Interruptions, interruptions, interruptions (Blackjack Fugitive Update #5)

Interstellar Overdrive is in progress and for six days straight it's taken the wind out of Blackjack's sails. Wait til Blackjack gets his hands on those bastards for interrupting.

But to update, I've reached the end of Act 2b of Blackjack 3, 200+ pages or so. All that's left is a massive 30 page battle with the evil forces of <REDACTED> in a Transylvanian castle on the Carpathian mountains. Yeah, that's all going into the book. It's a big set piece, and I feel like Michael Bay the morning before he gets to blow up something. In a way, I'm glad for the brief break from Blackjack so I can come into this scene fresh and full of juice.

With Interstellar Overdrive, we're going to put together 5-6-7 episodes, each 50+ pages before coming out with the first one. This will give us enough lead time to make sure we can stay monthly. That's the idea anyway. I'm very excited about the project for a ton of reasons, but primarily because it's a vast departure from Blackjack. Hell, it's 3rd person, with multiple point of view characters and it sprawls a galaxy filled with different and interesting planets.

But what is it? At it's core, it's a buddy cop movie. But they're not cops. Nor is it a movie. It's an old-style shoot-em-up, as inspired by Peckinpaw's Wild Bunch and Bring me the Head of Alfredo Garcia as it is by Whedon's Serenity. It's a story about uncompromising men in an uncompromising universe, where everyone is strapped and deadly. I've had a blast putting it together, and I have two partners that are not only amazing people to work with, but have show the talent to make my original drafts shine and the story truly stand out.

What does it mean to Blackjack? I've already written the first six episodes, so Blackjack is now - with the occasional interruption. I've got enough time to finish the third book before I have to tack back to Interstellar. I can edit it as I return to work on IO. Editing requires a different mental muscle.

My plan is to have IO Episode 1: For What It's Worth available by August and Blackjack 3 out by the end of the year. I'm also going to put together a Blackjack 1-3 omnibus (out at the same time as 3) for people that haven't read it, or just want it all consolidated. At the same time as Blackjack 3 so you don't have to blow 3 bucks on 3, then more on an omnibus if you want it. I hate it when they nickle and dime you like cheap bastards.

What is Blackjack 3 about? Well, we've talked about it a little on this blog, but basically it's a continuation of what happened in 2, almost without pause. Blackjack is recovering from injuries that would have killed Epic, and even though he showed great courage and selflessness during the events of Washington D.C., he's still a convicted felon, he still owes a debt to society.

And forgiveness comes hard...

A sample from the opening of Blackjack 3. It's a very rough, first draft - don't get your panties in a bunch if there's spelling/grammar/logic errors.

Then the plane banked violently without warning, hard right to almost forty-five degrees to starboard. A repetitive popping rang out along the rear fuselage that I figured was the auto-chaff firing off. Obliterate stood almost immediately, somehow ignoring the effects of the sudden maneuver and keeping his balance. Warspite rose from his slumber as his body pressed hard against the seat. The four guards’ eyes opened wide, staring forward as if for guidance, but the men up front were thrown about, some to the floor, shouting and screaming.

The big C-17 nimbly soared back, the chaff firing without pause, the maneuver now reversed just as aggressively to port, with the nose pulled back hard.

“What the fuck-“ The warden shouted, grasping onto a wall harness to keep from flying across the deck like some of his men. One man slid down the floor towards the rear of the plane, saved from slamming to the back by Obliterate, who stepped forward – still unaffected – and barred his path, stopping the man.

“What the hell’s he doing?” Warspite asked of the pilot’s maneuvers to no one in particular.

“We’re under attack,” I said, knowing of no other reason to explain the violent flying.

“What?” he said, but it was Obliterate who turned to me, staring intently. He could tell the manacles weren’t working on me. His red eyes flashed down to my wrists, then back to my smiling face.

“Don’t move,” he said, his voice an ashen whisper, a mailed finger jutting in my direction.

Again the pilot banked defensively, firing off more flares. Obliterate helped the guard at his feet reach one of the chairs along the sides of the craft and Warspite struggled to hold in his lunch.

“Oh, man,” he said, belching. “This isn’t good.”

A moment later, something streaked by, audible to us inside the plane, exploding so close that it shook the Globemaster like a depth charge rocking a submarine in one of those old World War Two movies. The explosion was to starboard, and aft, peppering the tail with shrapnel and shaking the plane with such violence it slipped in its track, almost losing attitude. The pilot was skilled, though, yawing the tail in the direction of the explosion to keep the C-17 from going into a flat spin.

He overcorrected once, then again before getting full control of the plane. There were small windows the sides of the ship, but hard as I could try to catch a peek, there was nothing visible outside save for the passing clouds.

“What is it?” the warden said, looking at me, then running to the window himself and looking. Angling back, he saw something that blanched his face. When he faced me again, he was filled with fear and shock.

“It’s you,” he said, shaking his head in confusion. “It’s you.”

I laughed, “You’re mad.”

But Obliterate ran up to the warden, shoving him aside to see. He stared back at me.

“How are you doing this?” he roared with his rasp of a voice, drawing for his sword and making towards me, but the warden looked out the window and interrupted him.

“Incoming,” he shouted, diving away from the edge of the fuselage.

A moment later, a shower of pebbles rained on the body of the ship.

“That’s it?” Warspite said, taking off his seatbelt, expecting another explosion.

The pebbles were stuck to the C-17’s outside, rolling across the metal frame and increasing in speed with a loud grind. They rolled faster and faster, staying tight against the plane despite popping off rivets and edges, scraping against the sides. Soon the effect of each of the metal pellets tearing around the ship was visible, leaving long burning streaks around the midsection.

Without warning, the Globemaster split amidships with a howling gust wind blasting into our faces. The warden, Warspite, Obliterate and several of the guards flew out of the gaping maw, screaming for their lives. The four guards strapped to the rear of the C-17 with me also screamed as the nose dipped and the forward part of the plane was lost to us forever. Without the aft section, the nose, wings and engines would spiral out of control, foundering and falling apart. Not like we were going to fare much better. Freed of the rest of the plane, the tail caught the wind and began rolling back.

It was at that moment that I saw him. Or me, actually, if I could actually believe my eyes. I had never built nor used the flying device this version of me was using. It was as if a cross between a Harley and an F-22, winged and fast, but with handlebars and a leather seat, making the pilot of the thing fly it like a motorcycle. This guy was letting the flying bike soar without him at the controls, because he was spraying the nose section of the plane with explosive arrows, drawing and firing them with a motion that was almost exactly like mine. He fired his arrows by feel, not aim, never bothering to look down “the sights.” His hair was black and short, like I liked it, with a long, hooded cape that fluttered back from his shoulders. He also had my old facemask and goggles, in the exact old configuration I had kept before joining the Impossibles. His bow was a hand-made English bow, not an easier to find compound one that you could buy from any store, and even his quivers were the exact types I had used in the past.

Everything down to his clothing, musculature, hell, even his boots were a perfect match.

He was Blackjack.