ParSec Issue #4: ParSec, #4

By Ian Whates, Alexis Ames, Shih-Li Kow and 13 more

A digital magazine featuring the very best in Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror

The latest fiction from established writers alongside the best new stories from emerging talents and debut authors.

On-point articles and regular columns, exploring genre fiction in all its forms. Interviews with leading authors and artists.

Insightful and informative book reviews by a carefully selected cadre of reviewers, assessing current titles and imminent releases from publishers big and small.

This is the table of contents for the festive issue.

• Introduction – Ian Whates
• Blaise of Glory – Alexis Ames
• It Only Amplifies –Shih-Li Kow
• Zugzwang – Neil Williamson
• Daytrip To Glastonbury – Jane Rogers
• Radicalised – Lavie Tidhar
• The Equality Virus – Gwyneth Jones
• The Relative Promise of Dead Things in the Dark – A.P. Howell
• Umbilical – Teika Marija Smits
• When All This Became Normal – Simon Morden
• Letters To My Daughter – Tim Anderson
• Five-O-Clock In The Bar At The End Of The World – Bryony Pearce
• In the Weeds — Anne C. Perry & Jared Shurin
• Life in the Fast Lane – featuring Alistair Sims (independent bookshop owner)
• Reviews
• Interview with and scientist Simon Morden

• Language: English
• Publisher: PS Publishing
• Release date: Jul 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781786367297

Book preview

Blaise of Glory

A person wearing sunglasses Description automatically generated with low confidence

Alexis Ames

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ENZO WAS WAITING for him in the hangar bay when he brought Miranda in for a landing. He snapped his goggles on as soon as Blaise leaped down from the cockpit and asked, How’d she feel?

Like the day I got her. Blaise put a hand on the hull to steady himself. The abrupt return to gravity, even the low g of Phobos, was always an adjustment after weeks without. I don’t know what you did, but she hasn’t flown that well in years.

Trade secret. Enzo popped open a hatch under Miranda’s belly and immediately started tinkering. Blaise crossed his arms and leaned against the hull, grinning to himself as he watched Enzo, who was now buried waist-deep inside the ship. But it helped to have new parts to work with.

We’ll go down to the market first thing in the morning, then, and you can haggle with Andre for some more. You love that.

New parts will have to wait until after the next job, Enzo reminded him. They pay you enough this time to cover next month’s rent for the berth?

Yes. Barely, but it would do. 

Enzo grunted abruptly, and Blaise sighed. What is it this time?

Busted fuel line, Enzo said as he resurfaced. You can fly on it for a little while longer, but it’ll need to be replaced soon.

How much?

Two hundred credits, and that’s for a used one. Enzo swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, leaving a smear of grease behind. I can maybe negotiate it down to one-eighty, one-seventy if we’re lucky. 

Blaise did the calculations. He had enough in his account for that, but it would mean going without a few meals. He could probably get through this next job without having to replace the fuel line, but he didn’t want to risk flying more than that. Trouble was, he needed to fly in order to earn the credits in the first place. It was a bitch of a cycle to be caught in. 

I need a drink, he muttered, but that would cost credits as well. 

When he looked up, he met Enzo’s eyes, and for a moment was paralysed. He was used to the intensity of Enzo’s full attention being directed at a ship, so when Enzo looked at him, he almost rocked backward under the weight of the unwavering gaze. He felt a slow smile spread across his face.

What?

It’s good to have you home, Ace, Enzo said simply.

Feeling overwhelmed, he curled a hand around the back of Enzo’s neck and brought their foreheads together. He breathed in the scent of sweat and oil, and grinned.

Good to be home, Z, he said softly. Missed you. 

Enzo drew back. He patted Blaise’s belly affectionately and moved away to strip off his gloves and goggles. Ben owes me for all the work I did on his ship last month. ’Bout time I cashed in.

Ben’s was crowded, and Blaise realised belatedly that it was Sol Saturni. Of course the bars on the station would be packed, as everyone marked the end of another week. This most recent job of his had been a relatively short one, only two weeks long, but time ceased to have meaning when he got behind the controls of his ship. He was one with the ship and the stars, with no sunrises or sunsets to guide his days—or, in the case of Phobos Station, no Mars trucking along outside his window to give him a sense of the passage of time. 

Blaise followed Enzo as he threaded his way through the crowd. It was standing-room-only in the bar. Music thudded out of speakers in the wall and ceiling. Signs half a man high hung from the walls, new since he last had been here. Each one of them depicted a different pilot, and all of them advertised THE GALILEAN RUN—MAY THE BEST PILOT SURVIVE. 

