We’re getting good at this…

What are we getting good at, you may ask? Scoring trips to ultra-decent places on someone else’s dime, that’s what. This time it was down to Clearwater, Florida for a mixture of business and pleasure.

The business part was mercifully brief, allowing us to appreciate the location and amenities.

Sunsets on the Gulf of Mexico were spectacular.

The pool/lagoon was pretty fantastic, too.

Ok, so instead of bragging about our trip,
(did we mention it was T&E all-inclusive?)

we give you, dear readers, an update on the months-overdue book from our notoriously inert author. An ending is in sight.

Those who have journeyed from Cadre One to this dark place have been through a savage and unrelenting hell. Confrontation with boundless cruelty, with morbid curiosity, with an absence of remorse has changed them deeply inside. Of those who come through, not all can be considered survivors.

Believe us, we’d love to share it with you. Ahem. If someone would hurry up and finish it…

We know the book is very late, and you’ve been so patient with us. We have to be careful about rushing, however. Quality really suffers. And we won’t print something we can’t be 100% proud of. Please know this is an absolute priority. We’ll keep Farnham chained to his MacBook until the manuscript is finished and ready.

Before we go, there’s one more part of the trip we have to share. This was the absolute pinnacle moment:

From the smile on Farnham’s face, you can clearly see he thinks a fan has recognized him and is taking a snap shot. In reality, this guy simply couldn’t believe anyone would be so daft as to lay in the sun, by the pool, wearing all-black.

Naturally, we had to preserve this moment for posterity, had to share it with the world. Should’ve seen Farnham’s face when we told him.

Farnham: Hey! You can’t see it but he’s wearing an Empire Strikes Back shirt! Frickin’ Millenium Falcon right on it! Definite Sci-Fi guy. I mean, come on! Totally fair assumption.

C.O.P: Except that it wasn’t. And you’re a dork.

Farnham: Keep it up. See if you get any pages this month.

C.O.P.: (recovers from painful laughing fit) Oh my, that would be different.

Farnham: (closes laptop) Fine. I’ll be in the bar. (leaves)

C.O.P: (snags passing employee) Hi, excuse me, do you you work here? You do? Good. Do you see that person in black over there? Yes, he keeps following us around, but he isn’t with us. I think he’s checked in under our name as well. Could you check to be sure we’re not billed for his expenses? And here’s a little something for your trouble. Thank you ever so much.

We live for these moments…

Always,

C.O.P.

The NYC

There’s no getting around it. If you’re in publishing, you will eventually go to New York City. Nowhere else will you find such a concentration of publishing houses with such a diverse local readership. We had to go, not just out of practicality but also out of devotion: a Hajj for the literary faithful.

Once arrangements were made, we hosed our author down like a prized pachyderm and dressed him for a two-day pilgrimage. Mind you, we used to call the north shore of Boston home, so we’ve seen big cities…

Actually, we haven’t.

At street level, looking down the avenue, we were in a canyon with sheer brick cliffs on each side. The sensation was of being among massive mineral and metal organisms–the kind which form mountains when left to go wild. Here, in this place, they are cultivated, cut, shaped, nurtured and fed like trees in a Titan’s orchard. Here, geology has been tamed and a very specific, crystalline form imposed upon it.

There is no other place on Earth like this. It could never be mistaken for anything but the epitome of collective will, being so far removed from natural process that everything visible feels as though it must’ve fallen from outer space. That goes for the inhabitants, too, as people far too attractive to be found in nature crowd the pavements. Everywhere we went, it was like we had blundered onto a movie set.

Business done, we retired to a modest hotel. That’s when we discovered (with some delight) that the hotel windows open. All it took was a glance at the drop to get Farnham sweating like old dynamite.

Seventeen floors up, the breeze carries the omnipresent smell of vaporized metal and diesel fume. It’s a smell of industry and energy, the exhalation of millions, both man and machine.

