This is a story fragment I started when in the writing group I founded with several science fiction fanatics. We called ourselves Viscous Mileaux, and we wrote and shared writings and drank beer. At the time, shared-world anthologies were all the rage in the science fiction publishing world, and this story came out of my suggestion that we form our own shared world. We came up with the idea of an anachist artist colony space station, which had formed somewhat haphazardly in earth orbit and grew as various free spirits attached modules and ships to it. We agreed that there would be two governing bodies, both self-appointed - The Management, and... I forgot the other one. The main character of my story was to be severely accident prone - until she met a peculiar woman who thought she was a Viking...
And now, the story.
On the night the Aesir fresco was finished, Falla and Tiger drank a pitcher of beer together in the Cyandome. The ceiling echoed above them, gods moving in the half-light. Thor driving his goat cart, Odin hanging by one foot from Yggdrasil, the world tree, seeing runes in the patterns of leaves on the ground. Sig combing her golden hair.
"It's beautiful," said Tiger. Falla observed his face and wondered if he would sit for a portrait. "All of the Norse gods are so beautiful. A terrible beauty."
"Terrible how?" she snorted into her beer. She had pictured Tiger as Heimdall for a moment, but there was nothing terrible about him. Only that gentle, smiling beauty of the artist at peace with himself. And he was too dark to be Norse, anyway. Dark and almost inscrutable. She wondered why he hadn't asked her to have sex yet.
He smiled at her. "I think the Germanic peoples had to engineer the deaths of their gods; it was too terrible to always be in the shadow of that grandeur."
Falla snorted again. "Hey!" she suddenly yelled, and waved. Across the crowded room a slim figure was picking a fight with a contingent of fashion police. "Ted," she told Tiger. "He should be here."
Tiger nodded solemnly. It was only right that the three of them sit together. They had worked together to make Falla's vision into reality; they should sit together and toast it. The Cyandome, of all the artistic venues on the spaceport Dali, had a special place. A place firmly ensconced in the hearts of the vagabond artists who filled the vagabond spaceport; whether they admitted it or no. And Falla would never have placed her vision there without shoulders to lean on.
"You must admit," Tiger was saying as Ted made his way toward their table, "that you have felt something of that grandeur. That atmosphere; it's as though the gods breathed something heavier than air, you know? As though if you get too close to them you get drunk on the exhaust. They're like plants."
Falla held out a hand to Ted as he came up the stairs to their platform; long-legged, sandy-haired, dishevelled. He kissed each finger and murmured, "Your obedient servant."
She patted him on the head. "Sit. Drink. Be merry."
"As always," he replied, falling into a chair. "Well, what are we doing tonight? Falla, you're the very picture of a goddess."
She smiled at him and shook her head. Just an hour ago she had stared at her image in the uneven, pentagonal mirror in her makeshift bathroom. Another woman seemed to stand behind her, stepping into her golden fall of hair. Looking out of her blue, blue eyes. So she knew what Ted was talking about, but chose to ignore it.
"Tiger thinks gods are like plants. Or drugs," she added thoughtfully. "I'm not sure which."
Ted poured himself a mug of beer. "Drugs. Definitely drugs."
"No no no," blustered Tiger. Falla reflected that he was the sort of drunk who became more, not less, agitated with the application of relaxants. She wondered briefly at her own mood, the feeling of being not entirely a part of their trio. A detached observer. They were all three artists, and all three Dali bums - no obvious wall between them to cause this feeling.
Perhaps it was that she had been in the atmosphere of the gods a little too much.
"--Frank is planning a recreation of the Death Star fight scene," Ted was saying. "But the explosions could be a problem. Lots of modules can't be counted on to remain airtight. We need some kind of enforcement for that stuff, y'know?"
"Yeah, but which Government is going to do that?"
"Count on The Management," Falla chipped in. "It's in their circle of influence."
Tiger and Ted snorted together. At that moment she wanted to capture their identical expressions; the squint-eyed glare, elbows on the table, hands on beer mugs. It was endearing to think that scorn was so universal. And essentially they were so dissimilar. Ted like a gangly young whirlwind, Tiger with a meditative air and a body like sculpted bronze -- Falla suddenly wanted to freeze them in time.
"Will you guys sit for me?" she asked.
Tiger drained his mug. "Only if you return the favor."
She made a face at him. "Tease."
Ted looked from Tiger's mug to his own, which was nearly full, and then tilted back in his chair until the front legs came off the floor and poured the whole thing down his throat. Tiger and Falla, after a moment of stunned silence, burst into applause.
"Now puke over the balcony!" urged Tiger.
Ted shook his head. "Maybe later. Hey, that's an idea!"
"What?" asked Falla, already having some idea of what he must be thinking. The artist mindset, she told herself.
"Get ten guys. Or however many you want. Line 'em up on the upper balcony. Give them each an unlimited quantity of beer, but have each batch of beer colored a different shade. Instruct them to drink for as long as they can bear it--"
Tiger roared. "Why not just pour the beer?"
"But then it wouldn't be--"
They finished together, "a technicolor yawn!"
Falla looked up at the ceiling again, through the rising haze of someone's smoke. Odin kept his single, watchful eye on her. She wondered why she wanted to be someplace else, and wondered where. And why. It was so hard to finish a piece and know that the work was over. The future streached ahead unfilled. Or filled with countless small accidents.
She grimaced and drank her beer.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
An office-inspired story fragment
This is a story fragment that I wrote while working at the Otolaryngology Department at the U. I did a lot of writing at work, a skill that I perfected during my five years there. Just in case there might be any disapproval from my superiors, I "hid" my stories in a folder in a folder in a folder on my computer.
I had not fleshed this out beyond the opening sequence, but my vague idea was that it was somewhat bladerunner-ish - the heroine is a plant, stuck in the office for a purpose that she doesn't even know, but something keys her in and she starts researching her own past...
The office setting was inspired by my worplace at the U, although that was never so frantic.
And now, the story.
The Brauns are working overtime and the Canons are jamming about every five seconds. Nevada spends half of her time on her knees in front of the machines prying out accordioned pieces of paper no one else can find. It's almost an office litany. The cry of the distressed sek; "Nevada, could you come safe my life, dear..."
