Twitter now is under new management. While I expect some changes as a result, compared to other social media sites, authors will find Twitter the easiest one to use. Unlike my political blog at pubprogressive.com (I post my more political articles there now), Twitter is a mixed message board for me: I mix political tweets with ones about reading, writing, and publishing.

First, let me say that it’s the best way for authors to learn to write blurbs and construct “elevator pitches.” They can learn to distill the important information into concise, to-the-point messages.

Tweets allow prospective readers to decide if your fiction is something they want to try and old fans to keep up with what you’re doing in your writing life. Even political tweets (I have more of those than explicitly book-related ones) show that your books might contain some important themes readers can identify with (no author can appeal to everyone…or should).

Unfortunately, a certain orange-skinned, straw-haired moron gave Twitter a bad name, weaponizing it. Authors might want to avoid his example, of course. That doesn’t mean writers can’t treat controversial themes in their tweets—that shows a writer doesn’t write fluff like cozy mysteries, bodice rippers, or escapist fantasy. Authors who show they’re human with reasonable opinions can attract more readers!

As with all of a writer’s social media presence, those people who follow the writer on Twitter are super-important. A writer doesn’t have to pander to them—they can follow and unfollow as they see fit (a writer has no control over that)—yet they’re the writer’s immediate audience on Twitter. Something attracted each one to follow, and Twitter is good about letting the tweeter know what that is.

A writer needn’t tweet a lot. Responding to readers and other authors’ tweets can be a lot of fun and a good way to gain followers. Saying what works in for you, helping another author, and so forth is a worthwhile activity in any meeting of readers and writers, and that’s what Twitter is, a meeting place where ideas are exchanged and information is shared. The less you peddle your books and the more you socialize, the better off you’ll be.

Most of all, an author should just relax and enjoy the tweeting. Rest assured it can be relaxing and a lot more fun d than editing or other marketing!

***

Comments are always welcome. (Please follow the rules on the “Join the Conversation” web page.)

“Esther Brookstone Art Detective” Series. Six novels now…and soon to be seven. Books one and two are from Penmore Press, #3 is from Carrick Publishing, #4 and #5 are from Draft2Digital, and #6 is a free PDF download. All ebooks are available most everywhere quality ebooks are sold, and you can order print versions for one through three at your local bookstore. Defanging the Red Dragon, #6, can be obtained by visiting my “Free Stuff & Contests” web page at this website. #7, Intolerance, is coming soon and will also be a free PDF download. Sound confusing? Blame Covid—the pandemic played havoc with this series! I won’t apologize for something Covid did. Get vaccinated and help end the pandemic!

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

[Note from Steve: Wow! I just squeezed this in so that I didn’t have to add 2022 to the copyright statement! Happy New Year! Because this is yet another British-style mystery story, the metaphor of the title here refers to London’s Underground aka the Tube. Trains there, unlike NYC’s, actually have four rails with two live ones. The positive third rail is still outside the rails the car wheels ride on and has the higher voltage, which is twice the fourth with negative voltage, nestled between the two regular train ones. Now there’s a factoid that might stump any Jeopardy contestant!]

Living on the Third Rail

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Nine

“Guv, you look like road kill on the A1.”

Bobby squinted one eye at him. “I feel like road kill. Say, why do they call you Samaritan? I’ve heard that nickname bandied about here at times.”

“I don’t mind it. The Samarian area even now is dominated by Cohens. We’re all Samaritans.”

“I see. Good ones, I hope. I also hope you don’t mind my curiosity. It’s not often that I’m that curious about religious history this morning.”

Chaim smiled. “I’m getting some coffee from the canteen. I’ll get you some too. Where’s your mug?”

“On my desk. I’ll be there when you return. Join me, and we’ll bounce some ideas around about the case.”

Liz soon joined them with her tea and some biscuits. The two caught her up in the discussion.

“I’d say we’re doing all we can to find Jaeger and the child. We don’t know where to further canvass. The alleyway and tip isn’t where the four victims were killed. Jaeger could be anywhere in London.”

“If he’s here at all,” Chaim said.

“Where would you go?” Bobby said.

Chaim thought a moment. “Somewhere on the North Sea coast where I could take a ferry to the continent, or to anywhere in Scandinavia. Or Ireland, same for the west coast. Anywhere but here.”

“Without the jewels?”

“He exposes himself if he tries to recover the jewels,” Liz said.

“He might decide that he can always make another jewelry heist in Europe, but he can’t do that from the king’s boarding house.” Chaim led them in a sipping ritual. “I guess it depends on how greedy he is.”

“He should pay for his crimes,” Bobby said. “Here in the UK, where he committed the most serious ones, four murders.”

“Agreed,” Chaim said, “but maybe we should announce we have the jewels just to get rid of him. He wouldn’t have any reason to stay here if we did that.”

“True,” Liz said. “But I agree with Bobby. That bastard has to pay.”

Soon the whole team was in and they were hard at it again.

***

After many hours of frustration and many calls Bobby and Liz had made to other stations around the city, his CCTV team came up with the first sighting of Fritz Jaeger. They’d spotted him near the Bridge entering the Underground. They could switch to cameras inside the station.

“Where does that train go?” Bobby said as they watched him get on carrying the baby. “Anyone know?”

“It heads toward Southwark. Lots of stops along the way, of course.”

“Let’s try to keep him in sight. Should be easy with the baby.”

Southwark was the second most dangerous borough in London. They had eyes on the last few stations on the line. They saw Jaeger exit at one near the Guy’s and St Thomas Hospital Urgent Care Center.

“Maybe the child’s sick?” Liz said.

“We have him!” Bobby said. “Liz, have Hardcastle send a SCO19 unit. The bastard might be armed. Let’s go, Chaim. You’re driving. The rest of you, keep watch on the area and let me know if Jaeger does a runner.”

Normally it would be a forty minute drive even with the light afternoon traffic. Chaim made it in twenty-five with lights flashing and siren wailing forcing people out of the way. Bobby had to hold on as his DS wove in and around buses letting off passengers and lorries making deliveries. He thought Chaim might have taken a few corners on two wheels.

