Recent content on Roger Black, a/k/a Whisker the Mad, author of the Riotfish, Inc. series
Roger Black, a/k/a Whisker the Mad Once upon a time I was a software contractor. Then I decided to write stories about orcs and elves shooting each other with Really Big Guns. The end. FAQ How can I give you money? I’m glad you asked! You can buy The Admiral & the Assistant on Amazon (or just read it, if you have Kindle Unlimited:)
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How can I give you money? I’m glad you asked! You can buy The Admiral & the Assistant on Amazon (or just read it, if you have Kindle Unlimited:) The Admiral & The Assistant on Amazon You can also support me on Patreon (advance chapters available). Patreon
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Why would you do this? I had some free time and a spare text editor laying around. Also some deranged yet supportive friends. And I started putting stories together and nobody made me stop, so here we are.
Did you know that your site has a bad case of the butt-uglies? I know it’s ugly. I like ugly. Ugly lasts. If I made a beautiful, modern website, in six months it would look dated and stupid, whereas ten years from now, it will be just as ugly as it is today without any effort on my part. Ugly is forever.
Dear Author, are you… okay? No, but not in a way you need to worry about.
“The Admiral and the Assistant” now in audiobook form! Do you like stories about smooching aliens? Do you like big honkin’ explosions in space? Do you want an audiobook that’s as long as a full work week? The Admiral and the Assistant is now available as an audiobook, narrated by Ronnie Rowlands and Skylar Rae Guernsy . Thanks go out to Royal Guard for putting this…
“Brass, Bone, and Steel” is serializing on Royal Road and Scribble Hub , check it out!
“The Admiral and the Assistant” is now available on Amazon! All three volumes are available for purchase as a single omnibus edition OR free to read through Kindle Unlimited! Thanks to Royal Guard Publishing!
Fortney Nurani, the desert princess of Namarûn, carries a dangerous secret. By day she maneuvers the royal court with her strength, headstrong ferocity, and stubborn loyalty. By night she becomes a masked hunter, stalking the city’s shadows to protect the helpless. Now a new treaty with the steampunk nation of Arden promises progress, but its envoys bear motives as intricate and perilous as the…
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Not everybody would hire an orc as their military strategist, but David Fleer would. He’d also use a little old lady as his getaway driver, and a deranged lizardman who clings to reality like a nudist clings to a cactus. Maybe that’s why he’s on the verge of going out of business. Fleer runs– or tries to run– Riotfish, Inc. , a hard-luck mercenary outfit working cheap contracts for…
30 miles outside Concordium Unincorporated Territory June 21, 2443 David Fleer peered worriedly through one of the gun ports of the Battle Wagon. The deceptively pastoral landscape drifted by, grasslands and gentle green hills fading in the distance to friendly forests. Occasional grass-eating animals stood around, contemplatively grinding away at their cud. The Riotfish mercenaries hunkered in…
The brakes locked hard, tumbling everyone except for Little Timmy, who was holding one of the hand straps. “Fire in the hole!” yelled Little Timmy. “Wait!” cried Fleer. Another explosion, and another spray of animal parts. The largest hornspitter roared and charged. The brakes were locked, but the impact still knocked the Battle Wagon forward three feet, its tires leaving…
David Fleer had only thought being a corporate assassin was dangerous. Running a business, he decided, was worse. He stared down through the rungs at the ground thirty feet below, clutching the creaking green ladder as it swayed under him. He was trying to hold on to the paint and the brush and the ladder with too few hands as a stiff wind pushed him around. “I should have hired someone to…
Fleer pulled up the financial spreadsheets. He had gotten the painting done, for a given definition of done, and had come back in to work out how to cover the rest of the month, since the Galloway job had ended in disaster. Bernard Walker was scheduled to be in later, and theoretically he might pay them, but it was more likely he would simply be bringing in a fresh batch of excuses.