Nevada doctors her caf with a squirt of vasopressin and tries to look alert. They say the bosses are watching on the cams. It has often been said, but on this particular day it has been said with greater enthusiasm (or fear), so she's inclined to take it seriously. There's a big job coming through. The decasek has been working on it all morning, skipping breaks. Nevada has in fact never seen the decasek so coordinated; it's like they're a machine with twenty hands and a single brain. Wired together. A little spooky, actually.
Nevada is a specialist.
She doesn't merge well.
But she doesn't miss anything.
It's 5:35. Quitting time. The decasek has become an octasek. Heather had to leave at five for a dentist's appointment, and Randi had to pick up her kids. The others remain at their terminals, hands flashing and voice-activated headsets humming with the flow of information. Nevada considers leaving. The office changes character with the advent of evening; the slackers are gone, the copier running smoothly. There really isn't any need for her now. She doesn't know enough about the computer interface to take Heather's place, and Randi leaves her desk in such a mess that Nevada doesn't want to bother with it.
So.
She knocks before entering.
"Come in," says Keith. His tie is loosened but still dangling around his neck. His desk looks as bad as Randi's. Towers of paper leaning one way or another, a stack of disks, a stack of flopticals and a final stack of empty take-out containers from the Vietnamese place across the street. There's a computer on his right, a computer on his left, and a third behind his head, feeding information into his headtap via coded sequences of laser blips. "What can I do for you?" he says.
"Stamp my ticket?" she says, leaning over the desk with a smile. She presses her arms together so her dress will gape over her breasts. His eyes flicker up at her and then defocus.
"A little early, isn't it?"
"It's..." she glanced at her watch. "5:40. Everything's quiet. If I stay I'll just be rearranging things." She rubs her thighs together, shifting beneath fabric.
His mouth gapes a little. She leans further forward, getting right into his face. "You should leave early for once. Take a little time off..."
"Sht," he hisses. Two of the computers bleep simultaneously, and out in the main office one of the secs wails. Keith's eyes focus and Nevada would swear they change color from a vague blue to slate-hard grey. "You're working Saturday," he growls. "This may need to be handled hard."
Nevada closes his door quietly, and stands against it shaking with laughter. Donna gets up from her terminal and gestures to Nevada. She looks sheepish and a little ashamed.
Out in the hallway they both burst into loud gasps of laughter.
"Ohmigod," says Nevada, "I thought I was gonna die when you yelled."
Donna shakes her mass of curls. "It wasn't me! Agneta couldn't believe the computer had gone down, god you should've seen the look on her face. Speaking of which..."
"And you said it couldn't be done." Nevada stretches, rubbing her back against the wall. "So you gonna pay up, girl?"
"Of course." Donna digs in her purse, Nevada stares out at the blue patch of sky visible through the stairwell window. The whole scene feels more than a little childish now, but at least it was a moment of excitement which set the day apart from the one before it. A blip in the continuum, as it were.
The office is halfstaffed on Saturday. Generally this does not include Nevada. If the Canon jams on Saturday, Bill the Hallboy comes in to fix it. If the Braun runs out they order a hot pot from the Mainline on the corner. But these are not Nevada's only specialties, and occasionally it seems to occur to Keith that she can be useful for other tasks.
On this particular Saturday, she's filing.
Not merely filing, but hardcopy filing. It's the sort of thing that seems like an unduly demeaning task. So utterly pointless; metal cabinets full of sheets of paper with information about clients and their accounts, all duplicates of information also stored on various computer systems all over the building. But Keith has assigned her, wearing his stormy look, and Nevada is dutiful.
She is alone in the filing room. Dusty blinds mute the sunlight to a peachy glow, a fly buzzes against the glass and down in the street traffic hums. Nevada hums as well. She's not thinking about anything as she shuffles the pages, letters and numbers settling in her mind like leaves of tea in water. A single beam of sun runs across the back of her neck.
Something looks familiar. Nevada stops and pages back, scanning the text more closely now. There. A signature at the end of a document. A name she's never heard before; Damiana Luytens. She puzzles over it for a moment, wondering what caught her eye. Someone I've met? she wonders. No face comes to mind, nothing but a sense of familiarity as though a hand reached out and clasped with hers.
Hand. Writing, signing a form. The 'a' at the end of Damiana matches the flourish at the end of Nevada.
"I wrote this," she says slowly. The sunlight suddenly doesn't seem so warm. The silence is a waiting silence, hushed for revelation. But what knowledge is there to be uncovered? She reads the rest of the document, intent, but there's only the ordinary jumble of personal details and insurance company bravado.
"It couldn't have been me. I would remember. Wouldn't I?" It seems more likely that there's someone in the world who just happens to write her 'a's the same way Nevada does. But the shock of recognition is still fizzing in her blood.
Given the assumption that she did write it, how could she find out the details? When, why, how? For someone else? Might it be a forgery? Nevada sinks down to her knees on the dusty floor - she wears jeans on the weekends, so it doesn't matter - and tries to encompass the piece of paper. What would it gain her to sign someone else's name, and why would she forget about it?
After a moment she shakes her head and files the paper. The hum of traffic seems to resume. Or did it ever stop? She's not sure. She's not sure of anything at the moment.
The filing won't take long, and then she can leave. Saturdays are always short for Nevada.
Aren't they?
Long corridors flashing by, light dark light under an endless ceiling. Occasionally a head leans into her field of view, speaking to other heads. She doesn't understand their speech even though she feels she should.
"Completely blank?" one asks.
"No problem," answers another. "Been blanked so many times it's like it's her natural state now."
"Ever done it with one?"
"Once. Not worth the bother."
There is silence and a vague lack of awareness. She sees and hears, but nothing connects. Sometimes there's a longer period of dark or light.
I had not fleshed this out beyond the opening sequence, but my vague idea was that it was somewhat bladerunner-ish - the heroine is a plant, stuck in the office for a purpose that she doesn't even know, but something keys her in and she starts researching her own past...
The office setting was inspired by my worplace at the U, although that was never so frantic.
And now, the story.
The Brauns are working overtime and the Canons are jamming about every five seconds. Nevada spends half of her time on her knees in front of the machines prying out accordioned pieces of paper no one else can find. It's almost an office litany. The cry of the distressed sek; "Nevada, could you come safe my life, dear..."
Nevada doctors her caf with a squirt of vasopressin and tries to look alert. They say the bosses are watching on the cams. It has often been said, but on this particular day it has been said with greater enthusiasm (or fear), so she's inclined to take it seriously. There's a big job coming through. The decasek has been working on it all morning, skipping breaks. Nevada has in fact never seen the decasek so coordinated; it's like they're a machine with twenty hands and a single brain. Wired together. A little spooky, actually.
