CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Leave us a Review
Copyright
Dedication
One: The Book Of The General
Two: The Book Of Malady
Three: The Book Of Life
Four: The Book Of Hel
Acknowledgements
About the Author
“I loved Ten Low. Combining the taut characterisation and clever wit of Stark Holborn’s spectacular Westerns with some splendidly inclusive and innovative sci-fi, this is a wonderful fusion of Firefly and Joanna Russ, with a Ennio Morricone soundtrack.” – JOANNE HARRIS, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF CHOCOLAT, THE GOSPEL OF LOKI AND MANY MORE
“A fantastic, punchy SF action story, full of blood and grit and bitter pasts.” – ADRIAN TCHAIKOVSKY, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF CHILDREN OF TIME, DOGS OF WAR AND MANY MORE.
“Stark Holborn continues to impress. Great characters and a blistering pace.” – GARETH POWELL, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF THE EMBERS OF WAR SERIES
“Ten Low showed me the most vibrant desert world since Dune. [It] leaves the old guard masters in the dust.” – ALEX WHITE, AUTHOR OF THE SALVAGERS TRILOGY
“Stark Holborn’s writing is clever, original and thrilling.” – R. J. BARKER, AUTHOR OF THE BONE SHIPS AND AGE OF ASSASSINS
“An action-packed SF adventure with an intriguing majority female cast? OH, HELL YES!” – STINA LEICHT, AUTHOR OF PERSEPHONE STATION
“I loved this from beginning to end. Stark Holborn grabs you by the throat on page one and never lets you go!” – CAVAN SCOTT, BESTSELLING AND AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR
“A gritty space western that fans of The Mandalorian should lap up.” – PAUL CORNELL, AUTHOR OF THE SHADOW POLICE AND WITCHES OF LYCHFORD SERIES
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Ten Low
Print edition ISBN: 9781789096620
E-book edition ISBN: 9781789096637
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
www.titanbooks.com
First edition: June 2021
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
© Stark Holborn 2021
Stark Holborn asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
For N.E.D.
ONE
THE
BOOK
OF
THE
GENERAL
I HUNCH CLOSER TO the sputtering fire. The darkness is vast, hiding countless lives, but down here the wind just coughs dust into my eyes. I close them against the grit, against the light of the struggling flames, against the emptiness around me, knowing I should sleep but afraid of what I might dream.
My thoughts have a habit of coming loose. The more I keep to myself, the more they seep from my head, catching on the stubble of my scalp and trailing out behind me like cotton. Unless I’m careful, I won’t get them reeled in again before I make Redcrop. I can’t afford that. Single words, single thoughts: no doubts and no questions.
I tug the scarf further towards the brim of my hat. Sometimes I wish for hair, thick and curling as it once was, to cover my ears and warm my scalp. I feel for the pouch at my hip. It is slack, the beads inside cold and too few. Breath. I hold one to my lips and try to believe it is what people say: a sphere of pure air from the forests of Prosper.
The bead clacks against my teeth before I bite down. The splintering plastic cuts my trailing thoughts and stops me from leaking into the night, even though there is no good oxygen within; just an empty orb and a dusting of dex-amphetamine. Enough to ease the fatigue caused by the thin air, even after all these months.
I swallow, the noise loud in my ears. Beyond the tiny fire there’s nothing. Just the wind. Some folk say the wind is alive, that it coils between the stars like a snake. Who am I to say they are wrong? Too long out here and you begin to hear the wind speak. An endless sigh that started a hundred thousand cycles before I was born.
Carefully, I drag my bag closer and bring the notebook into the firelight. The cover is peeling, and there aren’t many blank pages left, but I turn to one and take the pencil nub from the crease.
Hafsa Gellam, I write, and see her face again, eyes heavy with exhaustion as she gripped my hand. Beneath her name I draw a line and label it Child Gellam. Another line, another name: Child’s Child? I draw on, tracing four imaginary generations, until the pencil scrapes the bottom of the page.
So much potential… Life in the Barrens is hard won and easily lost, but Hafsa is a strong woman, and the child seemed healthy when I left. If the child lived, and went on to produce a child of their own and so on… I close my eyes. What if just one of those newly possible people saves another, with a word or a deed or a single, unthinking act? How many futures could that tiny, bloodied newborn carry within? How many lives could I add