They parked, left the lights flashing, and entered emergency. There was no sign of Jaeger.

Bobby flashed his warrant card to the receptionist. “I’m looking for a man with a sick baby.”

“Name?” said the nurse.

“He’s probably not using his real name. He kidnapped the child.”

She blanched. “I-I think a man came in with a baby about thirty minutes ago. He must be in an exam room by now.”

“Which room?”

“I don’t know. One of the nurses took them to it. It’d be down the hall here.”

“You take the left side and I’ll take the right,” Bobby told Chaim. He turned to the reception nurse. “Call security and tell them to close all exits.”

“We don’t have enough security personnel to do that! Not all at once.”

“Can’t be done from your security office?” She shook her head. A security lapse. “Just do the best you can.”

They had each checked five exam rooms causing a few screams and curses when Chaim pointed along the corridor. Bobby looked and saw a man with a baby disappear out a fire exit, which set klaxons blaring.

“After him!” Bobby yelled over the din.

Chapter Ten

As they passed their patrol car, the SCO19 van pulled up. “Tell them to follow me,” Bobby said to Chaim. He kept running after the fleeing jewel thief, following him right back to the tube station.

His bum leg hindered him a bit, but his legs were longer than Jaeger’s. The thief didn’t take the escalator; he took the stairs instead, two at a time. Bobby’s leg was throbbing by that time, so Jaeger was halfway down the platform when Bobby arrived there.

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Once again I can celebrate: I didn’t read one book on the NY Times’s list of top books for 2021! I sometimes by chance have read a few non-fiction books on that list, but not this year. And fiction books? Very rarely. Why is this?

It’s simple: I filter out all books from the Big Five publishing conglomerates the NY Times reviewers focus on because I’ve learned that I’m rarely interested in any book published by the Big Five…or reviewed by the NY Times, which rarely supports small presses or self-published authors (of course, they’ll take their money when spent on ads). That saves me a lot of time and money.

I’m an avid reader, but I prefer not to read the Big Five’s schlock. (Whether they will become the Big Four is still in question, I guess.) That probably includes all the fiction Times reviewers recommend, those books that for whatever reason manage to get a nod from the Big Five agents and acquisition editors. The old mares and stallions in the Big Five’s stables, who are ready for the glue factory because they write formulaic crap, are automatically out; they try to appeal to everyone by avoiding anything controversial. The latter’s not their fault, I suppose. Those agents and acquisition editors force those old authors into a rut they can’t escape. Or this is a just an extreme case of the Peter’s Principle.

I’m not going to say my stories are any better—I’m a lot more modest than most Big Five authors—but I write stories without any external constraints imposed by traditional publishers, especially the insidious ones of the Big Five. And the mafia of reviewers at the Times, most of whom never wrote a book and aren’t able, is in the pocket of the Big Five publishers, the best lobbyists the Big Five could have. To hell with them!

Think the above put-down of Times reviewers is a bit harsh! Okay then, keep on paying premium prices for Big Five schlock. Otherwise, please protect yourselves against the pandemic of the Big Five’s books by finding and supporting self-published authors and those who write for small, independent presses. Their works are much more worthwhile. That would be a great resolution for 2022! Happy New Year to all my readers! May you find the truly interesting stories.

***

Comments are always welcome. (See the rules on the “Join the Conversation” web page.)

The trilogy that grew. The “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series became a trilogy in spite of the publisher of the first two novels…and then it grew. It’s still a trilogy if readers insist on reading print versions. The first three novels, Rembrandt’s Angel, Son of Thunder, and Death on the Danube, take one of the most unusual crime-fighting duos in the mystery and thriller genres from a wild, mature romance to a honeymoon cruise that will motivate readers to ask for more. And there is more!

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

[Note from Steve: Because this is yet another British-style mystery story, the metaphor of the title here refers to London’s Underground aka the Tube. Trains there, unlike NYC’s, actually have four rails with two live ones. The positive third rail is still outside the rails the car wheels ride on and has the higher voltage, which is twice the fourth with negative voltage, nestled between the two regular train ones. Now there’s a factoid that might stump any Jeopardy contestant!]

Living on the Third Rail

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Six

Before Bobby left with Wolfgang for the castle the next morning, he had another quick breakfast with Elaine.

“You look knackered, Inspector.”

“I guess I wasn’t quite ready to have an important case right at the start of my DI work. Got to get into it some time, I suppose, but it’s been exhausting, and we’re just in early days. How’s it going with you?”

Bobby didn’t want to give her any of the gory details. He eyed her and managed a smile, feeding off her concern. It was nice to have someone worried about him. This woman is special, but is she nursing me or interested in something more?

He knew veterans often had relationship issues. Especially in his current line of work, he had to fight depression. A plod often sees the worst of humanity. And seeing Maria’s body on that exam table was more than depressing. Wolfgang was right. No one deserved to have their life ended that way, especially a vibrant, young woman. And I was just at the prelim! He thought about sending someone else for the full autopsy.

“You look fresh, not knackered. In fact, you look good, Elaine.” Should I say that to a woman I hardly know? Due to Elaine’s ER schedule, there was no way to call the previous dinner a serious date. “But I bet the ER is stressful.”

“Sometimes it’s just routine, which I’m used to handling. It’s when we receive cases all at once time that it becomes hectic. That usually involves motorway accidents with multiple collisions, but we had a mass shooting once. And then there was Covid, of course.”

They talked about the pandemic a bit, and then he told her about their upcoming trip to a castle. He couldn’t give her many details, and he was surprised by her comments.

“I always wanted to live in a castle when I was a little girl. To be married to a prince like Diana was.”

“That didn’t turn out so well for her, although he still got to be king.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I have no use for the whole lot. They’re leeches who cut ribbons and such to give people their fixes for their addictions to pomp and circumstance, and they call that work.”

Those are strong words, Bobby thought, but she had said them with a smile. Of course, they echoed his sentiments.

“I never think about royalty much,” he said to continue with a more neutral and less personal discussion. “They’re like Big Ben or Trafalgar Square, you know: Just sad monuments to the golden age of the once mighty British Empire. I think most people just take them for granted like London’s air pollution. I certainly do.”