It was two days later when Fleer strode back into the rec room with a huge grin on his face. Little Timmy was stretched out on the sofa watching the holovid. D’khara was hunched over a datapad with a worried frown, reading a technical manual. Roger was splayed out on the rug, staring raptly at the patterns in the worn floor covering. Mrs. Meade was peering down through her reading spectacles…
Fleer took a deep breath. It was his least favorite time of the month. But this was the last thing he had to wrap up before the conference. He stood before a drab building with a concrete exterior, working himself up to go inside. A weathered sign overhead proclaimed that this was “Mercenary’s Guild Branch Office #72”. The ancient glass door squealed in protest as he pushed…
The Battle Wagon rocked gently from side to side as it rolled slowly to its destination, driving into the sinking sun. D’khara sat in the back, across from Little Timmy and Roger. Oliver’s massive, shadowed bulk was shoehorned into the passenger seat, and Mrs. Meade was driving. “Do you have an ETA for us, Mrs. Meade?” Oliver asked. “We should be there in about…
The bullet skipped off of the heavy, armor-impregnated glass. Mrs. Meade waved at the guard. He fired twice more, to no effect. A final series of clanks sounded under the Battle Wagon. “There it goes,” she said. “See? It took no time at all. Nothing for you to worry about, Mr. Oliver.” “Gooooooooooo,” Little Timmy whined. Mrs. Meade shifted back into reverse and…
Inside the mansion, a roomful of serious men with serious guns stood listening to another serious man. He stood in front of a whiteboard covered in serious diagrams talking about serious business. The men were cleanly outfitted in maroon uniforms, each with a silver star on the right breast pocket over the legend “Star Security”, professionally squared away, each with a shiny clean…
D’khara crept down the dark hallway, shotgun stock tight against his shoulder, nervously swinging the barrel back and forth; left-to-right, spinning around to check behind him, spinning back, peering at dark corners, looking for movement, anything to pull a trigger at. He was tracking back westward, following the occasional distant whump that signaled another one of Roger’s grenades…
D’khara keyed his radio. “Oliver? I think I’ve found the file room. I don’t know how far away you are, I’m on the second floor, west end of the house. Over.” A few long seconds passed before Oliver keyed back in, out of breath. “D’khara you, go ahead, take it.” huffed Oliver. “I’m, tied up, right now, over.” D’khara…
Oliver was hiding in the sparse woods at the rear of the property. He was standing behind a tree in the hopes of not being seen. The woods were poor for hiding in. The trees were narrow and tall and straight, with no low limbs to provide cover. Some kind of pine, Oliver thought. Moreover, the trees were spaced fairly far apart. The only thing keeping him hidden was the failing light. The falling…
D’khara, Oliver, and Roger ran across the dark lawn, away from the growing conflagration at the mansion. Roaring billows of flame already obscured half the place, and the few remaining guards were focused less on the escapees, and more on escaping the fire themselves. The Riotfish caught sight of the white Battle Wagon, red now in the glow of the massive fire, and redoubled their efforts to…
The Riotfish were gathered in the lounge, listening to Fleer’s news. “Okay! Guys! We need to get this place in top shape by the time this auditor shows up. We want to look professional and clean and creditworthy . We need to prove to this guy that we are a viable, vibrant business that will totally pay back all the money we owe him.” Worried murmurs rustled around the room.…
Stewart Pearce sedately drove his sedan through progressively seedier neighborhoods, finally reaching a dead-end street. He didn’t like driving on these poorly maintained roads; the uneven surface was rough on the gravwells. But he went where his job took him, and today it took him to– he’d pursed his full lips when he’d read the name this morning– the…
Oliver walked into the armory. “D’khara, have you heard when the auditor will be arriving? I have my– oh! He’s here!” “Yes, I’m quite here.” Pearce was fruitlessly scrubbing at his hands with an oily rag while watching D’khara dig hopelessly through piles of old paperwork in the desk drawers. “Quite– uh. What are you?”…
“Mr. Fleer? What’s happening?” “Nothing! Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Let’s get back to work, shall we?” “Are you quite sure?” “Yep! Now, if you’ll look here at the revenues for last year–” “AWWWWNNGG!” Fleer smiled through his sudden flop sweat. The groaning had a distinctly Oliver-esque tinge. The…
Five days. Five days of nothing. Five days of scraping through the Guild’s jobs board, looking for anything even remotely profitable, and nothing. Five days closer to Stewart Pearce and his stupid glasses and his stupid gravcar and his stupid datapad and his stupid default. Five days less to earn an astronomical sum of money. Fleer had even gone through and set up a spreadsheet to tell him…
Fleer straightened his tie as the elegant, slim brass and glass elevator rose steadily through the atrium. The atrium soared all eighteen stories of the building, and the south wall was glass, tinted to keep out the sun. The atrium was a hundred yards across, with a huge marble fountain at one end, and a lush forest of carefully manicured trees at the other. Classical statuary was liberally placed…
D’khara and Oliver stared each other down in the back of the Battle Wagon, gazes snapping sparks. Tensions were high. “That is purest nonsense! ” Oliver roared. “It’s not only unlikely but entirely improbable! ” “I’m telling you,” D’khara said, slapping the back of his hand into his open palm, “Batman could absolutely beat Aquaman.…
Shaking himself, Oliver switched back to planning mode. “Now, Roger and Little Timmy, this is our only exit. D’khara and I are going to fetch David, and it is vital that this exit remains open for us. We’ll return shortly.” The two nodded in understanding. Oliver and D’khara headed for the elevators. D’khara pressed the up button on the elevator. They waited.…