Millions out on their own particular missions. Delivery trucks defying their own dimensions and needling their way through impossibly narrow lanes. Honking cabs, advancing and pressuring pedestrians out of the crosswalk. Pedestrians halting in front of honking cabs, turning with a killing look and a credible oath to shoot the cabbie’s f***ing head off…

It’s an exciting place. Seductive. Indifferent. And productive, we should add. Absolutely worth the trip. While we’re not contemplating a move here, we’ll certainly be back…

…assuming we survive the fatwa for comparing New York to Mecca, that is.

Onward.

C.O.P.

Change of Scenery

As is necessary from time to time, things change. Change, unlike greed, is good.

Cadre One Publishing has embraced this cosmic inevitability and found a home in New Hampshire. This state was often the scene of our escape from work retreats; the fresh air and greenery make it feel like we’ve put down permanent stakes in a campsite. Nothing could be more pleasing.

As with our North Carolina experiment, order fulfillment is uninterrupted and contact information is the same. There was some impediment to Farnham’s progress on the book, which we allowed so we could make him our rented mule. Not only did we save hundreds of dollars on movers, he makes the most amusing faces carrying office furniture–beet red with his little arms and legs shaking… We should move more often.

That said, it’ll be a photo finish to get the new book out this year. One of the hitches is that we haven’t found the right art for our cover yet. We’re looking for something evocative of Heartfield’s Peace and Fascism.

We understand why some artists would hesitate. This would be pretty hard to top. As Nehru said, however, “It seldom goes to the timid who are ever afraid of the consequences.”

Artists interested in discussing the project should reach out to us at Editor (at) CadreOnePublishing dot com. We understand that great work is not free, nor should it be. So be straight with your rates.

We’re also taking Beta readers for the manuscript, once finished. You see, we’re exceedingly generous, and we believe others should have the chance to savage our author’s self-esteem like a circle of chanting sixth graders, too. Volunteers: reach out at the above address.

That’s all for now. We’ll see you in the White Mountains…

-C.O.P.

Sanity is overrated.

How many of you have ever lost your mind?

No.

I mean lost your freakin’ mind and done something truly crazy. Inexplicable. Indefensible. Prosecutable…

Yeah, there are a few of you. But would you admit it? What’s at stake if you do? Friends? Work? Status?

It’s an odd time, isn’t it? We’re all hunkered down, keeping a low profile, saying, “Sir, yes, SIR!”, and working a hundred hours a week so the next time the axe swings we’re not on the trimmed limb. But it ain’t natural.

Can’t tell you how sick I am of seeing all these jacked up SUVs with their, “I (heart) FREEDOM” stickers wrapping the tailgates like some kind of vinyl cast. These are the last people who really want freedom to ring. Why?

Because I know what freedom really means: it’s the complete absence of inhibition, the emancipation of impulse. The abolishment of logic, ration, and control to take a swan dive into chaos and drown in a sea of passionate indulgence.

It’s short-sighted, sure. Unless you get away with it. And then every time, you toe the line you crossed before, jumping farther from the cliff to see where the sharp rocks are, damn near hoping the next time you find them.

Acrophobia. I have it. The fear of heights. And I can tell you 100% that my case is not the fear of death. When I’m inches away from a fatal drop, the urge to fling myself over is so powerful I can only just stop myself sometimes.
What? Do I want to die? Are things so bad?

Hell no.

Unless you have it, it’s hard to explain, but it’s rooted in a powerful desire to fly. To leap from height, spread wings and soar, it’s so basic an urge in me that the cliff beckons me to leap from it. I know I can’t fly. The idea of flying unaided is folly. Stupid. The stuff you read about when some dope takes too much PCP. We mock those dumb bastards who self-destruct so spectacularly, right?

But that’s reason talking. It’s the nanny within that wants to keep us safe. The one that says, “wear a helmet, it’s dangerous out there.” Doesn’t matter the nanny is dead-solid right. For those few seconds of weightless free fall, the imagination of flight…that singular expectation of pure experience lures me to the edge, then taunts me for cowardice when I shrink back. Like I said, if you don’t have it, it’s hard to explain.

Mine is not the kind to grow old, yet I have so far outlived my life-expectancy by eleven years due to the calm, persistent, rational voice within. It’s persuasive. Annoyingly so, at times, such that I want to spray paint it and shave its head while it sleeps.

