosities, The Crystal Void, Tomb of the Aeons and Before the Flood in his Seraph Chronicles series (also collected in Tales of the White Witchman: Volume One). The Trellborg Monstrosities is also a game scenario for Call of Cthulhu and Savage Worlds which is published by Modiphius. He is also the writer of the Achtung! Cthulhu: Tactics videogame and is currently writer for Exoplanet: First Contact.

He has also written the Mon Dieu Cthulhu! series comprising The Crystal Void Illustrated Version and Feast of the Dead and is currently working on the third novel provisionally entitled Keeper of the Hidden Flame.

He has published The Cricket Dictionary, a modern guide to the words, phrases and sayings of the greatest games and has also edited a collection of short stories called Dark Tales from the Secret War.

Away from the written word he has an unnatural fondness for cricket, football, snowboarding, cycling, music, playing guitar and all forms of sci-fi, fantasy and horror. He has an unnatural dread about writing about himself in the third person and currently lives in his home town of Watford in the UK, because, well frankly, someone has to.

Cover Image by Ashburne Stardust Editing

Design and layout by Richard Gale

ALSO BY JOHN HOULIHAN

The Seraph Chronicles

The Trellborg Monstrosities

The Crystal Void

Tomb of the Aeons

Before The Flood

The Seraph Chronicles Volume One: Tales of the White Witchman

Mon Dieu Cthulhu! The d'Bois Escapades

The Crystal Void Illustrated Edition

Feast of the Dead

Other Works

Tom or the Peepers’ and Voyeurs’ Handbook

The Cricket Dictionary

Dark Tales from the Secret War (as editor)

The Constellation of Alarion (science fiction short stories)

SPECIAL THANKS

Special thanks to my panel of preview readers including:

Assaph Mehr, Martin Korda, Adam Selby-Martin, Richard L Gale.

Additional extra special thanks to David Raine

CONTACT

If you’d like to stay in with the author’s work, you can see latest news, information and blogs on http://www.John-Houlihan.net or follow @johnh259 on Twitter or join the @Hooliverse on the Facebook Group here.

For those we’ve lost

Contents

Carers

Charioteer

Trial by Combat

Most Exalted

Post-Lies

Tolerance

Dead Reckoning

Trigger

The Constellation of Alarion

Bomber Command

Carers

Resentfully, Molly watched the smile light up Bernard's face. Why was he always so polite with that thing, when he was so rude and tetchy with her? She dipped her brush and scooped up another portion of colour and ran it across the paper, but the paint jagged, leaving an indistinct blob.

She should have been glad of the extra time to devote to her art, but the picture was unfocussed, formless, so unlike the sleek, smooth lines of the creature. Perhaps the piece was becoming an unconscious expression of her tightly suppressed rage?

She—it—was called AMBER, which was some tiresomely clever acronym which stood for Autonomous medical... something something robot.

Aghast, she'd stopped listening as the courteous young technician had shed its wrappers like a chrysalis to reveal that polished synthetic body, impossibly smooth, impossibly perfect: like one of those enhanced nymphet starlets who took all the lead roles in the sensies.

She'd been even more surprised when it had boldly strode out from its cocoon, addressed her by name, introduced itself to Bernard, and begun gliding about and reorganising the house like it had lived there all its life. She jabbed her paintbrush, fitfully trying to restore some order to the piece.

Molly, are you quite alright? Even its carefully modulated tones set her false teeth on edge, its breathy, soothing, designed-by-committee voice quite unlike her own faltering croak.

I'm fine, thank you.

It's just that I'm sensing heightened...

Keep your sensors to yourself, direct them at your patient, not at me.

Yes, Molly. The one compensation was its Asimov protocols, which meant it had to obey her—in most things at least.

She watched it quickly and efficiently measure out Bernard's weekly drugs and medicines, its hands a whirl of motion, completing the task in a matter of moments. When she used to work in the pharmacy she might have been able to match it, just, on a good day. But now it would take her arthritic fingers and weary mind a good hour what with all the checking and rechecking. Another task delegated, another purpose surrendered, she was beginning to feel obsolete.

It wasn't its fault, she supposed. Amber—this thing—has been forced on them, on her, by the local authority when they started to suspect she couldn't cope anymore. Nonsense. As if she hadn't managed quite satisfactorily by herself all these years, thank you very much.

Oh, and the way they dressed it up too: 'a trial period, a time of adjustment', but she knew what it really meant: permanent and mandatory, unless some miracle intervened. Quietly, she muttered to herself and splashed her fury into a dark angry sky.