“In a sense, we both work for them.”

He laughed. “I doubt our yearly salaries even come close to what they spend in a month. And I’d wager the government spent more keeping our troops in Afghanistan than what all the royals combined spend.”

“Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like a wee raise now and then,” she said with a laugh.

“No I suspect we’re like civil servants most everywhere, lost in the lower middle class. I’m just happy to have a job right now, along with that bit of promotion that came with it.”

“So tell me about the German bloke.”

“He’s from Interpol and will be a consultant for the case for reasons I don’t want to get into. He’s headquartered in Lyon, though, so I suspect he speaks French as well as German and English.”

“Ooh-la-la,” she said. “Prussian or Bavarian?”

Bobby shrugged. How do you tell? “He’s from Munich.”

“Most likely Bavarian then. That would make him more interesting. I’ve been looking for someone to teach me the polka.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I went out and celebrated my last night at Ramstein airbase trying to dance polkas and Viennese waltzes while drunk. I gave it my all, but I think I need many more lessons. A rather heavyset fraulein flung me around the dance floor. Hardly dancing, I dare say.”

She thought a moment. “Maybe we can take lessons together.”

“I’d like that, but fair warning to your toes if I step on them.”

“I want to learn some Latin dances too.”

“Are you planning a new career?”

“Heavens no! There’s just a certain Met inspector I’d like to dance with.”

He smiled. “Now I’m jealous. Who is he?”

“You, idiot! Who knows? You might also be my Prince Charming. Just call me Cinders.”

He thought she might be mixing up her fairy tales, but he liked her comments.

***

“I heard you were at Ramstein,” Wolfgang said as they walked towards the castle’s entrance.

“I didn’t get to see much of the local color,” Bobby said, showing his prosthetic.

“I noticed that. Oh well, you can always take a holiday in Germany. Munich’s the best place to go, unless you want to float down the Danube and visit Austria as well.”

“And I heard you’re from there.” Bobby smiled at Wolfgang. “Bundespolizei.”

“Guilty as charged. And I like to promote my home town.”

“To the chore at hand. How did these people get this castle again? They’re not British toffs.”

“They bought it, I suppose. We don’t have that information. Aren’t your aristocrats getting so poor with the tax hikes that they’re selling off everything?”

“Some have been doing that all along, long before Brexit and Covid. It takes quite a dosh to maintain a place like this.” Bobby studied the front door. “I think we have to pull this ring. Careful. Big Ben-like chimes might sound.”

Bobby was right. The door chimes sounded from deep within the castle; for the sound to reach them through the solid wooden door, they had to be loud. He waited a bit and then pulled the chain again. He was about to pull it a third time when a tall old man in a butler uniform appeared.

“DI Robert Sherman of Scotland Yard and Interpol agent Wolfgang Lange.” They showed him their credentials. “We have an appointment with Mr. and Mrs. Girardi.”

“Of course. Follow me, gentlemen.”

They were led down a long hall and then into a sitting room that looked like something from Buckingham Palace.

“You may take seats over by the fireplace. Shall I bring you tea service?”

“That would be splendid,” Wolfgang said with a smile.

The tea service arrived before Mr. and Mrs. Girardi: Four delicate China cups; a large matching teapot, with its sugar bowl and milk pitcher; and a plate of cakes.

“Don’t get used to it,” Bobby told Wolfgang in a whisper.

“They’re not English toffs, but they live like ones,” Wolfgang said.

Bobby thought it was prudent to wait for their hosts, who soon appeared. After introductions and taking seats, the aunt became mother. She seemed to glide upon a magic cloud of perfume as she performed the ritual, giving everyone tea and then offering the cakes. With the tea, she pointed to the sugar cubes and milk; when it was his turn, Bobby declined the milk and signaled for one cube. She winked at him and smiled.

Is she flirting, implying the one cube was perfect because I’m already so sweet? Or is it all just my imagination? Maybe the years spent in Afghanistan with mostly sweaty, unwashed men had affected how he related to women and didn’t permit a close but socially acceptable connection. He thought of Elaine.

But Bobby connected with the pair of Swiss ex-pats. They seemed like nice people, but a police detective had to be more objective. Niceness could always just be a charade. Let’s see if it is.

Mr. Girardi, who looked like one of the gnome-bankers from the Harry Potter movies, albeit more pleasant, spoke in his soft, gravelly voice.

“And what brings you to Pembroke Castle, gentlemen? Our humble abode isn’t the most famous one, of course, but we welcome you all the same.”

Mrs. Girardi winked at them and smiled again. She was much younger than her husband but deferred to him. She knows her place, Bobby thought.

“An urgent family matter, perhaps. Have you spoken to your niece Maria recently?”

“Is she the missing person your sergeant mentioned when she rang?” Bobby nodded. “She’s hardly missing then. She’s still living in Italy, I presume. Milan, to be precise.”

Bobby decided to shake up the bloke a bit. Sometimes shock value was warranted. “I regret that I must correct that presumption. We found Maria Girardi’s body in a London alleyway.”

“Oh my Lord!” Mrs. Girardi covered her mouth after uttering her first words.

“That is terrible news,” said Mr. Girardi. He looked genuinely sad. “Have you informed her parents?”

“No. We understand Maria and they were estranged.” Wolfgang was studying the pair’s reactions as much as Bobby. Did he too doubt their concern was authentic?

Mr. Girardi’s answer neither confirmed nor denied that. Instead he said, “Maria was always a bit headstrong. She is—was an independent young lady, to say the least.”

“Did you know Interpol has been looking for her as one of five suspects who stole jewels in Italy?” Bobby said. “Milan, to be precise.”

The husband looked at his wife and then back at Wolfgang. “Lord no! When she was here, she mentioned nothing about that.”

“So…” Bobby said, “she was here.”

The old Swiss-Italian realized his mistake. “We only try to protect her, Inspector. She wouldn’t give us any details, but she was frightened and wanted to hide here for a while. I thought it had something to do with my brother.”