For me, life is the accumulation of experience. Is it insanity to risk one’s life for the attainment of these experiences? The more elusive, the more valuable, perhaps. This obviously roots in some Neanderthal kind of bravado that borders on stupidity demanding ridicule. Some defect at the base level which will prevent the DNA from thriving or living long enough to reproduce…

That isn’t it at all.

It’s a calculation. An assessment. In the same methodical fashion one would inspect, appraise, and buy a house, I look at something that might take my life and I find value. Some people dive out of airplanes. Some charm snakes. I… Heh, you’ll just have to hang out with me sometime.

In these ways, I feel free. There is nothing which can predict the outcome. Incalculable. The ability NOT to see the future…doesn’t that hold some value?

It’s the whole reason someone reads a book to the end, is it not? Because you don’t know what’s going to happen, but you need to find out…

Most people understand this. But there are hugely varying levels on which people are willing to act upon it. For those who just go for it unabashedly… Is it madness? Or does it boil down to some kind of rational cause and effect?

Don’t answer that. That’s the whole problem. Think think think think, no feeling. The person who takes his work break to sit alone on the lawn in the sun. Crazy. Too loosely wrapped, we don’t do that here. Our forefathers killed every predator, tamed every threat so we could live in total security. One must be divorced from nature…To sit out in the sun and air alone like that, so odd…so bizarre. We have air conditioning, but he just sits out there, so weird, so strange, he must be a serial killer.

Nope.

It’s fun to imagine playing the role, but murder doesn’t suit me. I’m not a killer. That holds no thrill at all. There is nothing in the harming of man or animal. In fact, I think every creature should enjoy a natural life: the cow should be allowed to graze on open pasture before it’s slaughtered, the chicken should be able to peck and scratch in the sun, the hog should be able to dig and root and wallow to experience its full “pigness” before delighting us with its bacon. By denying the food a decent life, we internalize the grief and make it our own.

And now… We shuttle ourselves to work in our four wheeled cages, hating the damnable bastards who cut us off and dare to be in our way, filling the cabin with the olfactory chemicals of stress. The social being implodes and becomes one who despises contact, one who rails against the proximity…while simultaneously feeling isolated and alone.

To me, that is insanity.

I will feel until I die. That is my purpose in life. Not that this idea belongs to me. Millions, billions, maybe, who’ve passed before might have made that same claim. There is nothing original in my statements tonight. Except to mark my stance in the over-arching question, “What does it mean to be alive?”

In my opinion, being alive means risking security, happiness, life (at times), to experience the full spectrum of human existence. To appreciate the less fortunate. To hold a greater understanding beyond our own personal existence… To respect life, human or otherwise. To be grateful for life, however transitory… This is insanity?

Then I am a f****** nutter.

-Allen Farnham

The End of Something

So I’m driving to work, as usual, remarking to myself how goddamned many of us there are, as usual, and NPR starts in about the Shuttle landing. My first thought was, “Whew, they made it”, but the next was, “Oh, shit. That’s it.” When I heard the shuttle Commander, Chris Ferguson, speaking about it being the final mission, my eyes watered.
It took me by surprise. Not that this was the last mission, but how hard it hit me… That was it. It’s over. Our space program.

Let’s put aside the fact I write Sci-Fi, if we can. I was born in 1973, the epitome of American confidence in space. We had landed on the moon, several times by then. Space had not been conquered, but we saw it was possible to cross it. If we could go to the moon, we could go farther. By 1976, the Viking probes had already sampled Martian soil, and in 1977, the Voyager probes began their journey which would carry them past Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and beyond.
The shuttle was a continuation of the promise that we would continue to pioneer, to explore, to experience the marvels of a greater universe beyond our thin veil of atmosphere. More so, it was a promise that such experiences would someday become not routine, but accessible to each of us.
I grew up with this idea so firmly rooted in my child’s mind that it seemed a matter of course the process would continue. I had a mural of Columbia on my wall when I was eight years old. The future was a beautiful, high technology place, and I couldn’t wait to see it.