Nevada is a specialist.
She doesn't merge well.
But she doesn't miss anything.
It's 5:35. Quitting time. The decasek has become an octasek. Heather had to leave at five for a dentist's appointment, and Randi had to pick up her kids. The others remain at their terminals, hands flashing and voice-activated headsets humming with the flow of information. Nevada considers leaving. The office changes character with the advent of evening; the slackers are gone, the copier running smoothly. There really isn't any need for her now. She doesn't know enough about the computer interface to take Heather's place, and Randi leaves her desk in such a mess that Nevada doesn't want to bother with it.
So.
She knocks before entering.
"Come in," says Keith. His tie is loosened but still dangling around his neck. His desk looks as bad as Randi's. Towers of paper leaning one way or another, a stack of disks, a stack of flopticals and a final stack of empty take-out containers from the Vietnamese place across the street. There's a computer on his right, a computer on his left, and a third behind his head, feeding information into his headtap via coded sequences of laser blips. "What can I do for you?" he says.
"Stamp my ticket?" she says, leaning over the desk with a smile. She presses her arms together so her dress will gape over her breasts. His eyes flicker up at her and then defocus.
"A little early, isn't it?"
"It's..." she glanced at her watch. "5:40. Everything's quiet. If I stay I'll just be rearranging things." She rubs her thighs together, shifting beneath fabric.
His mouth gapes a little. She leans further forward, getting right into his face. "You should leave early for once. Take a little time off..."
"Sht," he hisses. Two of the computers bleep simultaneously, and out in the main office one of the secs wails. Keith's eyes focus and Nevada would swear they change color from a vague blue to slate-hard grey. "You're working Saturday," he growls. "This may need to be handled hard."
Nevada closes his door quietly, and stands against it shaking with laughter. Donna gets up from her terminal and gestures to Nevada. She looks sheepish and a little ashamed.
Out in the hallway they both burst into loud gasps of laughter.
"Ohmigod," says Nevada, "I thought I was gonna die when you yelled."
Donna shakes her mass of curls. "It wasn't me! Agneta couldn't believe the computer had gone down, god you should've seen the look on her face. Speaking of which..."
"And you said it couldn't be done." Nevada stretches, rubbing her back against the wall. "So you gonna pay up, girl?"
"Of course." Donna digs in her purse, Nevada stares out at the blue patch of sky visible through the stairwell window. The whole scene feels more than a little childish now, but at least it was a moment of excitement which set the day apart from the one before it. A blip in the continuum, as it were.
The office is halfstaffed on Saturday. Generally this does not include Nevada. If the Canon jams on Saturday, Bill the Hallboy comes in to fix it. If the Braun runs out they order a hot pot from the Mainline on the corner. But these are not Nevada's only specialties, and occasionally it seems to occur to Keith that she can be useful for other tasks.
On this particular Saturday, she's filing.
Not merely filing, but hardcopy filing. It's the sort of thing that seems like an unduly demeaning task. So utterly pointless; metal cabinets full of sheets of paper with information about clients and their accounts, all duplicates of information also stored on various computer systems all over the building. But Keith has assigned her, wearing his stormy look, and Nevada is dutiful.
She is alone in the filing room. Dusty blinds mute the sunlight to a peachy glow, a fly buzzes against the glass and down in the street traffic hums. Nevada hums as well. She's not thinking about anything as she shuffles the pages, letters and numbers settling in her mind like leaves of tea in water. A single beam of sun runs across the back of her neck.
Something looks familiar. Nevada stops and pages back, scanning the text more closely now. There. A signature at the end of a document. A name she's never heard before; Damiana Luytens. She puzzles over it for a moment, wondering what caught her eye. Someone I've met? she wonders. No face comes to mind, nothing but a sense of familiarity as though a hand reached out and clasped with hers.
Hand. Writing, signing a form. The 'a' at the end of Damiana matches the flourish at the end of Nevada.
"I wrote this," she says slowly. The sunlight suddenly doesn't seem so warm. The silence is a waiting silence, hushed for revelation. But what knowledge is there to be uncovered? She reads the rest of the document, intent, but there's only the ordinary jumble of personal details and insurance company bravado.
"It couldn't have been me. I would remember. Wouldn't I?" It seems more likely that there's someone in the world who just happens to write her 'a's the same way Nevada does. But the shock of recognition is still fizzing in her blood.
Given the assumption that she did write it, how could she find out the details? When, why, how? For someone else? Might it be a forgery? Nevada sinks down to her knees on the dusty floor - she wears jeans on the weekends, so it doesn't matter - and tries to encompass the piece of paper. What would it gain her to sign someone else's name, and why would she forget about it?
After a moment she shakes her head and files the paper. The hum of traffic seems to resume. Or did it ever stop? She's not sure. She's not sure of anything at the moment.
The filing won't take long, and then she can leave. Saturdays are always short for Nevada.
Aren't they?
Long corridors flashing by, light dark light under an endless ceiling. Occasionally a head leans into her field of view, speaking to other heads. She doesn't understand their speech even though she feels she should.
"Completely blank?" one asks.
"No problem," answers another. "Been blanked so many times it's like it's her natural state now."
"Ever done it with one?"
"Once. Not worth the bother."
There is silence and a vague lack of awareness. She sees and hears, but nothing connects. Sometimes there's a longer period of dark or light.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Another dream fragment
I have written a couple of stories that were actually inspired by dreams. This one was from a high school dream about a group of prisoners held on an alien planet, who had developed their own language which involved the use of lots of suffixes that had different meanings. Yeah, I have weird dreams, sometimes.
I did not get very far with this story before jumping ahead to a later, more exciting scene (with plot elements stolen from John Varley), but I think it has potential. In looking back on it I find myself tempted to change the gender of characters, in order to write a strong female character.
Swamp (a fragment)
"Wake," rasped a voice, and Erythais did.
Roused out of sleep, he struck out blindly with fingers bent into claws, rolling on his pallet into a more defensible position. His hands touched nothing, and after a moment he pulled them in to himself and listened. It was the dead of night. He could hear the whistling of his own breath, the hum of the crawling mass of insects and a faint sound, as of a foot brushing stone.