Unsurprisingly, most of the posters had Alonso Hirschel’s heavy-browed visage on them. He was the clear favourite, having successfully completed the annual Venetian cloud-diving competition in record time this year, as well as a dizzying race through the asteroid belt. For a pilot like him, the Run was the next logical step; the next notch in his belt. Even Phobos Station’s so-called Commander—a man who had no love for professions that didn’t require back-breaking labour—had thrown in with Hirschel, sponsoring everything from his training to the necessary upgrades to his ship.

I can’t even fathom half a million creds, Enzo said, following Blaise’s look, let alone imagine what I would do with it all. 

Blaise snorted. Back in my day— 

Oh, don’t start.

- you did the Run for the thrill of it, not for the prize money.

Enzo rolled his eyes. ‘Back in my day,’ he says. Like you aren’t only forty-one.

That was ancient, for a crack pilot. Blaise had been past his prime even when he’d first taken on the Run—though he’d still beaten most of the competition, he thought with pride. Fourth place wasn’t anything to sniff at, not where the Run was concerned.

What are you drinking? Enzo leaned his forearms casually on the bar. Blaise laid his hand flat against the small of Enzo’s back, feeling heat radiate through the layers of clothes, and wished for the privacy of a cabin. Even two weeks without the warmth of Enzo’s skin against his was too long. It was the one regrettable thing about flying, not having Enzo near.

Anything is fine.

Enzo signalled the bartender and said, Two Pearl Blitzes, on Ben’s tab.

The bartender must have recognised him, because he simply nodded and went to pour the drinks without question. 

Pearl Blitzes? Blaise raised a brow in surprise. "Christ, we can’t even afford that after a good job."

Why do you think I’ve been saving up my favours? When the bartender brought the drinks over, Enzo lifted his and said, "To Miranda. May she outlive us all."

Blaise touched the rim of his glass to Enzo’s. If she does, it’s all due to you.

Enzo grinned. Damn right. You can’t even mend a pair of pants, let alone fix a ship.

That’s why I keep you around. Blaise grinned at Enzo’s mock-wounded look and softened the words with a kiss. How have things been?

Enzo cheerfully filled Blaise in on all he had missed—mostly hangar bay gossip, which he never paid much attention to anyway, except for what Enzo told him. 

"...and after that, Akram decided enough was enough, so—"

"Blaise of Glory. There you are." 

Blaise turned at the sound of a new voice. One of the station’s contracted security officers stood there, her hand resting casually on the butt of the gun that sat in a holster strapped to her waist. A disparaging smile played about her lips.

It’s Abney, actually, he said calmly. Blaise Abney.

Commander wants a word, she said, as though he hadn’t spoken. Beside him, he felt Enzo shift in surprise. Best not keep him waiting.

Salvator Aguilar’s office was in a section of the station that pre-dated Martian independence, and thus was woefully out of style. The corridors were low-ceilinged and dim, and Blaise had to stoop to step into the cramped space.

Blaise. A smirk touched Aguilar’s lips. So kind of you to finally grace me with your presence.

"My apologies, Commander, but I only just returned." Blaise leaned more heavily on the man’s title than normal, but honestly. At least his own nickname was an earned one, even if it was a bit ridiculous. Aguilar, on the other hand, had never served any military. In his mind, though, being Commander of the station held more weight than the customary title of Director. 

I trust this latest job compensated you well?

It’ll do, Blaise said blithely. Did you need something? 

I called you here to let you know that I’m revoking your berth, Aguilar said. I’m also taking possession of your ship.

Blaise gaped at him for a moment.

I’m sorry, what? he managed.

You are consistently late on payments. The waiting list for a berth on this station is dozens of names long, and we can’t afford to have someone taking up space who can’t pay for the berth on time. I’m possessing your ship in lieu of further payments. Consider it an act of goodwill. Aguilar gave a mirthless smile that was mostly teeth. "I could have you thrown in prison instead, but I’d rather it didn’t come to that. Bad PR. The solar system wouldn’t thank me for throwing a legend behind bars."

Blaise said nothing. He couldn’t say anything. Dimly, as the silence lengthened, he realised he had been dismissed.

I’ve made my payment for this month, he said blankly.

A week late. 

And I just got paid for this latest job, you’ll have the rent on time next month—

Not good enough, Mr. Abney. 