When we look back at the things the shuttle made possible, we find the satellites of vast telecommunications networks, we find every module in the International Space Station, we find advances in research only possible in zero gravity, we find the Hubble Space Telescope. Is that all? No, we find the courage required to strap onto over 380,000 gallons of liquid hydrogen and ride a pillar of flame hot enough to boil iron. We find a will greater than self-preservation which urges the best of us to risk all in the pursuit of something greater.

Something.

With the promise in my young head, I soaked up Star Trek, Star Wars, Lost In Space, Space 1999, every corny show that offered a glimpse into that high tech future I couldn’t wait to see. As I got older, I learned the difference between possible and fantasy; and far from being a disappointment, once I understood what could truly be accomplished in my lifetime, I was smitten all the more.

1986 brought a tragedy the whole world felt, but we Americans, we were devastated by the Challenger disaster. Before that January morning, the superiority of American to Soviet engineering was understood, practically a given in the realm of space, until a forked cloud stretched over Florida sky. Forcefully, violently, we confronted how the very best of us could fail. I was twelve. And I watched it happen live.

The program was torn down under extensive scrutiny then rebuilt so well, it provided seventeen years of safe launches and landings. Endeavor, Columbia, Atlantis, and Discovery carried on for their fallen sister. Seventeen years. On top of the five already served. Twenty two years. For Orbiters designed to serve ten.

My brother said the Shuttle program was doomed ten years ago, and he’s right. The Shuttle, just like every great piece of space faring hardware, was representative of a time. She was supposed to have a successor, an heir to take the reigns who would allow her to retire in dignity, grace, and honor. But where is the next generation?

Like stalwart soldiers, the shuttles endured far past their intended lifespans. As tough as the orbiters, their crews made do with less, grunted through the cuts. But Columbia, she didn’t make it. And I remember the confused radio braodcasts as the announcer tried to make sense of the multiple streaks of debris reentering the atmosphere. Not again, the child said, not again.

Again, the best minds analyzed the remains, understood what happened and made damn sure it would never happen again. And with Atlantis’s safe arrival home today, they did good.

What now? There’s no inheritor of the great legacy. There’s nothing to look forward to. The layoffs are already announced. It just fucking ends?
The space program matters to me in a way I can’t express without harsh, passionate words. And to think that now our astronauts have to hitch a ride in Soviet-era capsules…

We’ve lost something essential. I didn’t understand until right now that (for me) it’s hope. For better times, better future, for something noble. Something inspiring.
What do we have now? The muck we’re all mired in. Corporations. Greed. Pollution. Petty hatreds and religious violence. Scarcity. Competition. Bickering politicians. And a planet the staggers under the burden of too many mouths to feed. THAT’S why I cried when I heard the shuttle commander thank Atlantis for bringing everyone home safe.

Some things are too important to let slip away. And I’m as guilty as anyone because I had to wait ’til it was gone to understand the loss. What will we do? Hand it all over to the Chinese? Farm our work to the European Space Agency? Just hand it over? Everything we struggled for and earned with devotion, care, and diligence?

There are some things I don’t want to live without. Some things are too important to let slip. I’m willing to pay for them.

Raise my taxes, for fuck’s sake.

-FAF

To the point…

“When one does not know what to say, it is time to be silent”

Yul Brynner delivered that line in the movie, The King and I. Being direct ourselves, we appreciate that sort of candor and find ourselves quite willing to give it, especially to all the little Napoleons in their giant gas pigs who would rather burn two thousand miles off their tires than let you merge into traffic ahead of them.

Bastards.

So while we’re feeling honest, let’s cut right to it. There will be a new book this year. Mr. Farnham recently posted that the new book was going to be much longer than the others, that it would take him as long as eighteen months to finish.

Yeah, right.

Keeping you waiting that long, dear readers, is a ludicrous stretch. And so we commit to a new novel before year end, if not sooner. We also commit to taking back editorial privilege over our author’s posts.

Will it be the last of the series? No.

Cadre 2 has maintained its secrets for over a thousand years and only grudgingly gives them up. It is a place of phenomenal advancement achieved in the absence of compassion or conscience. There is so much to tell. More to show.

Cramming everything into one book just to complete a trilogy would be foolish and wrong. The remaining story is simply too large to fit neatly within one final cover. So this will not be the last of the series.