The final straw, the camel's back—had come later that afternoon. The thing had efficiently bed-bathed and changed Bernard, manipulating his fragile torso with apparent ease, and then settled him back down like a infant.

He had simpered and fawned, like a small child at its mother's breast and then looked up with his pale blue eyes half closed and said to it, Thank you, Molly.

She glowered over her lukewarm cup of tea, her chin jutted out and her face took on a determined cast; she would not be superseded by a machine. The line would be drawn and it would be drawn here.

She waited until darkness bled through the windows and it had powered itself down and stored itself away in the cupboard under the stairs. Then she went to work. It was laughably easy and soon she was swapping, substituting, calling on all the pharmaceutical knowledge she had accumulated down the years. She finished with a little smile of delight and then retired, to a night of deep sleep and pleasant dreams.

The next morning Molly came down in her rumpled old dressing gown, to find it had already been busy. Ignoring the delicious smelling breakfast it had prepared, she refilled a kettle and set it on the stove. Amber was already attending to Bernard, prepping the needle for his morning injection, then sliding the plunger home with a minimum of fuss and without any of the outcry he usually made.

Good morning, Molly, I hope you slept well? It said.

Like a log.

Molly, I wish to discuss an issue we ma... But something caught its attention mid-sentence and it glided back to Bernard.

Whatever is the matter? Molly enquired sweetly.

Bernard is having a strange reaction to his medicine. I don't understand, I carefully measured the dosage myself. I am incapable of error.

Really? said Molly noncommittally.

Yet his toxicity levels are rising, concern etched its voice.

Indeed?

How can this be? it said, and Molly could see small wisps of vapour escape its chassis.

Now his toxicity levels are critical. If I attempt to intervene it might kill him, yet if I do nothing, he will die. This directly contradicts my most sacred law.

I see, said Molly who saw very clearly.

What must I do? What must I do? Now its head shook and its body trembled, as if in the throes of some powerful internal struggle.

I'm not sure Amber, I thought you were incapable of error?

Primary laws compromised ... critical error ... shutting down. It slumped, then froze, lights fading. She gave it a small whack with her cane and satisfied it was dormant, returned to her husband. She carefully applied the antidote, then a masking agent, a simple procedure really, to mimic the lethal symptoms which had fooled its systems. Bernard had never been in any danger of coming to real harm. It had just appeared that way.

Later, when he woke up again, there was a bewildered smile on his features but his mind was as vacant as ever.

Molly?

Yes, Bernard?

Was there someone else here?

There was Bernard, but she's gone now. Settle down, everything's fine.

Oh, oh, that's a shame, she seemed … nice, but you'll look after things, won't you, Molly?

Of course I will Bernard, don't I always?

Charioteer

The beasts are blowing, sweating, their flanks heaving with their exertions, but I give the lightest tug on the reins and we wheel again, the chariot slewing around in a tight arc, skids biting into the powder. My whip remains untouched, I simply call and Trickster and Nightjar prick up their ears and their twelve hooves thunder, chopping up sprays of snow. We accelerate with such velocity that my knee threatens to buckle and I have to grab hold of the rail to steady myself.

Faster, sister, faster! Despite the shuddering speed, Nique stands there perfectly balanced, hefting a heavy javelin in his muscular right arm.

Beyond the beasts' wild tumult of horn and mane, I see our enemy, slower in the turn, not as agile as we, only now just drawing back onto the parallel course which will see us pass each other again. We hurtle along, bearing down on them, the beasts' legs beating a staccato rhythm.

Steady now Soola, steady now...

There's no need to tell me. I whistle and the team respond as one, their gait becoming regular, metronomic, like the steady rat-a-tat-tat of a war drum.

Our foes are within two hundred strides now. The low, pale sun glints off the warrior's armour, his tower shield held high, his javelin readied. His charioteer is fighting for control, flogging her beasts into a jolting acceleration as they strain to get up to speed.

Trickster and Nightjar surge, eager to close with our foe, but a light pull on the reins corrects them, and all becomes gliding smoothness again.

A hundred strides now and the charioteer wrestles with her charges, desperately trying to steady them, provide the ideal platform. The warrior is huge, wild braids lassoing around his face, but through excitement or fear he's over eager and hurls his missile putting his whole shoulder into it. It's too early and Nique, who typically eschews any form of shield, simply inclines his body slightly and watches it fly harmlessly past. Now Nique's arm is a blur, and his javelin flies and buries itself in that great escutcheon. A miss? No, it was made for such a purpose, the heavy tip passes through and stays lodged, its weight dragging the warrior's arm down. Nique nonchalantly flicks another missile from foot to hand in the passing of a thought and his javelin pierces the warrior's exposed shoulder, drawing forth a great spray of arterial blood.

