With Irrational Pai off in the hands of my copyeditor and cover designer, I was a loose ends for a bit. About 36 hours. Then, per normal, I was shown something. Most of IP was introducing the characters and the politics about fifty years on from my last novel and I knew it would be the forerunner of at least one more book. But what kind of book? Long time readers know that I like to try different things, so, borrowing from Grathew, I thought to make a kind of war diary.

This will mostly be from Graf’s POV, as he wants to leave some record for his children by Alix if he’s killed, but there will be parts where we will see that his wife, Pai, thinks of what is going on. What’s below is the a rough prologue, as I am always one to “start your story in the middle.” I’m messing about with the first chapter; as a diary, it is what I call “walls of text” versus what I normally do, which is dialog. I’m not entirely happy with the format, but am hoping to strike a balance as I keep writing.

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Captain…?  Captain?  “Captain Winstead!  Wake up!”

Not sure who was yelling at him, Graf Winstead tried to look around while flat on his back.  He could not move his left arm but, raising his right, saw it was in some fluffy white glove.  More importantly, just beyond it…

“Welcome back, Dearest Husband,” Pai gently smiled, though her gold eyes shimmered with tears.  Her white hair with a hint of purple was back from her face with a headband.  A headband, he knew, amplified her access to signal; to information.  She had unzipped her suit to her belly, splitting the image of the Polar Alliance star.  The alliance which had kept the peace for over a hundred years.  Until a year ago.

When he tried to speak, there was just a gurgling.  Someone touched his left shoulder.  Looking that way, a man in his mid-thirties with small, wire frame glasses.  He wore an off-white skinsuit with a red caduceus printed on the front.

“I’m Doctor Breem,” he said.  “You took a shot to your throat in the engagement by Crater Seventy One.  Do you remember?”

Remember?  Oh, their squad had been responding to a mayday call.  It turned out to be a Separatist ambush, one that even Pai’s Machine mind did not know of.  Graf remembered calling in support…and now he was.  Here.  Wherever here was.

“You are in the hospital section of Moonbase Hood,” Pai said, able even now to essentially read his thoughts from the faint motions of his eyes and face.  “Doctor Breem and his team did quick work with an emergency tracheotomy, once I got you, and the rest, back here.  You were bleeding out bad, so I had a tourniquet around your neck.”

Even Breem had to chuckle at that one.  “Not standard practice, but it did save your life.  Now that you’re conscious, you will be transported back to earth in thirty hours, if stable enough, and I think you will be.  Some of my colleagues in Houston are already 3D printing a new trach for you, given the details supplied by your wife, Mrs. Winstead here.  Uh…”

He seemed at a loss about something.

“I’ll tell him everything else, Doctor,” Pai said in what he knew was her “careful” voice.  Graf wondered what that meant.  When he’d left, Pai came closer, leaned down, and kissed him, her right hand touching the short, dark brown hair on his scalp and beard. “You want to know about our team.  No KIA; Williamson had his lower left arm blown off.  He’ll get a new one, too.  Once clear of the crater, I used a small atomic to seal it.”

She blinked.  “I mean what I just said, Beloved.  The time for restraint ended when they hurt you.  Now, you will rest even if I have to push a narcotic into your line.  After six or eight hours, we can free your right hand to write questions.  There’s no reason for the complication of a speaking valve for such a short time.”

Another kiss, longer.  “And, I do not think your new throat will adversely impact your gift.  It’s more psychic than physical.  We need to forge a peace once the killing is stopped.” Pai gently put her head on his chest.  “Rest.”