The title? We’re running with Exhausted Dead for now, as the Homeric phrase applies on multiple levels. How, you may ask?

Heh. We may be in an honest mood, but we sure aren’t giving that away.

Keep the mail coming. Except for you spammers.

Bastards.

Ever forward.

-C.O.P.

Author’s Update

Sooooooo, here’s something familiar: Yes, I’m behind on my deadline. No the book won’t be finished by June, and the forecasted December release may be optimistic. Probably not a surprise.
Excuses? None.

The foundation of an author’s life is his work. That follows surely as night the day. Usually, that work is the writing, combined with a more reliable means of income–some other job which keeps the roof up and the lights on. When I moved back to Massachusetts, it was for that day to day job which allowed the writing to continue. Sadly, the company folded, necessitating a complete career change. It takes a while to adapt to something completely different, and the writing has suffered as a result.

Work on the new book has continued, albeit slowly, and I’m very proud to say there are some exciting and unexpected surprises.

Wait, the author is surprised? Um, why? Or more to the point, how?

These characters are beyond my control, telling me exactly what they say, what they do. They tell me when and where it happens. They show me the intimate details of their grueling lives, and like a faithful secretary, I endeavor to capture it accurately. That may sound a tad schizophrenic (if you ask my publishers, they’ll probably confirm it), however that’s how it goes. The trick is finding the time when I’m not too bushed or distracted to listen clearly.

I’m thrilled to see e-book sales of Black Hawks doing well, especially in the U.K and Germany. The e-book version of Angry Ghosts (Wraiths of Earth) is languishing in obscurity, unforunately, which I suspect is the result of a bad match with Eirelander Publishing. No offense to Eirelander, of course, it’s simply that Eirelander is known primarily for racy romance novels. Wraiths is anything but a romance. So Cadre One Publishing will be seeking an end to the licensing contract, after which they’ll release an e-book version to match Black Hawks.

Once Exhausted Dead is released, it will be available both as paperback and e-book. There are loose plans for a hardback consolidation of all three novels into one with appendices (as it is a continuous story), though that is certainly a ways down the road.
The final version is estimated to be between 120,000 and 180,000 words. For comparison, Ghosts is 65,000 words and Black Hawks is 80,000. It took a year each to bring those books to print. If I can finish this one in eighteen months, I’ll consider it a win.

For those of you wanting a taste, new chapters are posted on Authonomy. At the time of this post, there are seventeen chapters, roughly 47,000 words. Not final drafts, mind you, but you can see that progress is being made, however slow.

Once more, I humbly thank you for your patience, for your support, and for your mail. Much love to XOMC for the above photo. I love that stuff. (If only I could get him to do the art for Exhausted Dead…)

Before I go, yes, the post on April 1st was a prank.
And to those of you buying these books, it means everything to me. Eternally grateful.

-Allen Farnham

Author Rejects Multi-Million Dollar Contract

You may’ve heard how it’s hard to earn a living in publishing. Well, it is. That’s why we were amazed to learn our author turned up his nose at a $2.3M 3-book/movie deal. And that he failed to mention this to us. Naturally, we were a tad curious…

C.O.P.: So. Nice weather today, yeah?

Farnham: Heh?

C.O.P.: Weather. Nice.

Farnham: I like it a bit warmer, actually, and the snow thing is getting…

C.O.P.: Heard you got an offer.

Farnham: Offer? If you call something that would ruin my entire way of life an offer, then…

C.O.P.: Sounded interesting.

Farnham: Interesting… Now there’s a word that doesn’t apply. Bunch of tie-choked bore-machines. Stale as the pizza in my couch.

C.O.P.: (Drumming fingers) Not them. What they had to say.

Farnham: Like I said. Boring.

C.O.P.: So you like how you’re living, then? Satisfied with the accomodations? Comfy?

Farnham: What, I’m just gonna let success descend on its leathery wings and scoop me off into wealth and security? Hah!

C.O.P.: You might want to consider it, at least…

Farnham: NO WAY. You think I could stand to have my coffee served by a live-in servant? You think I could endure not idling in traffic by having a flying car? You got another thing coming. I KNOW what’s good for me.