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As much as I find the NY Times “Book Review” worthless to me as both reader and author, the Times published an interesting editorial about Amazon on Sunday, December 5. (It wasn’t in the “Book Review,” of course. Heaven forbid they say anything against Amazon there!) While more verbose than necessary—the Times’s reporters and contributors tend to bloviate in general—that opinion piece laid out the case against Amazon and pointed out how Bezos’s retail behemoth is destroying American publishing, if not the world’s; and how, as it destroys bookstores, it no longer deserves to be called one.

One charge against Amazon in that article describes how I’ve been victimized all too often by the retail giant: Bots have taken over that “online bookstore.” There are no humans in charge, so you can’t find a real person to help you, no matter how hard you try. My most painful experience where an attack of Amazon bots occurred was when they confused the two books in “The Last Humans” series. I could get neither human nor bot to fix that. (Fair warning if you want to purchase both books on Amazon—you’ll need a lot of patience and need to follow the instructions in red on my “Books & Short Stories” web page to do it. You’ll make your life easier by buying them from B&N.) Probably not surprising, but that was the straw that broke this camel’s back: I’ll never put any more new ebooks up for sale on Amazon again!

Read the rest of this entry »

[Note from Steve: Because this is yet another British-style mystery story, the metaphor of the title here refers to London’s Underground aka the Tube. Trains there, unlike NYC’s, actually have four rails with two live ones. The positive third rail is still outside the rails the car wheels ride on and has the higher voltage, which is twice the fourth with negative voltage, nestled between the two regular train ones. Now there’s a factoid that might stump any Jeopardy contestant!]

Living on the Third Rail

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Three

Bobby found Elaine’s little motorcar comfortable once he was inside, but getting into the old Morris was difficult, for both his size and bum leg that was always stiff that late in the day.

“I’ll try to remember to bring some axle grease for you next time,” she said with a smile as he made himself more comfortable.

“I’m good. I’ve been in far tighter places before—tanks, overcrowded Humvees and Jeeps, sitting right-side up or upside down, or in a roll downhill. This is heaven in comparison. Nice to have a pretty chauffeur too and not a sweaty colleague driving.”

She was silent until she had to stop for a light. She turned to him, a worried look on her face. “Let’s not ruin dinner by talking about any of that. Please. I hate war, even though I love soldiers. They go through hell. I know that, but I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”

“Right. But you won’t want to hear about some cases I had with the Met either. Soldiering and policing—that’s me most of my adult life. So we have to talk about you. No rings, so you’re not engaged or married. Any boyfriends?”

“Not currently. And not for a while, in fact. No time for a serious relationship, to put a fine point on it. I’m an ER nurse, remember?” He nodded. “It’s better now. Definitely less hectic than what we experienced during the pandemic. If I’d had that PM as a patient, I might have forgotten the Hippocratic oath.”

“Family?”

“Mum’s in a Bristol nursing home with dementia. Whole place got the virus. She was one of the few who survived. Pops is gone five years now. Not unusual for people our age. Your family?”

“I’m the youngest of three siblings, the baby that arrived by accident. Our parents passed on, seems like years ago. The oldest sibling, my sister, is a barrister. My older brother’s a teacher. They’re both a lot older than I am. We exchange holiday cards, and I received something like a ‘Get well soon’ from my sis when I was in that German hospital recovering. I’m basically on my own.”

“So…are we both stupid to lose ourselves in our work?”

“I suppose. Sad, huh? Aren’t we the glum chums?”

“Here we are. A pint or two will cheer us.”

“And the food?”

“It’s usually great, and there’s lots of it. But if it isn’t tonight, we’ll just have to toss down a few more pints. We can always call a taxi. I’ve left my motor here overnight in the car-park before. Nobody would bother stealing this old thing. Fair warning: I need an early evening. Graveyard shift coming up, so my limit is two. With more and the food, I’d have trouble staying awake.”

He could tell by the way she gripped the wheel and blathered on a bit that she was nervous. His sleuthing skills weren’t quite up to determining why. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had dinner with a woman.

***

Elaine dropped him at his boarding house not long after dinner. Mrs. Lawton, the owner, was still awake reading one of her romance novels.

“Saw a lovely young lass drop you off, Mr. Bobby,” she said, sticking her head out the entrance to her sitting room. She winked at him. “You work fast. Who is she?”

“Just a new friend I met. Sorry I’m late.”

The old woman looked back inside, probably at the huge grandfather clock in the back corner of the room. “Not very. Tomorrow I’ll try to remember to give you a key so you can come and go as you please. I never want to stand in the way of young love.”

“Again, she’s just a friend. Good night, Mrs. Lawton. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“You missed it today.”

“I had a lot to do.”

“No problem. I’ll credit that. I start serving at seven. Last service by nine. Have a good evening.”

Bobby moved up the stairs with a smile on his face. He’d been lucky to find the place. Maybe Mrs. Lawton would mother him too much, but he’d be in no hurry to change lodging until after he was sorted in his new tasks at work. One thing at a time, Bobby, one thing at a time.

But should he follow up with Elaine? She’d seemed to imply she was very busy with no time for relationships. He’d be busy too. If anything happened, it would have to occur with both of them skirting around their stressful work. But other people did that, didn’t they? Time would tell.

He did a bit of a lie-in the next morning, had a leisurely breakfast served by Mrs. Lawton and her son, David, a friendly fellow who reminded Bobby of Aaron Brody, another simple soul. The world needs more like them.

He went to his appointment with Dr. Patel.

The office was located more toward the center of London in a modern skyscraper. Bobby found the suite number in the lobby, 8H. He was impressed when he entered the office. Definitely not NHS! Bobby couldn’t figure out how the Met could afford the doctor’s services. Maybe this is an exceptional exam? How much would the medic charge? Bobby could imagine several monthly wages.

***

“Mr. Sherman. This way please.” An older nurse led him past the receptionist’s desk into a corridor and then on to an exam room. “Please detach your prosthetic. The doctor will be with you in a moment.”

When the doctor entered, he reminded Bobby of some characters in Willy Wonka & the Candy Factory, an Oompa-Loompa-like fellow with a wide grin and sparkling, brown eyes, but he couldn’t remember which version of the movie he was remembering. Bobby regretted making the racial stereotype, especially when the small man turned out to be a serious yet amiable professional.

