Detective Jonus Sharp is aggressively recruited to investigate an uprising on Shelley-4 by the planet's new overseer. Reunited with his frighening sister Jonus is placed on the hunt for the ruthless leader of the revolution.
Jonus Sharp and the Shelley Revolt is currently being written. Below is the first peice I wrote for the story and the intended prologue.
My coffee was placed in front of my by a young girl with interestingly browned skin and dark, almost black eyes. She seemed nervous, but I could see nothing around that hinted at danger. Still, it was not to be ignored, waitresses in this kind of place tend to develop a natural instinct for trouble, and I really didn't have the time for trouble. I sipped the disgusting brown swill they passed off as coffee and looked around at the other occupants of the small back alley bar. There were three of them.
One was sitting at the bar along from me drinking a interestingly shaped glass filled with a fluorescent green drink dotted with what looked like tiny pink eyes. It was a pretty heavy drink for 6am, so chances are he'd been drinking since the night before. He had a shiny green jacket that looked like it could've been leather, but of what species I'll never know. His pants were a similar shiny green, but were definitely made of cloth. His shoes were missing, in all likelihood stolen, and his hat was a crumpled brown paper bag, which he seemed not to notice. Everything he wore, with the exception of the hat, looked expensive but old and worn, as if he'd bought them once when times were better, and then reality had caught up with him and he was left with just the clothes on his back and his liquor money. There was nothing uncommon about this man, there is a person like this in nearly every pub or bar you are ever likely to go into. The waitress' displeasure was coming from another quarter.
The remaining two were seated together in the corner of the room in one of the stalls that quite failed to give even the illusion of privacy. One was a young wannabe street punk that clearly had no idea what it meant to be a punk. He had carefully gelled and spiked hair with each spike sprayed neatly in a different shade of pink, green, and orange. His jacket was cut, though the cuts looked like they'd been made with a costly laser, rather than a battle knife, and he had studs and spikes placed randomly around him. The tears in a jacket are meant to be signs of battle experience, the cuts come from the slashes of an opponents knife, cutting your own is meaningless. The spikes too are intended for fighting, both to hinder knives and to discouraged hand-to-hand blows. Placed randomly like on this fools jacket; they served no purpose but, if anything, to increase the damage taken. His shirt and jeans were fine, though they gelled a little too closely with the stereotype of a punk to look realistic. Chances are if this kid approached a real punk he wouldn't survive the encounter. I was having a hard enough time resisting going over and hitting him, and I haven't been an active punk for nearly 30 years. The kid's father or guardian was sitting in the chair opposite, and looked like he was having a long serious discussion about why the 'ways of the punk' were terrible and would ruin the kids life, perfectly true, but a foolish way of trying to discourage him. The man himself was completely unremarkable, short hair, suit jacket and shirt, suit pants, decent shoes, not exactly a normal customer here, but not remarkable either.
Apparently none of the residents were the cause of the trouble. In all likelihood it was still coming. I wonder if the waitress knew what it was, I suspected she didn't, it was not common trouble made a booking, more likely she just had a sneaking suspicion something bad was about to happen. Come to think of it, I was starting to feel the sa…
"Jonus" sang a melodious and taunting voice. Spinning at the sound of my name, I dived just in time to avoid the slug that smash the bar stool next to mine. I ran for it, diving out of the back door, the horrified scream of the waitress fading out as the heavy door fell shut behind me.
Shit. I had brought the waitress more trouble than she could ever have imagined. A bright orange light lit the alley in front of me and, glancing back, I saw the bar aflame with her, silhouetted, stalking toward me, lighter in one hand a power blade shining in the other. Fuck. There's no way I could stand up to that, I have to escape, somewhere where. Crap, dead end, cornered. I try to run anyway, jumping to one wall and bouncing off it to the next and back, gaining a little height each jump, but it was in vain, as soon as I began to jump she did the same thing from where she was, but she moved forward as well as up. I was only on my third jump when her knife cut into my back and she stunned me with a powerful electronic discharge. Only the strongest of mind and will can resist such a blow. I lost conscious, only recalling slamming into the wall as my jump failed.