Trent Jamieson - Roil
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Roil: summary, description and annotation
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Shale is in trouble - the creature-filled darkness known as the Roil is expanding, consuming the land, swallowing cities whole. Where once there were 12 metropolises, now only 4 remain.Its up to a drug addict, an old man and a woman bent on revenge to try to save their city - and the world.File Under: Fantasy [ End Of The World | The Darkness Approaches | Addiction | On The Edge ]e-book ISBN: 9780857661852
Trent Jamieson: author's other books
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About the Author
Trent Jamieson is an Australian Fantasy writer, and winner of two Aurealis Awards, whose Death Most Definite series is attracting rave notices.
Trent has been writing fiction since he can remember, and selling it since the mid-Nineties quite a long while after he started.
He works as a teacher, a bookseller and a writer and has taught at Clarion South where he was described as "the nicest guy in Australian Spec Fic" shattering the reputation he was trying to build as the "Hard Man of the Australian Writing Community".
trentjamieson.com
Acknowledgments
Roil has been a long time coming, and now, here it is. And the reason it's here is well and truly due to the love and support of my wonderful ROR colleagues the best writing group ever.
Thanks also to Deonie Fiford for having faith in it, and to Marc Gascoigne and Lee Harris for giving it a good home. And a big thank you to Sophie Hamley of the Cameron Creswell Agency, who's patient, funny, and a sure guide through the shadow of the valley of death. And, as always, thanks to The Avid Reader Bookstore, in particular Fiona Stager and Anna Hood, who continue to put up with the least available casual staff member ever.
Finally, thanks to Diana, my darling wife, without whose love and support I'd never get anything written.
Extras...
Darlings Killed
(Outtakes, Bloopers and a Bit of Book 2)
Roil has gone through many incarnations, and suffered (and gained) from many cuts.
Here's a few rough and ready outtakes from what might have been. Sometimes you cut scenes because they drag the story down, or reflect something that the character's already done, or they're just a bit shit. I'll let you decide which is which.
Here's a longer view of Tate (when it was Bishop). I'd named the cityafter KJ Bishop in fact, in this draft, all the cities were named afterauthors I admired. It didn't work; only Mirrlees remained, becauseI really think Mirrlees should be the name of a city.
Margaret increased the night sight of her gear and swept the horizon, tracking the dim pale line of Mechanism Highway. No matter how she adjusted her field glasses, the convoy did not appear.
In the South Eastern Quarter, Sentinels fired at a drift of floaters blown in too close to the walls. The Sentinels' bullets punctured the creatures' gas sacks with a wet slap. Margaret turned towards the sound. The last floater, jaws snapping wildly, writhed as it fell to the ground.
Another threat efficiently dealt with, as all threats were here.
Boots crunched on the ground behind her, Margaret turned towards the sound.
"Go home," Lieutenant Sarah Varn said, her breath escaping in plumes from cracked lips as she spoke. "You're not meant to be here until tomorrow and I will not have a weary sentry on my wall. Get some rest."
Wrapped in the standard black cloak of Bishop's Sentinels. Her single concession to Halloween was a tiny silver skull pinned to her collar. She wore heavy spiked boots. Strapped to her back were two ice rifles, and a Rime Blade and ice pistols were holstered around her waist. Ice weaponry proved effective against the creatures of the Roil, but was inefficient. It took considerable time to charge up and reload each gun so Sentinels bristled with weapons, swapping and changing from pistol to rifle and (if severely pressed) to blade.
The city itself remained the best weapon.
Ice sheathed the Jut; refrigeration units lipped each merlon, pumping a chill into the air that transformed the cloying warmth of the Roil's winds into frigid gusts.
Sarah clapped her gloved hands together and, despite the futility of the gesture, blew on them.
"Of course. While you're here" Sarah pointed east. "A nest of sappers, staying an inch or so out of range of the main guns."
Flares went up, breaking the darkness a little.
Margaret stared at the spot with her glasses. Six of the beasts disturbed the ruined earth. Their huge dark eyes shone in the flare-light. Dark bleak eyes that met the light fearlessly. Then Roil spores, drawn by the heat, smothered the flares and darkness drowned the Sappers again.
"Quite a large nest," Margaret said.
Sarah's eyes lit with a grim humour, she clapped her hands together again. "Already under control. We're sending drones out. Heavy endothermic bombing, ground breakers. You know, the standard stuff. Odd though, we haven't seen Sappers this close to the city in years, they nearly destroyed the North Wall. We got them then and we will this time, too."
Margaret kept her gaze squarely on the Sappers, they did not move. Just stared at the city walls like they were waiting for something. "When are the drones being launched?"
Sarah laughed. "Soon. Just go home and rest. Bishop can look after herself without you."
"All right, I'm going," Margaret said finally, and lowered her field glasses, slipping them into a case hung from her hip. Still she hovered there a moment longer.
"I'll send a message as soon as they arrive," Sarah said.
"The bells are set, so ring me. Three for the moment they drive through the gates."
"Three it is. It's always three, we've done this before, many times. Now go."
Margaret climbed to the top of the Wire-tower the stairs creaking with her every movement and opened a cabinet in which hung a half-dozen leather harnesses. She pulled out hers and hooked the harness around her chest and waist, making sure the tugs and collars fit snugly, then linked herself to the Wire.
Margaret flicked a switch by the side of the tower, smiling despite herself as gears clicked into place. Beam engines hummed, counterweights fell, and the tower rose another couple of yards making it the highest point of this section of the Wire-way, lifting her into a zone of hot winds. The whole structure shook slightly, then the wire tightened, lifting her even higher as it did so. Margaret made a final check of her harness; the hooks and wheels were in line, free of tangles and no cracks in evidence. Satisfied, she nodded to herself then let go. She hovered there for the briefest of moments, a final hesitation perhaps, but it was too late, gravity had its way and she flew, suspended by the humming wire.
Whatever you do, do not look down, someone had warned her once.
Such advice was absurd! Where else could you look? There were no stars above, just the netting doming the city, and the Roil. Down below, Bishop's lights shimmered, distant and comforting, beautiful in their constancy.
From here it was easy to imagine the streetlights as constellations. But these were constellations crowded with people, going to and from work, trudging home in heavy crampioned boots designed for the frozen roadways. Someone, looking up, saw her and waved. Margaret waved back.
Margaret adored the Wire-way. Of all her parents' inventions, she loved it most. The wind roaring in her ears, the wheels on her harness sibilant and swift, the city a sparkling microcosm below.
Pride for her parents' and her city's achievements swelled within her. When she had been younger, she was jealous of all the time they spent away from her. Until she realised her parents were not just protecting the city. They were protecting her.
A different sort of Introduction to Stade and Tope. I stripped this awaywhen I realised that David's father wasn't alive after all. Writers canbe far crueller than Vergers.
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