He examined the prosthetic. “As a child, I read a novel once where the main character had several of these, even some specialty ones with tools. Ever read The Moon is a Harsh Mistress? It’s a sci-fi story by Robert Heinlein. I found the idea of functional prosthetics fascinating, so here I am, ye olde prosthetics expert. I get paid for examining all of you plods, though, prosthetics or not. Just strip to your briefs. I’ll take your prosthetic for a moment to examine it. Be right back.”

When he returned, Patel waved the artificial hand and said, “They did a fine job. Let me check the stump first.” Bobby felt a bit strange as the doctor examined the stump with its multiple contacts. “Yes, I see how they did it. That must have taken some time, but you should have nearly full functionality. Let’s see the leg. Can you stand alone on it?” For another ten minutes, Patel poked and prodded. “You’ll have a great left hook.” He laughed.

“Someone else said that.”

“I’ll write on the form that you’re fit enough to go out and about and nick all the bad people. I’d hate to be a criminal and get in a fight with you. You can dress and go back to the waiting room. The nurse will bring your forms out. Good luck back in the Met, Inspector Sherman.”

“Not quite yet, but by the end of the day, I suppose.”

Chapter Four

“Welcome back to civilization, Guv,” DS Cohen said upon entering Bobby’s new office, his hand extended in greetings. “You might not remember me. I was only a detective constable when you were here as a DS.”

“Take a chair.” When he was seated, Bobby smiled at him. “I do remember you. I just want to meet the whole team one on one, like I said at our team meeting. By the way, first-name basis. I’m Bobby. You’re Chaim?” He nodded. “How’s the nipper?”

He laughed. “Two now, Guv—um, Bobby. A boy and girl. Everyone’s fine, thank you.”

“Your wife’s a pathologist associated with the next station over, right?”

“She works with them usually, correct. I sometimes see her in her official capacity when things get hectic here and old Doc Jepson gets overwhelmed. The Met’s just one big happy family.”

“Except when it isn’t,” Bobby said with a smile. “I have yet to see you in action as a DS.” Chaim frowned. “Don’t worry. We’ll work fine together. I know a lot more about being a DS than being a DI, though, so have patience with me.”

“You worked under DCI Hardcastle. We all respect him, and he’s a great role model.”

“I hope to be the same, and I’ll be as demanding, within reason…and I will not be overbearing. Please let me know about any problems here at work. I’m a good listener. Any questions?”

“Not now. I’ll pipe up when I have them.”

“Good. Could you send in DS Wilson?”

***

By one p.m., Bobby had finished interviewing his new team: two sergeants and four constables making up a team of seven, counting himself. That makeup could change depending on a particular case’s requirements. And, on occasion, some DIs ran two teams or more, taking almost the role of a DCI. For now, Hardcastle was breaking him in with just the one team.

Except for DS Cohen, who had been promoted to Bobby’s old position from another station’s team, the team was Hardcastle’s old one, including himself, the DI now responsible for all of them. He thought it was an awesome responsibility, but a challenge that he gladly accepted.

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Let me start with the blurb for the new Esther Brookstone novel, Defanging the Red Dragon :

Esther Brookstone, ex-MI6 spy and ex-Scotland Yard Inspector in the Art and Antiques Division, and her husband, Bastiann van Coevorden, ex-Interpol agent, along with NYPD homicide detective Rolando Castilblanco and his wife, TV reporter Pam Stuart, become embroiled in geopolitical intrigue as the West tries to thwart a plan China has for stealing its nuclear submarine secrets. Taking place mostly in the US and UK, this suspenseful story has multiple twists and turns and is also the tale of two cities, New York and London, and the bustling life found in both, from the rich and powerful to the most scurrilous criminal elements.

I should add that this all takes place around the holidays sometime im the future—no jolly old elf in a sleigh with his ho-ho-hos in this novel, though, just solid mystery, thrills, and suspense that tie together two of my major series, the “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco” series and the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective:” series, in a nice, big bow just for you.

I hope this is a holiday gift you will enjoy. You’ll find the novel in the list among my other free PDFs. I had a little problem making it available. Microsoft had decided to eliminate one of my options that allowed readers to download these PDFs: The OneDrive sharing option is no longer available. (Big Tech strikes again!) Thankfully, I don’t need OneDrive, so good riddance. I have found a work-around (thank you, WordPress!). You only have to click on the title to bring it up in a PDF viewer (at least on my PC laptop; who knows what happens with Apples and smart phones?)—use the download button if you want to have a permanent copy (for your e-reader, for example). (This works for all the older PDFs as well—just remember to hit the back arrow in the PDF viewer to return to the website.) If this doesn’t work for you, you still have the option to email me using my contact page and list the free PDFs you want me to send to you.

Readers of the books in both series know they’re related. Brookstone and her husband van Coevorden have cameos in the first series, and Chen and Castilblanco have some in the second. Many readers are also TV viewers and surely have noticed that crossover series have become more prevalent. I don’t know where scriptwriters got that idea. Maybe from wanting to turn an hour’s drama (really forty minutes or so if you subtract out time for the ads) into something like a full-length movie? It occurred to me that no one had done that for two series.

In a sense, I suppose my “Chaos Chronicles Trilogy” and A. B. Carolan’s first three sci-fi mysteries for young adults have the same relationship as the two named above, but what they have in common, my sci-fi universe, is a setting, not characters. TV crossovers feature characters, in addition to settings. I wanted to experiment with both.

Why not publish this novel normally, with Draft2Digital, for example? The answer is simple: I wanted to make it free, so why bother publishing normally? I already had set up a mechanism for readers to access free fiction, after all (until Microsoft forced me to find that work-around!). And many authors make the first books in a series free. I’ve stood that on its head and made the last one in both series (for now) free! The motivation is the same: Motivate readers who might be interested in the other books!

It wasn’t easy to put all four detectives in one novel. I think I pulled it off, though. If you agree or disagree, let me know. By the way, the subtitle is A Brookstone-Castilblanco Holiday Adventure in order to recognize the principal detectives and indicate that the series were joined…for at least this one time! Each series might go its separate way again later.