As the chariots pass, Trickster bites, tearing a great rent of flesh from the foe's lead creature and it screams its agonies. I haul on the reins, blood trails in the snow. We circle slowly now into the formal position so that we face each other and Nique hops lightly off the backboard, hefting his great bearded axe.

Staggering from shock and blood loss, his left arm hanging almost useless, the warrior emerges to face Nique. I watch the foe's charioteer through the clouds steaming from the team's pelts. The colour has drained from her face and she won't catch my eye, perhaps already knowing what's to come. The warrior has courage, and comes on at the run, bellowing his pain and anger, wildly swinging his curved sword. Nique is still as a millpond. He deftly ducks the first uncoordinated blow, takes a step to the side and then smites the warrior's head from his shoulders with one clean stroke. The charioteer sags and watching, so must her nation.

Nique retrieves the severed head, bounces back to the chariot and tosses it to me in a bloody arc. Put it with the others, he says, grinning.

You are dust, you are ashes, your flesh a feast for worms...

It seems half the city has turned out for our victory parade. They shout and cheer themselves hoarse, crowding every vantage point, straining to get a glimpse of the all-conquering hero. Nique laughs and waves, lapping it up, while I hold the laurels above his flowing locks and intone:

You are dust, you are ashes, your flesh a feast for worms...

Trickster and Nightjar prance and puff out their crests enjoying the crowd's acclaim. Nique seems to have grown taller too, his chest swelling, his muscles bulging. The glory and honours, as always, are his, and rightly so, his deeds have won Albun half a year's worth of prime grain surplus, the price Nearmundy forfeited on the death of their champion.

After we left the Commonality, a collective act of self-harm which reverberates to this very day, our newly ‘liberated’ nation, Albun, had to find a new form of dispute resolution, a new way to exist rather than expending thousands of lives and our ever dwindling supply of resources in perpetual warfare. For better or worse, the contests are it.

Single combat between two champions, the way of the ancients, winner takes all, or at least all according to the mutually agreed clauses.

You are dust, you are ashes, your flesh a feast for worms...

The champions earn their renown not only for their feats of arms, but for what their deeds buy the people. My task in this parade, as his second, his charioteer, is not to let him get too big for his boots and start buying into his own legend. Some chance, Nique was born to believe his own hype.

Sister dearest, do you have to keep saying that? It's kind of bumming me out.

You know I do.

Well, perhaps you could try and tone it down a little? Not make it sound quite so grim?

Hm, a ritual reminder of your own inevitable mortality and death. Now, how would you suggest I do that?

Oh, you'll find a way, he flashes a grin, you always do... and try not to look so serious. This is supposed to be a celebration, remember? He waves again in triumph and the cheering swells and redounds. All eyes are drawn to him and if I am noticed, it is as a peripheral figure, a pale reflection of his glory.

Mostly, I am not noticed at all.

Later, at the party, dozens of eyes feast on Nique, and even I must admit, he strikes a most virile and handsome figure in his champion's robe. Victory suits him. Women and men swarm around him like flies, hoping for a taste of honey, and if past form is anything to go by, he'll be happy to give them a taste. All of them. Sometimes singly, usually by battalions. Occasionally, if there's a queue, some will remember the charioteer, the second, and I get to enjoy his remnants and cast offs, sympathy fucks for the cripple.

I take another pull on my drinking horn, letting the bitter nettle-beer swill around my palette. It's an acquired taste, but I've learned to enjoy it, a bit like my brother's fame.

Ah, Soola, isn't it?

I turn to confront a tall, dark, rather striking man. His face is earnest, but his smile is warm and open. He's very attractive and it's a little early in the evening for someone like him to have noticed me.

And you are?

Alex. You drove well today and that first javelin was clever, a shield-dragger to set up the kill. Your handiwork I believe?

I nod. I design all of Nique's weapons, the chariot too. I don't mean to boast, but he is very attractive, it's like talking to a demi-god.

Very cunning. Charioteer, weaponsmith, strategist, whatever would he do without you, I wonder?

Oh, I'm sure he'd find a way. I'm just the water carrier, he's the real star of the show.

But it might have been you, once? Mightn't it, if it wasn't...

...for the leg? We both look down at my withered limb. I've grown used to it, mostly I'm hardly conscious of it, but not today.

I've learned to cope, I say.

"Still, I imagine it must be hard,