"Who are you?" he whispered. The unknown voice might be a new prisoner, slung in here to scrabble his way to a bed in the darkness. He strained to see. After a moment he uncurled a little, slid a foot off the bed and onto the floor. It was sticky under his bare foot. "Who's there?" he whispered again, not loud enough to wake Seither or Willas. "Rovinas?" He allowed hope to creep into his voice.
"Rovinoi," the voice corrected harshly. "Don't move, I'm going to make a light." A spark flared in the dark, caught on a bit of paper. By the brief flicker of light he saw a square face and a pair of hands, big, with calloused knuckles.
"I know you," Erythais breathed. "You're Lannarei, the revolutionary." He wanted to fall away into darkness, he wanted to hide his face in shame. It was wrong for this one to see him here. And he could be killed for this meeting, though it was none of his doing. He'd be Erythoi, "lost to light" as the natives would say.
The other man laughed, a throaty sound like one of the night hunters, but not loud enough to wake the sleepers. His scrap of paper burned down to nothing and they were in darkness again. "I knew I'd find you, Erythais. Eryth Scanlon Morgan. Does that name mean anything anymore?"
"No." Erythais hunched himself back on his pallet, pulling his feet up onto the mouldy blanket. "Only Erythais... section 2D. Plantation worker."
"We'll see. I think I know you better than that, little schemer. Do you remember Shomis Three? The High Council Assassinations? I was your employer. I'd chosen you from hundreds... only you."
Erythais made a noise in his throat - denial. He had hoped this one wouldn't remember. Wouldn't make him remember. The heat; he concentrated on the heat, the hum of the insects, and tried not to hear the steady, impassioned whisper.
"They thought I was crazy to trust the job to one man. I knew better. Trust, Eryth. Trust me. Do you want to get out of here? I can do it. I'm planning, working with others. It's time for you to join us. I'll contact you when we need you next - best to keep things circumspect." His voice warmed with an attempt at humor. "Think about me. Til then." And he was gone; Erythais could sense the hole of empty air where the other man's body had been.
He curled tighter on his blanket, hands around his knees where the rough cloth had worn through. He was trying to concentrate on the dull details of here and now, trying very hard not to wonder how Lannarei had come in to the cell. The door was locked, the windows barred.
Trying to forget the man he had been.
He was crouched in knee-high water the next day, the handle of his hoe resting across his shoulders, when he saw Lannarei again. Two overseers wielding pike arcs were prodding him along. Lannarei's back was welted with electrical burns, but he moved slowly with a rictus grin of hate on his face, slogging through the paddy as though he owned it.
Erythais crouched lower, inching back into the thicker reeds and watched the revolutionary's profile as he marched by. His knees trembled. He wanted to sink into the brown water and disappear, like one of the slender black snakes that crawled through the water like a piece of string. They were so quick that no one could catch them, and they'd bite and disappear before the venom stung the fresh wound. He'd seen an overseer die from one. The big, ruddy man in spotless grey had been transformed in an instant, thrashing death throes in the muddy water. Erythais had seen his face when the natives came to carry him away; a grimace of agony still dripping blood where he'd bitten through his own tongue.
A motor purred, just out of sight behind the tangle of vegetation in the middle of the river. Erythais shifted his hoe into his hands and with a practiced motion returned to dredging the muddy bottoms. Others, Lannarei had said. What others? Willas and Seither were automatons.
I am an automaton, whispered a voice in his head.
I am not, he answered it, more from habit than conviction.
The knowledge of a silent, unknown network of dissidents slipping unseen through the prison superstructure... gods, was it suposed to be cheering? Should he feel happiness? Erythais bit his lip until blood flowed.
They were brought into the main compound for a noon meal, shambling in rows to their assigned seats. Erythais found himself searching for the revolutionary, eyes darting across the sea of hopeless faces. Lannarei was nowhere to be seen. The guards had probably taken him away to solitary confinement, perhaps lowered in a cage up to his neck in the river, or strapped into a tiny, cramping box. No, Lannarei would not be at lunch. Erythais wondered for the first time what the revolutionary had done to be lashed with the pike arcs, and then shuddered the thought from his mind and accepted his bowl of reconstituted food.
The man across the table from him met his eyes for a moment and then looked away. Erythais wondered if it meant something, and stole quick glances at him as they ate their slop. Like all of the prisoners his hair was shaved close to his head, reducing his face to its most common variables. Sharp nose, dark brows, mournful eyes turned down at the edges - was there anything familiar there? A flicker of recognition, of memory?
"You veljin?" he whispered after the edge of his hunger had been dulled, lapsing into the prison slang, a blend of nativespeak, english and words that had been invented solely for the purpose of describing their wretched existence. "Walk with the shades?"
Dark eyes met his and looked down again. "Jamisei," the stranger answered. "Section 5H, jungle crew. Five years..."
"Erythais. 2D, plantation worker. Life."
"Assassin, eh?" Jamisei's eyes lit with something resembling interest. "Foven liatna e karit?"
"Hai." Their eyes met, boring into each other with a feverish intensity. Coincidence or a hoax? Here was another revolutionary, so soon after his strange encounter with Lannarei. Revolutionaries were not the norm. Neither are assassins, whispered a traitorous voice in his head. Erythais chose to ignore it, but he couldn't ignore the ferret-bright eyes of the man across the table from him.
"Implant, eh?" said Jamisei. Erythais recoiled from the words, forced himself to nod. "Well. That does throw a wrench in things..."
"You with Lannarei?"
Dark eyes looked back to him with more interest. "Why?"
"I saw him."
Jamisei murmured as he scooped up the food, "The guards found him missing last night at second check."
"I saw him last night," Erythais said slowly. "How?"
"Doesn't matter. Did you listen to him?"
"Hai."
They ate for a while, as a guard stalked the length of the table and back again.
Then Jamisei stuck his fist out in the middle of the table, slowly turned it over and opened his hand. on his palm there was a design, tattooed, Erythais guessed, in red ink. A triangle with a small triangle at each corner. "You know it?" he whispered.
Erythais nodded.
"This is our sign. It will lead you to us when you're ready." Jamisei grinned.
"What makes you think--"
"I don't think. Lannarei does. Let him think for you, too. If you like."
Erythais remained staring at him, spoon suspended over his food. There was not a thought in his head; merely a dull conviction that nothing would ever become easier for him here.
"I didn't believe at first either," whispered Jamisei with unexpected understanding. He bent his attention suddenly to his food, and shortly thereafter the guard paced by. Eryth slowly stirred his bowl.