Happy holidays!

***

Comments are always welcome!

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

[Note from Steve: Because this is yet another British-style mystery story, the metaphor of the title here refers to London’s Underground aka the Tube. Trains there, unlike NYC’s, actually have four rails with two live ones. The positive third rail is still outside the rails the car wheels ride on and has the higher voltage, which is twice the fourth with negative voltage, nestled between the two regular train ones. Now there’s a factoid that might stump any Jeopardy contestant!]

Living on the Third Rail

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Prologue

Lieutenant Robert Sherman swung into the Humvee with his right arm. He cradled his rifle on his lap and nodded to the driver, an American he only knew as John.

“Drop us outside the village, mate.”

“Yes, sir. Opposite side from where our guys are, right?”

Bobby couldn’t place the accent. US soldiers, their comrades in arms in the hellhole known as Afghanistan, spoke many kinds of English, none of them the Queen’s. He thought John’s was southern US, but no matter. John’s blood was as red as his, and they could both die that day.

About two miles from the village where they hoped to trap some murdering Talibans in a pincer movement to free the village, Bobby spotted a shadowy figure ahead who disappeared behind a berm. John saw him too and slowed.

“Let’s stop. Hicks, jump out and see what that bloke was about. Find his arse if you can.”

Everyone in the vehicle was thinking the same as Bobby and John: IED or land mine. Either one might be nasty.

Hicks jumped out the rear of the vehicle and ran forward. He examined the road and then behind the berm, shaking his head.

“Road only shows the tracks of the American lads,” he said upon his return. “They must already be in place. No sign of that local bloke.”

“Okay. Let’s go, John.”

The Humvee lurched forward as John went through the gears. Two hundred yards farther on they hit the IED.

The last thing Bobby remembered before regaining consciousness in a field hospital was the heavy vehicle flying into the air from the force of the blast. He discovered he was without his left hand, although it seemed to still be there, and his left leg hurt like hell.

Chapter One

Months later…

Bobby saw the drunk hassling the pretty nurse and moved in, restraining him. “Call the police,” he told her.

The coppers took over when they arrived, one constable taking away the handcuffed drunk while the other went somewhere else with the nurse to take her statement. She managed to send a silent thank you his way as they left. He returned to his seat in the waiting room.

He couldn’t help comparing the NHS ER to field hospitals in Afghanistan, not all that different than the tents for Covid victims he’d seen on the news over there. His second tour had ended with his injuries, but he had avoided the fiasco that American president had created after the Taliban’s blitzkrieg-style victory and chaotic evacuation that followed. What a mess!

Afghanistan hadn’t just involved American troops. It had been a cooperative NATO effort, with he and his British colleagues trying to sustain that nation-building, a disaster in the making from day one. The USSR’s Vietnam had become another American Vietnam, and they had dragged other nations’ combatants, consultants, and aid personnel down with them.

He was lucky in a sense. The wound in his leg had healed, only leaving a wee limp. The prosthetic left-hand was stronger than his right, although he’d never be able to tie a fly again. He’d have to buy ready-made ones if he wanted to go fishing in the Lake District. Or he’d use live bait that didn’t wriggle too much.

“Mr. Sherman? You’re up.” Bobby followed the older nurse into a small exam room. “What can we do for you today?”

“I’m just back from Germany two days and my stump’s itching like hell.” He raised his arm and wiggled the prosthetic’s fingers at her. “They said it might with the more humid climate here.”

“Who’s they?”

“The doctors at Ramstein airbase. I was there as a guest in their fancy hospital for a while.”

“I see. War wound then. I’ll take your vitals and then Dr. Murphy will be with you.”

***

The constable who had taken the first nurse’s statement caught Bobby on the way out.

“I probably should get your statement too, sir. I hate to make you go back to an NHS waiting room to do that. If it’s convenient for you, could you come to the station? We should take our prisoner in and get him sorted.”

“I was going there anyway, DC Brody. I have an appointment with DCI Jack Hardcastle there at ten.”

“Oh? Perfect. Either the other constable or I will take your statement if you come in a bit earlier. See you then?”

“I’ll be there. Now here’s me looking for a late breakfast at Dolly’s.”

“They call it brunch now. Some idea to attract toffs, I suspect, trying to make the old place a bit more posh. Still the same menu, though.”

Bobby entered the cafe with his bag of medicines, feeling a bit better about his stump’s condition. He’d been worried that the problem was some kind of allergic reaction to the prosthetic material, but it had been what the doctor in Germany had warned him might happen: a mold just getting started in the heat and humidity of an English summer. He was surprised to see the nurse he’d saved from the drunk gesturing towards her table.

“I didn’t get a chance to thank my hero,” she said with a smile. “My name’s Elaine Barton, but you already knew that.” She offered a hand, and he shook it, all the while enjoying her welcoming smile. “In the ER, we’re trained to sort such confrontations, but that drunken prat was damn strong. Sit down. I at least owe you a cuppa or some coffee. Theirs are both good here.” He sat, picked up a menu, but gave her his full attention. “Where’d you learn to handle yourself that way?”

“Bobby, Bobby Sherman.” It came out sounding to him like Bond, James Bond. Embarrassing. He skirted her question. “I know Dolly’s from way back. I was hoping they hadn’t changed. Actually, I’m having a full breakfast. I’ve only been back a few days, and I’ve skipped a few breakfasts at the boarding house, like today’s, and  have done take-aways for other meals. I think coffee comes with breakfast, unless that’s changed.”

“That policy still applies. I’ll have to reward you in some other way. I saw that Brody hit you up for a statement. Aaron’s a nice fellow even if he isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“I know that. He didn’t recognize me.”

“You mean from before?”

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Huxley had one; in his Brave New World, everyone is happy, happy, happy, taking their soma and not giving a rat’s ass about the futility of their lives. Orwell had one too; in his 1984, no one was happy, even if the entrenched plutocracy ordered them to be, the plutocrats figuring that if they said it often enough they would believe it to be true. C. M. Kornbluth had his too; in Not this August, he painted a desolate land laid to waste by Chinese and Russian invasions. (These are often called dystopian visions, but dystopia is only what follows an apocalypse, even if the latter is only societal.)