I make my living with that ship. Blaise could feel the beginnings of panic creep into his limbs. It was an effort not to shake, out of fear or rage, he couldn’t tell. Cold sweat broke out across the back of his neck. I need it.

It’s too bad your reputation doesn’t get you more lucrative and steady work, Aguilar said, but I suppose the glamour’s worn off by now. People want to hire Alonso Hirschel and his ilk more than they want Blaise of Glory.

Blaise squared his jaw, thinking quickly.

I’m afraid you’ll have to grant me an extension. Give me till the end of the month, and after that, you can have the ship. The words tasted like ash in his mouth. I’ll give her up quietly, if it comes to that.

Aguilar barked out a laugh. The end of the month? Why on Mars would I do that?

I’ve entered the Galilean Run, Blaise said, and hoped he could get his name on the roll before Aguilar thought to check. I need that ship, and competition rules state that no ship may be confiscated or repossessed if its owner is currently signed up to do the Run.

"You can’t be serious." Aguilar stared at him. 

The prize is half a million creds, right? Blaise flashed a confident grin that he didn’t feel. That should be enough to buy me a lifetime berth here on the station. Wouldn’t you agree?

Salvator was out of his chair and across the room almost before Blaise could blink. Startled, Blaise found himself crowded up against the wall, Salvator’s face mere centimetres from his own.

"Now you listen to me very carefully, he snarled. I’ve been nothing but generous when it comes to you, offering you a berth at a rate that is criminal and looking the other way when you run jobs of dubious legality out of my station. Saying nothing while you crash with that mechanic you pulled from some gutter on Mars—illegally, I might add, as your name is nowhere on his paperwork. But my patience has run out. You were a leech when you were a child, you’re a leech now, and one way or another I want you off this station in a month’s time. Is that clear, son?"

Perfectly. It came out strangled. 

Good. Now get out of my sight.

Blaise was only a tenth of the way through his diagnostics when the hatch in the ship’s belly opened, and someone deftly scaled the ladder. Enzo found him in the cockpit.

Hey, sailor. Enzo held a basket. Brought you a gift.

Blaise spun his chair back around. Don’t suppose you have any spare navigational grids on you.

Sorry, I don’t have enough favours to call in for something like that. Enzo grabbed a couple of glasses from the galley and joined him in the cockpit. He dropped gracelessly into the co-pilot’s chair and opened the basket. He started pulling out its contents—bread and cheese, meats, and a small brown bottle. He poured two glasses and handed one over to Blaise. You haven’t had a chance to eat since you landed. I was going to suggest dinner at The Lotus after Ben’s, but you never came back. 

Scotch. Blaise briefly wondered where he had got it, and then dismissed the thought as irrelevant. He had too many more important things on his mind. He took an appreciative sip, and then set the glass aside. Enzo propped his feet up on the console, watching him. The unasked question hung between them.  

"Aguilar’s revoking my right to a berth and is taking possession of Miranda." The words cut him like glass, but he managed to sound level. 

Enzo said nothing for a beat, his surprise palpable. You can’t be serious.

I am. He is. So I’m doing the Run.

Another moment of silence.

All right, Enzo said at length. You’re doing the Run.

"Yes, it’s reckless. Yes, I know the ship is too old. Hell, I know that I’m too old."

I said all right, Enzo repeated. You’re doing the Run.

Blaise blinked. I thought you’d try to talk me out of it. 

I know better. Of course you’re going to do the Run. He tore off a piece of bread, bit into it, and added, Why pass up the chance to one-up your old man, right?

Blaise winced and looked away.

It’s not about that. He balled his hand into a fist and knocked it against the arm of his chair. He couldn’t fault Enzo for the assumption. In eighteen years, Enzo had never asked what went sour between the two of them, and Blaise had never said. "This ship isn’t just my life, it’s who I am. Dad might have made his fortune in the asteroid mining business, but that wasn’t right for me. I’m a pilot. Flying is in my blood. I know this ship better than I know myself. If I can’t fly, I don’t know what I’ll do—or who I’ll be. I can’t let him do this."

Enzo considered this, and finally said, I can probably talk Andre into giving me some parts to rebuild your fuel lines and increase the power output from the engines, if I mention that you’re doing the Run. On credit, of course, to be paid in full when you win.

Seriously?

It’s worth a shot, anyway.

Blaise tipped his head back against the seat. His eyes strayed to the window. He could easily imagine he was still in space, if not for the pesky reality of gravity and the fact that there were no stars to be seen out the window. 