I did not get very far with this story before jumping ahead to a later, more exciting scene (with plot elements stolen from John Varley), but I think it has potential. In looking back on it I find myself tempted to change the gender of characters, in order to write a strong female character.
Swamp (a fragment)
"Wake," rasped a voice, and Erythais did.
Roused out of sleep, he struck out blindly with fingers bent into claws, rolling on his pallet into a more defensible position. His hands touched nothing, and after a moment he pulled them in to himself and listened. It was the dead of night. He could hear the whistling of his own breath, the hum of the crawling mass of insects and a faint sound, as of a foot brushing stone.
"Who are you?" he whispered. The unknown voice might be a new prisoner, slung in here to scrabble his way to a bed in the darkness. He strained to see. After a moment he uncurled a little, slid a foot off the bed and onto the floor. It was sticky under his bare foot. "Who's there?" he whispered again, not loud enough to wake Seither or Willas. "Rovinas?" He allowed hope to creep into his voice.
"Rovinoi," the voice corrected harshly. "Don't move, I'm going to make a light." A spark flared in the dark, caught on a bit of paper. By the brief flicker of light he saw a square face and a pair of hands, big, with calloused knuckles.
"I know you," Erythais breathed. "You're Lannarei, the revolutionary." He wanted to fall away into darkness, he wanted to hide his face in shame. It was wrong for this one to see him here. And he could be killed for this meeting, though it was none of his doing. He'd be Erythoi, "lost to light" as the natives would say.
The other man laughed, a throaty sound like one of the night hunters, but not loud enough to wake the sleepers. His scrap of paper burned down to nothing and they were in darkness again. "I knew I'd find you, Erythais. Eryth Scanlon Morgan. Does that name mean anything anymore?"
"No." Erythais hunched himself back on his pallet, pulling his feet up onto the mouldy blanket. "Only Erythais... section 2D. Plantation worker."
"We'll see. I think I know you better than that, little schemer. Do you remember Shomis Three? The High Council Assassinations? I was your employer. I'd chosen you from hundreds... only you."
Erythais made a noise in his throat - denial. He had hoped this one wouldn't remember. Wouldn't make him remember. The heat; he concentrated on the heat, the hum of the insects, and tried not to hear the steady, impassioned whisper.
"They thought I was crazy to trust the job to one man. I knew better. Trust, Eryth. Trust me. Do you want to get out of here? I can do it. I'm planning, working with others. It's time for you to join us. I'll contact you when we need you next - best to keep things circumspect." His voice warmed with an attempt at humor. "Think about me. Til then." And he was gone; Erythais could sense the hole of empty air where the other man's body had been.
He curled tighter on his blanket, hands around his knees where the rough cloth had worn through. He was trying to concentrate on the dull details of here and now, trying very hard not to wonder how Lannarei had come in to the cell. The door was locked, the windows barred.
Trying to forget the man he had been.
He was crouched in knee-high water the next day, the handle of his hoe resting across his shoulders, when he saw Lannarei again. Two overseers wielding pike arcs were prodding him along. Lannarei's back was welted with electrical burns, but he moved slowly with a rictus grin of hate on his face, slogging through the paddy as though he owned it.
Erythais crouched lower, inching back into the thicker reeds and watched the revolutionary's profile as he marched by. His knees trembled. He wanted to sink into the brown water and disappear, like one of the slender black snakes that crawled through the water like a piece of string. They were so quick that no one could catch them, and they'd bite and disappear before the venom stung the fresh wound. He'd seen an overseer die from one. The big, ruddy man in spotless grey had been transformed in an instant, thrashing death throes in the muddy water. Erythais had seen his face when the natives came to carry him away; a grimace of agony still dripping blood where he'd bitten through his own tongue.
A motor purred, just out of sight behind the tangle of vegetation in the middle of the river. Erythais shifted his hoe into his hands and with a practiced motion returned to dredging the muddy bottoms. Others, Lannarei had said. What others? Willas and Seither were automatons.
I am an automaton, whispered a voice in his head.
I am not, he answered it, more from habit than conviction.
The knowledge of a silent, unknown network of dissidents slipping unseen through the prison superstructure... gods, was it suposed to be cheering? Should he feel happiness? Erythais bit his lip until blood flowed.
They were brought into the main compound for a noon meal, shambling in rows to their assigned seats. Erythais found himself searching for the revolutionary, eyes darting across the sea of hopeless faces. Lannarei was nowhere to be seen. The guards had probably taken him away to solitary confinement, perhaps lowered in a cage up to his neck in the river, or strapped into a tiny, cramping box. No, Lannarei would not be at lunch. Erythais wondered for the first time what the revolutionary had done to be lashed with the pike arcs, and then shuddered the thought from his mind and accepted his bowl of reconstituted food.
The man across the table from him met his eyes for a moment and then looked away. Erythais wondered if it meant something, and stole quick glances at him as they ate their slop. Like all of the prisoners his hair was shaved close to his head, reducing his face to its most common variables. Sharp nose, dark brows, mournful eyes turned down at the edges - was there anything familiar there? A flicker of recognition, of memory?
"You veljin?" he whispered after the edge of his hunger had been dulled, lapsing into the prison slang, a blend of nativespeak, english and words that had been invented solely for the purpose of describing their wretched existence. "Walk with the shades?"
Dark eyes met his and looked down again. "Jamisei," the stranger answered. "Section 5H, jungle crew. Five years..."
"Erythais. 2D, plantation worker. Life."
"Assassin, eh?" Jamisei's eyes lit with something resembling interest. "Foven liatna e karit?"
"Hai." Their eyes met, boring into each other with a feverish intensity. Coincidence or a hoax? Here was another revolutionary, so soon after his strange encounter with Lannarei. Revolutionaries were not the norm. Neither are assassins, whispered a traitorous voice in his head. Erythais chose to ignore it, but he couldn't ignore the ferret-bright eyes of the man across the table from him.
"Implant, eh?" said Jamisei. Erythais recoiled from the words, forced himself to nod. "Well. That does throw a wrench in things..."
"You with Lannarei?"
Dark eyes looked back to him with more interest. "Why?"
"I saw him."
Jamisei murmured as he scooped up the food, "The guards found him missing last night at second check."
"I saw him last night," Erythais said slowly. "How?"
"Doesn't matter. Did you listen to him?"