By the time I graduated from high school, I read these tales and other apocalyptic visions…the “red menace:” was a part of my childhood. We’d have drills when we’d hide under our student desks so the USSR’s bombs wouldn’t hurt us. While I believed that the USSR could attack us—JFK took us to the brink—I was punished for telling our teacher he was stupid if he thought a small desk could provide adequate protection.

You see, even back then I knew that apocalypses are bigger than any single person; when we say an event is apocalyptic, it affects thousands or millions. Despite that realization, I also realized that the really interesting stories that should be told about apocalyptic events are the ones about how individuals react before, during, and after the event.

In the “Chaos Chronicles Trilogy,” there are two apocalypses. The first is manmade, a collapse of the social order I named the Chaos. Recovery from that ends when ETs use a bioengineered virus to terraform Earth and remake it to their liking. That involved attempting to eradicate all the planet’s native lifeforms, including humans. Fortunately, the recovery from the Chaos continues on three extrasolar planets colonized by humans. Apocalyptic pandemics also play a role in “The Last Humans” series (see below), although the virus is manmade in that case. In More than Human: The Mensa Contagion, a more benign ET virus creates Homo sapiens version 2.0, so the apocalypse is short-lived and in the end beneficial.

Viral apocalypses aren’t as dramatic as crashing asteroids (the dinosaur’s apocalypse), or a nuclear holocaust, and, in the worst-case scenario, leave no story to tell, unless some ET archaeologists stop by later to wonder, “How did this once robust civilization die?” One needs survivors, and that’s where the individuals come in. There are several types of apocalypses like that describe in A Time Traveler’s Guide through the Multiverse; they are visited by the heroes in that tale.

The quintessential tongue-in-cheek apocalyptic survivor story, though, can be found in C. M. Kornbluth’s novella “The Marching Morons,” where, unlike my More than Human novel, the apocalypse is reverse evolution—most human beings become incredibly stupid with the exception of a few unlucky souls who have to run everything. (This is akin in a way to Brave New World, I suppose, and was uncannily prescient about the Q-Anon movement.)

Above all, apocalyptic visions in the sci-fi literature are excellent warnings. The better the stories are, the better the warnings. Hollywood has poor apocalyptic visions. We’ve lost a lot in going from Huxley and Orwell to that snow train and cowboys destroying killer asteroids. Special effects in a two-hour movie can’t begin to portray realistic apocalypses or probe into characters’ reactions to them. That can only be found in a book.

***

Comments are always welcome.

“The Last Humans” Series. This post-apocalyptic series has been hammered due to the vagaries of modern publishing. The first book, The Last Humans, was published by Black Opal Books, a small press (I think it’s near bankruptcy). In it, Penny Castro survives an apocalypse when a US enemy attacks with a bioengineered virus that works too well, going round the world when the target was only the Pacific Coast of the US. Imagine Covid on steroids! In The Last Humans: A New Dawn, Penny is still in survival mode, but she’s forced to participate in a revenge mission against the country that unleashed the virus. I published that novel with Draft2Digital. In any case, both ebooks are available wherever quality ebooks are sold. (And I might eventually make this a trilogy, especially if Black Opal cancels my contract with them.)

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

[Note from Steve: Consider this story an early holiday gift for you, your children, and grandchildren. A. B. Carolan revisits that wonderful mutant cat Mr. Paws in this story. Some readers met him in The Secret Lab. The Fearsome Four, a group of four teens in the future, who became sleuths to discover how he’d arrived on the International Space Station, end up uncovering a conspiracy instead. I told A. B. about a neighbor’s cat that early this fall started sunning himself and taking catnaps on our backyard picnic table. That might have inspired my Irish collaborator to write this tale (you don’t need to read the novel to enjoy it, although it might motivate you to do so). I told A. B. this tale reminds me a bit of tales written by H. Rider Haggard, who, of course, was English, not Irish.

Due to supply chain issues–out time will be in short supply as A. B. and I dedicate more of it to my writing—I will reduce the number of articles posted to this blog to two in the future. Wednesdays will feature an article about reading, writing, or publishing, and Fridays will be dedicated to free short fiction, continuing the “Friday Fiction” series. Thank you for your understanding.]

Space-Cat

Copyright 2021, A. B. Carolan

It wasn’t easy to find my favorite Human, Shashibala Garcia. Space is big. Maybe too big for a cat? Paws. Mr. Paws. A space-cat who was born on the International Space Station. I’m a unique and dashing feline who might know more mathematics than you probably ever will. Yet too many Humans still just treat me like other cats.

I’d had a few miscues looking for her, that favorite Human of mine. I mistakenly thought I’d stowed away on a big rig heading for the outer planets but ended up on Mars. My visit to that red planet began badly but turned out okay.

Some mice had stowed away earlier on some other big rig and gotten loose in the Mars colony. They’d imported a few cats to control the mouse population, so I ended up with a harem for a while. I guess you could say I did my duty by increasing the cat population so the mouse problem was controlled. None of my kittens could create new mathematical theorems, though.

I soon became bored with Mars. Love’em and leave’em, I say. I reset my sights on Dione, one of Saturn’s moons, where I’d set out originally to find Shashi. I knew she’d be there; we’d corresponded frequently over the years.

Shashi and I had a special relationship that had developed on the ISS when she was just a young kitten. Of course, she’s my favorite Human, so I hoped she’d be as happy to see me as I would be to see her.

She’d married Brian Kelso, another member of her ISS gang, the Fearsome Four, and they headed off to work in Rafael Franchetti’s research team on Dione. Brian and Rafael were okay, but Shashi was special. Together we’d shut down a conspiracy on the space station. That conspiracy had created me, so I’ll always have mixed emotions about ending it.

All cargo bound for Saturn is protected from the space vacuum; there’s so much on the typical big rig that it’s not cost effective to separate things. (I know economics as well as math. You can’t make sense of the former without models from the latter.) I’d still needed to be choosy about where I hid on the way to Mars—air wasn’t necessarily included in a shipping container, but shielding against radiation always was—and that was true for my trip to Dione. Fortunately I had no problem reading the cargo manifests and chose wisely.