Shaking himself, Oliver switched back to planning mode. “Now, Roger and Little Timmy, this is our only exit. D’khara and I are going to fetch David, and it is vital that this exit remains open for us. We’ll return shortly.” The two nodded in understanding. Oliver and D’khara headed for the elevators. D’khara pressed the up button on the elevator. They waited.…
The soldier darted forward, sliding into cover behind a support column near the east elevator. He set himself, shaking his head. They were pulling off a classic flanking maneuver, and this mercenary was just letting it happen. For all his shrieking and firing, he had the tactical competence of a mushroom. How had someone so clueless lasted this long? It didn’t matter. He settled himself into…
The door was locked, but the mirror was already shattered, so he kicked out the remaining glass as quietly as he could manage. He’d gone to all the trouble to wait until he was in a soundproof room to start shooting; he didn’t want to draw attention now. The narrow-nosed man was lying on the floor next to his seat behind the bank of computers. The killing shot had gone through his…
Fleer steeled himself to face Adler. Fleer recognized that he was not the best negotiator, and Adler was used to wheeling big deals. He’d made a slightly outlandish boast to the crew that he could get 10,000 credits for the little datasink, but realistically he was hoping to clear 5,000. That was still a pretty nice little extra on their payday. But if he could get that up closer to 10,000,…
The video on Fleer’s screen chattered, went blocky, then began to clear. Fleer turned up the volume to hear over the celebration in the rec room. The grim visage of his creditor stabilized. “I’m afraid you misunderstand, Mr. Fleer. The full amount must be paid by the deadline, no exceptions. While Crediture appreciates your partial payment, it does not extend or modify the…
The next morning, Fleer slumped at his desk, arms hanging down by the sides of his chair. He felt bad about lying last night. But he couldn’t bring himself to crush them. Not while everybody was celebrating. Especially Mrs. Meade. And Oliver. It would have been like kicking a puppy. A nine-foot tall puppy. So that was that. Now he’d have to pick himself up and go tell them they’d…
It was an hour later when they finished the call. Daugereaux was a shrewd negotiator, and while Fleer had been able to squeeze some extra concessions out of the old Cajun, he hadn’t gotten nearly as much as he’d thought he would. He slumped back, exhausted and satisfied. Oliver, who had tuned out for most of the negotiations, perked up. “Okay David, so what did you find? You…
Once Fleer was alone in his office, he let out a little squeal of delight and spun around in his office chair. Gold! Wonderful stuff! This was amazing! Even if his very conservative calculations were two times too high, there was still enough gold there to fundamentally transform the Riotfish. Pay off Pearce? Pfft. Maybe he could offer Pearce a loan! That much money would be enough to staff up…
The Riotfish crew was packed into the Battle Wagon, along with enough artillery to start a minor war. Mrs. Meade was driving, and with Fleer taking the first shift as navigator, Oliver was forced to sit in the back. While there was technically more room in the back than in the passenger seat, it was crammed full of the scuffed, worn, durable fiberglass equipment crates holding their ordnance.…
It was perhaps two hours later. The Riotfish were a study in impatience, standing outside the cabins, watching over their equipment in the relentless heat. “Are you sure you told him the right place?” Oliver asked. “For the fifth time, yes. There’s only one place like this in town. I don’t think he would have trouble finding it regardless. I wonder if something…
After a leisurely time with the coffee, Daugereaux slapped his legs and stood up. “I got to give you de nickel tour of my place,” Daugereaux said expansively. “You got to know what y’all defending.” Fleer nodded, and the Riotfish followed Daugereaux out the door. The cabin itself was quick enough to show, just an open room that constituted the kitchen/dining…
Ma Daugereaux was up preparing coffee and breakfast before any of the Riotfish woke, so they were gently brought to consciousness by the homey rattle of kitchenware and crockery. D’khara blearily opened his eyes. The temperature hadn’t dropped much overnight. He’d managed to avoid putting any of the blankets on top of himself by building a kind of dam with them around his body.…
D’khara blundered through the underbrush, yanking at the thorns that snagged his shirtsleeve and stomping the brush flat. “Wow,” Roger said with genuine awe. “You are loud.” “ You’re loud,” D’khara growled. It was a bald-faced lie; Roger slipped smoothly from cover to cover while barely disturbing a single leaf or blade of grass. The woods…
Oliver was standing in the camp later, going over their findings with Fleer. D’khara and Roger had already debriefed, and were hanging out nearby. Oliver worked on a datapad that was hooked to the hardline spliced from Daugereaux'. “That’s perfect,” Fleer said, looking at the spot Oliver had marked out on the datapad’s map. “Deep enough in that Cryocorp…
Fleer stood before the group, sweating in his fatigues. He knew he looked odd, out of a suit, and he felt odd and out of place. The swamp did not welcome him. He stood on Daugereaux’ porch with all the Riotfish except for Roger spread out before him. Old man Daugereaux himself was in a rocking chair off to one side, with his eyes closed and his ball cap pulled down, apparently sleeping.
Oliver was wrong. It was nearly another hour before they heard rustling in the brush. They both brought their weapons to bear on the noise. “Who goes there?” D’khara called. “Caw, caw,” came the response. D’khara lowered his gun. “Did you just say ‘caw, caw’?” he shouted hoarsely. “Yes?” came Little Timmy’s reply.…