"Hai."
They ate for a while, as a guard stalked the length of the table and back again.
Then Jamisei stuck his fist out in the middle of the table, slowly turned it over and opened his hand. on his palm there was a design, tattooed, Erythais guessed, in red ink. A triangle with a small triangle at each corner. "You know it?" he whispered.
Erythais nodded.
"This is our sign. It will lead you to us when you're ready." Jamisei grinned.
"What makes you think--"
"I don't think. Lannarei does. Let him think for you, too. If you like."
Erythais remained staring at him, spoon suspended over his food. There was not a thought in his head; merely a dull conviction that nothing would ever become easier for him here.
"I didn't believe at first either," whispered Jamisei with unexpected understanding. He bent his attention suddenly to his food, and shortly thereafter the guard paced by. Eryth slowly stirred his bowl.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
SPOILERS!!
I finished this some weeks ago, after being in the enviable position of having several people offering to loan it to me. It was a delight and a sorrow to finish the epic, to bring it to a close and know that there would be no more words about Harry. He was a complex and challenging hero, in the end. In Dumbledore's words, a "beautiful boy" and a "fine man." I found that so so very touching that Dumbledore, meeting Harry in the afterlife would refer to him as a man - the first time that anyone in the series ever did. And of course it is entirely appropriate. Harry is seventeen and has gone through such experiences as would harrow the soul of a much older and wiser person. But it is Harry's essential goodness and trueness (truthiness, one might say) that leads him through the challenges. These are qualities that stay with him as he grows from boy to man. They are even qualities that he has in greater amount than his father, who in his time was not above some very cruel teasing.
Which leads one to Snape, and the devastatingly satisfying final revelations about his life and character. A wonderful, wonderful job of writing, that he should be so ambiguous for so long. The revelations about Dumbledore's earlier life, too, are devastating and illuminating in equal measure. As the series has progressed he has definitely evolved from all-powerful headmaster to vulnerable and fallible man, but never so much as he does in this last book, after his death. These revelations really complete Harry's growth from boy to man, from innocent to powerful. His power is not so much that of Wizardry, although he has that too, but that of wisdom. He makes the right decisions, in the end, and that is the true measure of his soul.
Ron and Hermione, also, rise to the occasion (how could they not?) against terrible odds. The three of them take on such challenges as would have sent them quaking at an earlier age. They don't always make the best decisions along the way, but struggling through is what shows us how worthy they are of each other.
All in all, a remarkable achievement. I was inspired to write a little about this after reading Orson Scott Card's review on his website (Uncle Orson reviews everything). He writes very clearly and accessibly about, well, everything. Check it out.
I finished this some weeks ago, after being in the enviable position of having several people offering to loan it to me. It was a delight and a sorrow to finish the epic, to bring it to a close and know that there would be no more words about Harry. He was a complex and challenging hero, in the end. In Dumbledore's words, a "beautiful boy" and a "fine man." I found that so so very touching that Dumbledore, meeting Harry in the afterlife would refer to him as a man - the first time that anyone in the series ever did. And of course it is entirely appropriate. Harry is seventeen and has gone through such experiences as would harrow the soul of a much older and wiser person. But it is Harry's essential goodness and trueness (truthiness, one might say) that leads him through the challenges. These are qualities that stay with him as he grows from boy to man. They are even qualities that he has in greater amount than his father, who in his time was not above some very cruel teasing.
Which leads one to Snape, and the devastatingly satisfying final revelations about his life and character. A wonderful, wonderful job of writing, that he should be so ambiguous for so long. The revelations about Dumbledore's earlier life, too, are devastating and illuminating in equal measure. As the series has progressed he has definitely evolved from all-powerful headmaster to vulnerable and fallible man, but never so much as he does in this last book, after his death. These revelations really complete Harry's growth from boy to man, from innocent to powerful. His power is not so much that of Wizardry, although he has that too, but that of wisdom. He makes the right decisions, in the end, and that is the true measure of his soul.
Ron and Hermione, also, rise to the occasion (how could they not?) against terrible odds. The three of them take on such challenges as would have sent them quaking at an earlier age. They don't always make the best decisions along the way, but struggling through is what shows us how worthy they are of each other.
All in all, a remarkable achievement. I was inspired to write a little about this after reading Orson Scott Card's review on his website (Uncle Orson reviews everything). He writes very clearly and accessibly about, well, everything. Check it out.
I've been pondering
I've been intending to make a blogging resolution; a resolution to post every day for a week... or to post every day for a week on one topic, and then every day for the next week on a different topic. It wouldn't be so difficult, really, once I devoted myself to it.
So today will be the beginning, and I'm going to take the easy road and post every day (through Sunday) on the topic of writing.
But first to enthuse for a moment about climbing this past Saturday with Shawn and Katie at Red Wing. Ah, Red Wing. Ah, Shawn and Katie. Shawn is a driven climber, and as such he got us on a 5.12 that none of us had climbed before - "The start of something good". The guide book says, "If you can start it, you're good." This was indeed the case, as the opening moves were godawful hard. So hard, in fact, that none of us could do them, and we had to improvise a stick-clip to clip the first bolt. A stick-clip, for the uninitiated, is a device for clipping your quick-draw and rope through the first bolt without leaving the ground. That is, a stick, that you somehow attach your rope to, and reach the first bolt with.
Anyway, Shawn led the rest of the climb, not without difficulty and hanging. Then I top-roped it, not without difficulty and hanging. But, oh was it good and rewarding. Hard, hard moves all the way, but doable, and excellent climbing.
Then we climbed a bunch of other stuff, and ended up on "Foreign Affairs". 5.10d, but with the crux between the first and second bolts, and consistently hard for the entire route. Shawn fell going for the second bolt. I caught him, of course, so it was a good lesson in the effectiveness of my belay. I think I can lead this route. It will be my new goal, seeing as how I've led my other Red Wing goals this summer.
So today will be the beginning, and I'm going to take the easy road and post every day (through Sunday) on the topic of writing.
But first to enthuse for a moment about climbing this past Saturday with Shawn and Katie at Red Wing. Ah, Red Wing. Ah, Shawn and Katie. Shawn is a driven climber, and as such he got us on a 5.12 that none of us had climbed before - "The start of something good". The guide book says, "If you can start it, you're good." This was indeed the case, as the opening moves were godawful hard. So hard, in fact, that none of us could do them, and we had to improvise a stick-clip to clip the first bolt. A stick-clip, for the uninitiated, is a device for clipping your quick-draw and rope through the first bolt without leaving the ground. That is, a stick, that you somehow attach your rope to, and reach the first bolt with.