I hid in a special cargo container that was filled with living plants; it was temperature and humidity controlled and had little hoses that dripped water on the plants’ roots, all that creating a little jungle for this fearsome tiger. I didn’t know if the plants were for research, future food, or decoration—hard to tell what motivates crazy Humans—but on that long journey I could pretend I was in a real jungle, a Sumatran tiger protecting my territory. Of course, I had to lie on my back from time to time and steal some water from the plants. While there was no catnip, there was some red fruit I could split open and eat. Gave me the runs, but there was enough soil to serve as my bathroom.

Needless to say, I was happy to reach Dione. I’d lost a pound or two—at my young age of twenty-eight (thanks to Shashi’s mother’s telomere extension treatments), losing a bit of extra weight wasn’t such a bad thing—and pretending to be a Sumatran tiger only gets you so far in eliminating the boredom. I’d countered the latter a bit by creating some new number theory theorems. All fun for a while, but I missed Humans in general and Shashi in particular.

So…I was almost purring from happiness when I jumped out of that container. That surprised two Humans who pursued me, screaming “Cat!” I avoided them easily enough and was soon scampering through air and heating ducts in the Dione research station. It reminded me of ISS, only bigger, and that extra space provided a lot more places to hide while I searched for Shashi.

***

I found her in a lab. No surprise there. She was a scientist, after all. She was visualizing something with a graphics terminal. I latter learned that she and Brian worked on modeling the gas giant’s atmosphere. Probably a messy business, I suppose. They’d learned why the upper atmosphere was so hot at least a century ago: the electrical currents in the auroras were much more powerful than Earth’s. Because the faraway sun hardly warmed the planet, that had been a mystery for a while. Now they were modeling how the currents actually accomplished that, so I supposed the atmosphere was a plasma-gas mix that took some scientific finesse to model.

I started purring from the ventilation duct just above her desk. She looked up, maybe wondering if she were dreaming, because that had been the way we’d met on ISS. She jumped on top of the desk, an easy thing to do in Dione’s low gravity, and stared into the duct at me.

“Well, well, a cat. You look just like Mr. Paws.”

I couldn’t respond. I’d lost my wi-fi implant on the way to Mars, and the research station’s AI wouldn’t have the code that allowed me to communicate with Humans anyway. But she’d see the port when she took me down, so I purred more loudly.

After I was comfortable on her lap, she called Brian via her own wi-fi implant. Although there was no need, she vocalized, not subvocalized, the call.

“We have a visitor. Guess who it is.”

“No idea. Someone hitched a ride on that big rig that just sent a shuttle down, interrupting my data collection?”

“Maybe. He got here some way.”

“So who is it?”

“Mr. Paws.”

That must have shocked Shashi’s mate because there was a period of silence.

“How do you know?”

“What other cat has a wi-fi port?”

He laughed. “Where is he now?”

“On my lap.”

“Um. I’ll be right there. I can’t get back online until after that shuttle goes up for another load.”

I had no idea where Brian had to come from, but he showed up twenty minutes later, breathless. He picked me up and cradled me in his arms.

“Are you really Mr. Paws?”

I purred a “yes,” but he didn’t understand cat language.

“My mother can transmit the code so our AI can link with him,” Shashi said. “She’ll be as surprised as we are.”

“In the meantime, we need to get him some food. He looks a bit malnourished.”

Now we’re talking! I was liking this new Brian. He was a lot more serious, mature, and caring. More like Shashi, in fact. I decided she’d been good for him.

***

After wi-fi communication was reestablished, we had some good times together, Shashi, Brian, and I. Rafael okayed my presence as long as I kept out of the way, but only three Humans knew I was there on Dione. I suspected those two on the loading docks hadn’t wanted to admit that I’d escaped their clutches.

It wasn’t all fun…or a different kind of fun. I contributed to the trio’s research effort. With my AI connection, I could contribute as well as any Human when it came to data analysis—all based on cat-language commands, of course.

If Rafael hadn’t known I was there, he would have suspected something was amiss. We got our work done thirty to forty percent faster than Shashi and Brian had alone. That gave us some extra time for us to get caught up and for me to explore the Dione station. On one of those trips, I saw something that puzzled me.

“What’s Project Home Run?” I said to them after my jaunt and relaxing after dinner.

Shashi looked at Brian; he shook his head. “We don’t know,” she said.

I knew enough about Earth to figure out the usual meaning of “home run,” a term used in an Earth game that could only be watched and not played out in space. I also knew enough that Human names for projects often obscured what they were about instead of explained.

“Where’d you hear about it, Mr. Paws?” Brian said.

“Not heard but seen,” I said. “The director has a special terminal to communicate with Earth. He was reviewing something sent to him, but he’d only received the title page of the document.”

“Could you see where it was from?” Shashi said.

“GenCorp. Remember them?”

“Vaguely,” Shashi said. “I think my mother’s research funds come from a GenCorp subsidiary.”

“So do some research funds for this station,” Brian said. “Maybe that’s why the director received the message. Might not mean anything.”

“You know the saying,” I said.

“About curious cats?” Shashi said. “Trying to find out what Project Home Run might get you killed, Mr. Paws. The director might not like the idea that a cat’s here either.”

“No mice around, I take it?” I’d already told them about my Martian experiences, not that they could compare with Edgar Rice Burrough’s adventures featuring Jedi warriors, helped by John Carter. “I am helping to get the work done, aren’t I?”

“That might not set well with the director either,” Brian said. “Fortunately, Rafael insulates us from him a lot.”

“So…maybe Rafael could find out about Project Home Run?”

“Um. I suppose he might agree to do that, just to satisfy your curiosity.”

***

Rafael and the director had agreed to disagree on many things, but the latter knew he wouldn’t last long if he got in the way of research. Scientists wouldn’t tolerate that for long, even if their funding was channeled through the director. UNSA would step in and make adjustments if there were any hedges on the agreement between Earth’s mega-corporations and UNSA about future space exploration and research.

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