Lost Solace by Karl Drinkwater
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About the Book:
They’re called the
Lost Ships … but sometimes they come back.
And when they do the crews are missing, while the ships have
been strangely altered, rumoured to be full of horrors.
Opal Imbiana has been seeking something her whole life. It’s
a secret so precious she’s willing to risk her life recovering it from a
recently discovered Lost Ship, in a lonely nebula far from colonised space.
She’s just one woman, entering an alien and lethal
environment. But with the aid of an amazing AI companion and experimental
armoured suit, Opal might just stand a chance.
This blast of a book kickstarted the much-loved Lost Solace series, about an unlikely friendship between two women who keep hope alive in the darkest of times.
Extract:
For context, Clarissa
is the AI, and communicates with Opal through the advanced combat suit Opal
wears.
The door opened surprisingly smoothly, as if oiled or used
regularly. She stepped into a bedroom, richly-appointed, but small. Not one a
wealthy person would stay in for long. A four-poster bed (the hangings now
ready to collapse at a touch), a dressing table, a wash-stand.
Then she noticed the feet on the bed, just visible behind
one of the remaining curtains which hung from the heavy frame.
She drew her left arm up protectively, ready to extend the
blade. The feet didn’t move. She reached forward and yanked the covering down
with a wet ripping sound.
And she knew the answers to her questions about the area.
The being sat upright on the bed, naked, with its arms
around its raised knees. It must be a synthetic playdoll. That explained why it
hadn’t decayed much, beyond discolouration of the pink skin and some desiccated
flaking of the artificial epidermal layers. It explained the boudoir-like mood
to these rooms. It explained the location, too. Privileged Rec areas were
always near the bridge: cabins, dining, shopping, bod-mod and play areas, where
the rich could reside in maximum security.
And it finally explained why she hadn’t recognised the
rooms. They were as alien to her life as any of the non-humans she’d
encountered so far.
Wherever there were play areas for the rich, there were
SynthMates. Or cumdollz, the pejorative name if you couldn’t afford access to
them, or didn’t agree with subjugated embodied AI.
It was the first resident humanoid Opal had seen on ship.
And yet it didn’t resemble any model she’d ever seen advertised. The hips were
too wide, the arms too long, and the face was distorted somehow – eyes too far
apart and slightly bulbous. Opal couldn’t see how anyone would have found this
attractive. An extreme fetish? It hadn’t moved.
“Active?” she asked.
“No power or interior motion detected. But I have realised
that means nothing on this ship. I advise caution.”
Its chin rested on its knees. The pose looked vulnerable.
Maybe on purpose. It was said that SynthMates only had enough intelligence to
impersonate the living, with fixed and programmed patterns of behaviour, not
true awareness. Yet for a limited duration they could be as convincing as a
living being. From the things they said, the noises they made, and the ways
they behaved, to their movements, their surface skin temperatures, and their
“nature-identical” secretions. Droids for any wishes, any person or group with
the money and desire for sex. Except it wasn’t just sex. It was role-play.
Almost any fantasy of abuse or domination could be enacted. There would be
implements of binding and restraint somewhere in the room.
But it was revulsion Opal felt, facing this relic of the
ship’s past. How could someone who hated being given orders, who had rebelled
as Opal always had, then give orders to others? Use them for her own shallow
pleasure? It would have been a case of the bully-beating-down syndrome. No. An
empty and cruel action. And now Opal knew a lot more about Clarissa, and AIs,
she wondered how unaware the SynthMates really were. Opal remembered what it
was like when her suit shut down on her. Trapped in a shell that you only had
limited control over.
The SynthMate was free now, at least.
Opal was at the door when a voice behind her wheezed, “Don’t
leave me.”
She spun to see the synth clambering off the bed, facing
her, blinking those large eyes so they glistened. Its chest rose and fell in
imitation of breathing, even though there was no oxygen to breathe any more.
About the Author:
Karl Drinkwater is an author with a silly name and a
thousand-mile stare. He writes dystopian space opera, dark suspense and diverse
social fiction. If you want compelling stories and characters worth caring
about, then you’re in the right place. Welcome!
Karl lives in Scotland and owns two kilts. He has degrees in
librarianship, literature and classics, but also studied astronomy and philosophy.
Dolly the cat helps him finish books by sleeping on his lap so he can’t leave
the desk. When he isn’t writing he loves music, nature, games and vegan cake.
Go to karldrinkwater.uk to view all his books grouped by
genre.
As well as crafting his own fictional worlds, Karl has
supported other writers for years with his creative writing workshops,
editorial services, articles on writing and publishing, and mentoring of new
authors. He’s also judged writing competitions such as the international Bram
Stoker Awards, which act as a snapshot of quality contemporary fiction.
DON’T MISS OUT!
Enter your email at karldrinkwater.substack.com to be
notified about his new books. Fans mean a lot to him, and replies to the
newsletter go straight to his inbox, where every email is read. There is also
an option for paid subscribers to support his work: in exchange you receive
additional posts and complimentary books.
Keep in touch on social media:
Newsletter (and Substack) https://karldrinkwater.substack.com/
Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5766025.Karl_Drinkwater
Thank you for featuring me! :-)
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