C.O.P.: Clearly.

Farnham: Oh, was that sarcasm? Let me tell you something about SARCASM…

Farnham continued his manic rant until we clubbed him like a baby seal, peeled his skin, and wore his flesh suit to the contract negotiation. We were already quite good at signing his name. All we needed to complete the impersonation was a crooked grin and caffeine palpitations. Thanks to our Vegas contact, the offer was bumped to $2.7M.

Be looking for the re-release of Angry Ghosts and Black Hawks followed by the upcoming Exhausted Dead this winter. The straight to video movies will initially be released in China under the series title, Everyone’s Dead 1, 2, and 3.

It’s too bad Farnham will never know Keanu Reaves will play the part of Thompson. He always admired Reaves as an actor…

-C.O.P.

Greetings from Las Vegas!

C.O.P. is mixing business with pleasure in the King of all Sin Cities. No, we’re not here to see Wayne Newton, retain legal sex workers, or get Rain-Man-rich overnight. We are here, however, to network and possibly get in a touch of R&R. All work and no play, you know…

It’s hard not to get taken in by the glitter and modern architecture. It really is amazing what can be built with an unlimited supply of foolish hope. Even jaded Mr. Farnham was caught by the splendor in the first cab ride from the airport. As he took in the colossal high rises in the watered desert, he said, “Must be where the Arabs got the idea.”

Of course, it takes mighty deep pockets to get the full experience here. Like, Saudi -deep pockets. Without our sponsors, we never would have made it. No one, and we mean no one, is going to get rich running a publishing company.

So why do we do it? Might as well ask Van Gogh why he sawed off an ear…

The answer: Because he had to. And while it’s fun to indulge in luxury from time to time, we really don’t crave it. A simple living, uncomplicated, which harms no one… It’s enough.

Having said that, please keep buying books. ‘Cause if you don’t, the legality of prostitution here is giving us ideas on how Farnham can contribute some revenue…

Farnham: “You couldn’t afford me.”
C.O.P.: “True, but pimps don’t pay.”
Farnham: “Can say that again, ya cheap bastids…”
C.O.P.: “Go put on your hot pants, and we’ll talk about who’s cheap.”
Farnham: “Asshole.”
C.O.P.: :That’s ‘Daddy’ to you. Now shut up and let me finish your Craigslist ad. Lessee, here…Prefers distinguished gentlemen…”
Farnham: “FINE! FINE! I’ll give you two chapters this week. Ok? Just…STOP TYPING!”
C.O.P.: “We stop when you start.”
(Farnham sprints from room, muttering)

Who says we don’t know how to motivate?

Well, that’ll do for today. Not because we caved to the siren song of instant wealth, but because we just learned that Elvis is in the building.

As Edward R. Murrow used to say, “Good night, and good luck.”

-C.O.P.

First Twelve chapters posted at Authonomy

Angry Ghosts comprised parts one and two. Black Hawks From a Blue Sun comprised part three. Now, part four can be seen in its entirety at Authonomy.com. Just click the box below.

For anyone keeping up, you know that the title for our conclusion to the series has been, ah, problematic.

(To say the least.)

We’re proceeding with one of our alternate titles, The Exhausted Dead, because it simply fits better with the overall theme. And because we really want distance from that whole Sarah Palin thing. Here’s an early version of the back cover copy:

For a Cadre Operator, there is no retirement but death.

Savagely wounded, and barely alive, Thompson, Argo, and Beckert return from Earth. With them, they bring shocking news: the colony company Soshiba Varicorp provoked the attack which wiped humanity from Earth and her colonies. And their principle agent was Captain Braemar Keller.

Imminently practical, the Cadre is only interested in tangible facts, data which gives them an advantage in combatting their ancient reptilian enemy. The Colonists, feeling intense rage and betrayal, howl for Keller’s blood. When the two groups most need to cooperate, the issue polarizes them.

Thompson, forever changed by his experiences of breathing free air on Earth, is torn between his duty to the Cadre and his longing for a better life. But in the end, he must choose for them all whether they will live in peace or end their days as the Exhausted Dead.