He’s sponsoring Hirschel. Blaise swirled the drink in his glass, watching as the amber liquid caught and tossed the light. Not that I thought for a moment that he’d sponsor me, but— 

He broke off.

But he’s your father, Enzo finished quietly. He leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest. Always did wonder why you changed your name.

Blaise nodded absently. Foolishly, he’d once thought it might start to bridge the chasm between them. Bad enough that he hadn’t gone into the family business, that he’d turned his back on the empire his father had built, but to make a living as a crack pilot? That seemed to be one blow too many to ask his father to weather, so he did his best not to allow his career to be associated with the Aguilar name. He should have known that it wouldn’t be enough. It hardly mattered now, since a few savvy reporters a decade ago had made the connection between father and son.

Can you believe, he said quietly, "that I used to look up to him? Except even when I was a kid, even when I did everything right, it still wasn’t enough." 

Blaise blew out a harsh breath between his teeth. Even back when he had been the fastest, the best, it was never enough. Enough to make sure he had food in his belly and a place to park his ship, sure, but not enough to make his father see him as anything other than a worthless waste of space who wouldn’t step into the family business as he was supposed to. And now Blaise didn’t even have the financial security of those early days.

Enzo caught his hand and brought Blaise’s knuckles to his lips.

Listen to me, he said, in quiet earnest. "You’re going to do the Run with the most reliable rickety ship this side of the solar system, you’re going to stun everyone like the flying ace that you are, and you’re going to come back to more credits in your account than you know what to do with and your father slinking off with his tail between his legs. And let me tell you, Blaise, even if you don’t do any of those things, you are still enough."

There was a stone in his chest, a knot behind his breastbone. Blaise swallowed hard.

If I do win the Run, Blaise said softly, "it’s all because of you. You’ve kept Miranda flying since the day I got her. I’d be lost without you, Enzo."

Enzo’s calluses rubbed against his palm. Strong fingers squeezed his hand, once, and relaxed. 

Bed, I think, Enzo said after a moment, and Blaise nodded wearily. 

In her first life, Miranda had been a cargo vessel, crewed by ten and built for long runs out to the edges of the solar system and back again. She was twenty years old already by the time Blaise had obtained her. He had torn out everything but the necessities, ridding her of excess weight and streamlining her so that she would be aerodynamic in an atmosphere and sleek in the void. 

The one luxury he had allowed himself to keep intact was the captain’s cabin. Spacious for a space-faring vessel, it fit a bed large enough for two, a closet for all his clothes, and a locker for the rest of his belongings. A few of Enzo’s things had migrated here over the years—a couple of books, an outfit or two, a pair of boots. In return, a handful of his own belongings were in Enzo’s quarters on the station. Their lives had mingled and bled together during their long association, and Blaise couldn’t say for certain where one ended and the other began.

Enzo was already in bed when Blaise emerged from the head, a book that he had left here some months ago open against his knees. Blaise crawled under the covers beside him and propped his chin on Enzo’s warm shoulder.

What are you reading?

A murder mystery set on Earth from the late twentieth century, Enzo said without breaking his concentration. There isn’t even a mention of flying in it. You’d hate it.

Blaise snorted softly. He spent a moment adjusting his pillow and then stretched out on his back. "I do think about things other than flying sometimes, you know." 

Do you? Enzo asked, only partly in mock-surprise. Like what?

Fish.

Enzo let out a huff of laughter. He folded down the corner of his page, closed the book, and tossed it on the floor. "Fish?"

"Do you have any idea how expensive fish is out here? And it’s all grown in vats anyway. I’m talking real fish, the kind you can only find on Earth."

You think about going to Earth for...seafood?

A guy can dream. 

Blaise stifled a yawn against the back of his hand. Enzo stretched out next to him. Taller than Blaise by half a foot, he barely fit on the bed. His feet hung off of the edge if he stretched out fully, which was rare. Usually, Blaise woke to find Enzo curled up on his left side, his face shoved into the pillow and feet tucked under Blaise’s calves for warmth.

What do you dream about?

I don’t, Enzo said with a laugh.

Blaise turned his head to look at him. There must be something. 

Not really. I spend my days buried in the guts of ships, I have a place to sleep at night, and I have this insufferable—but charming—pilot I can’t seem to get rid of. I’m content.

Content, Blaise repeated, but he was grinning. 

Yeah, sailor. Enzo gave him a crooked smile. I’m content. 

As always, Blaise woke the next morning before Enzo. Somehow,