Ian Whates is the author of ten novels (two co-written), two novellas, and over eighty short stories that have appeared in a variety of venues. In 2019 he received the Karl Edward Wagner Award from the British Fantasy Society, and his work has been shortlisted for the Philip K. Dick Award and on three occasions for BSFA Awards, while his stories have been translated into Spanish, German, Hungarian, Czech and Greek. Ian has served as a judge for the Arthur C. Clarke Award and for the World Fantasy Awards. He has served as Chair of the BSFA and, briefly, as a director of SFWA. In 2006 he founded independent publisher NewCon Press by accident. His eleventh novel, Skin Deep, is set to appear in 2027.
The Dark Angels are all that stands between humanity and disaster. Reunited with their ship, The Ion Raider, Drake, Leesa, Jen and their fellow Angels must prevent a resurrected Elder, last of a long dead alien race from reclaiming the scientific marvels of his people.
The resurrected alien has discovered the whereabouts of the ultimate Elder cache, long considered to be a myth. Supported by an outlawed military regiment and a star-spanning criminal organisation, the alien is intent on using the scientific marvels stored there to establish itself as God over all of humankind.
Can one ship of reluctant heroes hope to stop them? The Dark Angels know they have little choice but to try.
"A spirited space opera that combines all the required ingredients of the subgenre: epic space battles, futuristic weaponry, scheming armies and enigmatic aliens. Whates weaves backstories and action effectively as the novel builds to a rousing battle-scene climax."
– The Guardian"It's pulpy, joyous space opera done right. Characters you'll enjoy spending time with, plenty of action, and a plot that never stops."
– At Boundary's Edge"Whether you enjoy science fiction, superheroic teams or the heist formula, this novel is genuine fun in every single aspect."
– Aurealis"The descriptive prose is very visual but does not slow down the action. Whates manages in few words to conjure up the scene, while the action plays on. It's a gripping, fast moving tale that keeps you hanging on to the thrilling conclusion."
– HWSOne
A reputation has to be earned, especially on Callia III, and Clay Arter took pride in his. When he walked into a room people noticed, and he loved that – the looks, the whispers, the subtle edging away as he took a seat at the bar. The curiosity in the eyes of some of the women as they glanced his way didn't harm either. They respected him, feared him, maybe wondered what it would be like to bed him, and he sat a little taller for knowing it.
Clay was aware of the things they whispered – that he wasn't a man to be crossed, that he was responsible for the deaths of many and had witnessed the demise of still more – nor were they wrong. In recent times most of these deaths had occurred here in this hot and airless room without windows, or places that were indistinguishable from it. The meat room, they called it, for reasons that shouldn't need explaining.
The latest 'guest' currently hung from chains hammered into the long wall, where he had spent much of the previous evening. Clay didn't know the man's name, he didn't need to.
He wasn't dead yet, but it wouldn't be long now if Clay were any judge. He had offered no hint of resistance as they dragged him out and chained him in place this morning, and now slumped forward, legs sagging and head bowed, upright only because the chains wouldn't permit him to crumple into a sorry heap. His naked torso was a mass of bruises and cuts and caked blood – the aftermath of the previous day's ministrations – while more blood stained the stone floor at his feet. Not necessarily his, or not entirely so at any rate. Many had hung where he now did and the stone beneath was permanently stained. The floor slanted down towards a grated hole, allowing excess blood to drain away – a feature that caused Clay to wonder if the room might have been built with its current purpose in mind.
Vissecz would be along shortly to finish the job. The previous evening had seen no attempt to interrogate, simply the application of pain, so it wasn't about information on this occasion, it was all about punishment – whether a case of simple revenge or a lesson intended for others, Clay couldn't say. Not his business. Unless told otherwise, he and his men were present merely to guard and provide a deterrent should any of the subject's friends consider mounting a rescue. Not that anyone had friends that loyal, in his experience.
Everyone reacted differently when brought in here, but generally they could be grouped into three types: some were defiant, challenging the torturer to do his worst – never a wise approach – some were pleading and broken even before they were touched, while others were resigned of their fate.
This latest subject belonged to the latter category, but from the off he had stood out. There was something about him that spoke of more than the usual stoic acceptance, a sense that nothing mattered from here on in, as if whatever he had done to earn the boss' displeasure was worth any punishment that might await him. Even as Clay helped chain him to the wall he knew that while they might break this one's body they'd never crush his spirit.
You had to admire something like that.
Clay had watched Vissecz at work many times but that didn't mean he looked forward to the torturer's arrival. The man's penchant for inflicting pain went beyond anything Clay had seen before. Nothing wrong with a bit of good honest violence, but that wasn't what Vissecz was about. There was something chilling and unwholesome about him and his devotion to the suffering of others.
None of which explained the vague sense of foreboding that Clay couldn't shake that morning.
Even the toughest of men have their weak points, and for Clay it was his nose.
He had borne witness to beatings, gorings, dismemberment, subtle tortures and brutal murders, participating when appropriate. None of these fazed him in the slightest. A subject's agonised shrieks, their pleading and whimpers, the crunch of bones cracking and the whirring of implements biting into flesh, they all washed over him unheeded… It was smells that did it, or rather one specific smell.
Excrement; faeces, shit, call it what you will.
The rich sweet-metal smell of blood, the ammonia-tinged sourness of urine, he was fine with those, but the foul reek that rolled across the room when a subject voided their bowels turned his stomach. They knew this – the men who worked under him – it was a joke to them, though they soon learned not to show as much in his presence; not twice, at any rate.
The worst times were when the smell manifested without proper cause, such as today. Clay could smell it from the moment he stepped out the front door, just a hint on the breeze, and it pursued him all the way to work, growing stronger with every step. He knew even before he entered the meat room that it would be worst of all here, and so it proved.
The way Gethyn and Myers – one just finishing their shift the other about to begin – jumped to obey his orders and set about cleaning the place with barely a grumble bore testament to that reputation Clay was so proud of.