Anyway, Shawn led the rest of the climb, not without difficulty and hanging. Then I top-roped it, not without difficulty and hanging. But, oh was it good and rewarding. Hard, hard moves all the way, but doable, and excellent climbing.
Then we climbed a bunch of other stuff, and ended up on "Foreign Affairs". 5.10d, but with the crux between the first and second bolts, and consistently hard for the entire route. Shawn fell going for the second bolt. I caught him, of course, so it was a good lesson in the effectiveness of my belay. I think I can lead this route. It will be my new goal, seeing as how I've led my other Red Wing goals this summer.
A fragment, for your consideration
And here is the first of my posts about writing; a story fragment from long ago, inspired by a weird dream about an alien planet. This fragment doesn't contain any of the dream, but it would have led up to the details of the alien planet. If I get any feedback I might be inspired to write more. So please feel free to respond.
Malk's Tale (working title)
"I was not built for this," the ship said amiably.
Malk hissed, shook sweat from his forehead. "I know," he answered. "You'll have to do."
He was jammed in the ship's belly access corridor, feet against one wall, back against the other. The hatch was closed, most definitely closed despite his best attempts to make it open. He worked on feverishly, prying the lid from a third panel in the hatch and activating the sensor set in his eye socket with a blink. He had passed the point of no return about six minutes ago, after his daring ascent of one of the landing gear legs and dizzying traverse of the underbelly. Once into the access corridor he was hidden from view, and the traffic around the ship had increased so he'd certainly be seen if he left.
"Ship," muttered Malk, sighting into the panel with infrared.
"Yes?"
"Time until liftoff?"
"Five minutes, twenty-six seconds."
"Damn." His back slid fractionally against the smooth steel, and he froze for a moment, pressing his feet a little harder against the opposite side. He needed both hands free to manipulate the tiny electromagnetic sensors, to simulate the sending of a message to the miniscule computer that ruled the hatch.
Open, he thought. There was a sudden thrum that he felt first through his feet and back, and a moment later heard with his ears. He glanced down. The open space below--a ten meter dizzying drop to the floor--was lit in red and white. A floor-hugging mist crept across from the rear of the ship, painting the lights in pink luminescence.
Back to the sensor pad, no time to waste. "Time until liftoff?" Malk hissed.
"Four minutes, three seconds."
With a curse he abandoned the third panel and moved on to the fourth and final. He balanced the lid on his lap, carefully, and reached up into the realm of circuit boards and tiny, flickering laser lights. With one tool, a tiny ray splitter, he redirected one of the beams. Seconds passed. He had turned off the clock in his visual field display--it was too distracting when working with delicate circuits--and the ship was quite willing to supply the lack. "Time until liftoff?" Malk grunted, and shifted the beam to the third of several possible targets.
"Three minutes, twenty--" the voice cut off with a snap.
At the same time the hatch above Malk's head hummed and slid open, revealing a white, oddly shaped space. "And not a second too soon," he said, heaving up and into the airlock. The hatch shut itself behind him. The 'lock was unlit, but he could see the details in infrared and sonar; a spare, small room with hatches on floor and ceiling.
"Absolutely delightful," he muttered to himself. "Ship?"
Silence. Then a shuddering that felt like noise, and a huge hand pressing against his back. Malk sat, quickly, and slid over to the corner. The rumble continued, grinding like the feet of mountains. The pressure increased, then eased abruptly. Malk gasped a breath of air.
Light blazed suddenly from illumination strips set in each wall--it would have been blinding if his eyes had been adjusted to the visible spectrum--and a voice roared, "Intruder! You will be jettisoned in precisely five minutes. Any attempt to resist will result in immediate..." A pause. Malk thought he could hear a hurried conversation through the speaker hiss, but the words were entirely garbled. A louder exclamation, still garbled, and then a sudden squeak. The comm unit clicked off.
"Well," he murmured to himself. "Curiouser and curiouser." The gravity remained steady with slight fluctuations. After a moment he stood and walked along the walls, examining each carefully. The only other exit was the ceiling hatch. "If you'd care to let me out, I promise to be good," he said to the walls. To his surprise, there was an answer.
The ceiling hatch slid open with a faint his of displaced air. "Step through and follow the blinking light," said the voice over the speaker.
He stepped through, adjusted to the gravitational frame of reference, and looked around. A perfectly ordinary and rather ill-lit corridor curved in both directions. A small orange light bobbed at eye-level a few feet away in the left-hand corridor. It moved away and Malk followed it. A cursory scan revealed that the light was actually a small, inorganic device - he supposed it was a remote of some sort. Of less interest than the owner. It led him through several intersections, all equally plain and dark, and down a long hall. At the end was a door which slid open at their approach to reveal a room half in shadow, half filled with rose-colored light.
There was a man seated in the shadow.
His face was sharply angled and overwhelmingly pale. His hair, standing straight up in a three inch brush cut, was pale green. His eyes were mostly pupil, dark, and the arches of his small, rounded ears glittered with gold rings. His large-framed, athletic body was covered entirely by a black jumpsuit.
Malk stared.
"Welcome aboard the R'kela," murmured the man. "We won't be turning back, you know."
"That is all I could hope for," Malk answered, and executed a bow. "Malk Erin of Pirner Transglobal Multiware."
"Paul Southern, Captain of the Intership R'kela. To what do I own the dubious honor of this visit?"
Malk cocked his head, switched vision into infrared. "You're a Fridean?" he wondered. "If so, you're a mutant. Only one heart and body temperature too high. Why'd you jump the take-off? By the clock you were three minutes early."
The captain learned forward in his chair, seeming amused. "I'm merely half Fridean, my friend, and you're more than half-dead at this moment. What's your game?"
Malk opted for the truth. It seemed wisest. "Body alteration. Sense amplification, extra limbs... you want it, you got it. I'm one of the best in several fields. I could give you that second heart."
The captain smiled. "One is all I require, thanks. What quirk of nature made you decide to force your presence on me?"
Malk opted for falsehood. "I have some creditors who've been waiting just a little too long for their payback."
"No, really."
Malk blinked. "Erm... well, okay, let's have it all out, then."
"I'd prefer that."
"I was hired to do a job on Galley, and as it turned out it wasn't what they told me it would be. They didn't want to take no for an answer. I left." Malk closed his lips on all that remained to be said, schooling his features to an emotionless veneer. He wouldn't have accepted his story had he been in the Captain's place. There would be questions, he was certain, and he didn’t want to answer them. It was far too humiliating.
"And what did you expect would happen once this ship had lifted off? A job? A ride to somewhere in particular?"
The question was so unexpected that Malk stood unprepared for a moment, discarding thoughts. "What I expected… yes, I guess I did expect something. Perhaps to be thrown from the airlock. Once there was breathable atmosphere outside again. Are you certain you're not interested in my specialties? Even if you don't want mods yourself, it's a very marketable skill. If you could tell me where we're going, I could…"
"I don't think so.” A deep sigh from the figure in the shadow. “Trouble breeds trouble is what they say, I believe. You are a surgeon? A biotech? What else can you do?”
“Not just bio stuff. Tech in general. I can fly a small ship, break codes, mix a damn fine martini. Quite capable of shooting weapons. I made my living as an accountant in my youth.”
Paul Southern raised an eyebrow. “A veritable renaissance man. Well, with such a panoply of skills there’s bound to be more that you haven’t mentioned. Your potential usefulness increases. Still, it’s too soon to write a contract. Will you be content to be my guest for a few days?”
Malk blinked again, taken aback twice in as few minutes. “I really don’t have a better option. I’d love to be your guest. But the take-off? Am I out of the frying pan into the fire?”
“Time will tell, my friend.” The Captain leaned forward into the light, shadows defining saturnine features. “Time will tell.”
Malk's Tale (working title)
"I was not built for this," the ship said amiably.
Malk hissed, shook sweat from his forehead. "I know," he answered. "You'll have to do."
He was jammed in the ship's belly access corridor, feet against one wall, back against the other. The hatch was closed, most definitely closed despite his best attempts to make it open. He worked on feverishly, prying the lid from a third panel in the hatch and activating the sensor set in his eye socket with a blink. He had passed the point of no return about six minutes ago, after his daring ascent of one of the landing gear legs and dizzying traverse of the underbelly. Once into the access corridor he was hidden from view, and the traffic around the ship had increased so he'd certainly be seen if he left.
"Ship," muttered Malk, sighting into the panel with infrared.
"Yes?"
"Time until liftoff?"
"Five minutes, twenty-six seconds."
"Damn." His back slid fractionally against the smooth steel, and he froze for a moment, pressing his feet a little harder against the opposite side. He needed both hands free to manipulate the tiny electromagnetic sensors, to simulate the sending of a message to the miniscule computer that ruled the hatch.
Open, he thought. There was a sudden thrum that he felt first through his feet and back, and a moment later heard with his ears. He glanced down. The open space below--a ten meter dizzying drop to the floor--was lit in red and white. A floor-hugging mist crept across from the rear of the ship, painting the lights in pink luminescence.
Back to the sensor pad, no time to waste. "Time until liftoff?" Malk hissed.
"Four minutes, three seconds."
With a curse he abandoned the third panel and moved on to the fourth and final. He balanced the lid on his lap, carefully, and reached up into the realm of circuit boards and tiny, flickering laser lights. With one tool, a tiny ray splitter, he redirected one of the beams. Seconds passed. He had turned off the clock in his visual field display--it was too distracting when working with delicate circuits--and the ship was quite willing to supply the lack. "Time until liftoff?" Malk grunted, and shifted the beam to the third of several possible targets.
"Three minutes, twenty--" the voice cut off with a snap.
At the same time the hatch above Malk's head hummed and slid open, revealing a white, oddly shaped space. "And not a second too soon," he said, heaving up and into the airlock. The hatch shut itself behind him. The 'lock was unlit, but he could see the details in infrared and sonar; a spare, small room with hatches on floor and ceiling.
"Absolutely delightful," he muttered to himself. "Ship?"
Silence. Then a shuddering that felt like noise, and a huge hand pressing against his back. Malk sat, quickly, and slid over to the corner. The rumble continued, grinding like the feet of mountains. The pressure increased, then eased abruptly. Malk gasped a breath of air.
Light blazed suddenly from illumination strips set in each wall--it would have been blinding if his eyes had been adjusted to the visible spectrum--and a voice roared, "Intruder! You will be jettisoned in precisely five minutes. Any attempt to resist will result in immediate..." A pause. Malk thought he could hear a hurried conversation through the speaker hiss, but the words were entirely garbled. A louder exclamation, still garbled, and then a sudden squeak. The comm unit clicked off.
"Well," he murmured to himself. "Curiouser and curiouser." The gravity remained steady with slight fluctuations. After a moment he stood and walked along the walls, examining each carefully. The only other exit was the ceiling hatch. "If you'd care to let me out, I promise to be good," he said to the walls. To his surprise, there was an answer.
The ceiling hatch slid open with a faint his of displaced air. "Step through and follow the blinking light," said the voice over the speaker.
He stepped through, adjusted to the gravitational frame of reference, and looked around. A perfectly ordinary and rather ill-lit corridor curved in both directions. A small orange light bobbed at eye-level a few feet away in the left-hand corridor. It moved away and Malk followed it. A cursory scan revealed that the light was actually a small, inorganic device - he supposed it was a remote of some sort. Of less interest than the owner. It led him through several intersections, all equally plain and dark, and down a long hall. At the end was a door which slid open at their approach to reveal a room half in shadow, half filled with rose-colored light.
There was a man seated in the shadow.
His face was sharply angled and overwhelmingly pale. His hair, standing straight up in a three inch brush cut, was pale green. His eyes were mostly pupil, dark, and the arches of his small, rounded ears glittered with gold rings. His large-framed, athletic body was covered entirely by a black jumpsuit.
Malk stared.
"Welcome aboard the R'kela," murmured the man. "We won't be turning back, you know."
"That is all I could hope for," Malk answered, and executed a bow. "Malk Erin of Pirner Transglobal Multiware."
"Paul Southern, Captain of the Intership R'kela. To what do I own the dubious honor of this visit?"
Malk cocked his head, switched vision into infrared. "You're a Fridean?" he wondered. "If so, you're a mutant. Only one heart and body temperature too high. Why'd you jump the take-off? By the clock you were three minutes early."
The captain learned forward in his chair, seeming amused. "I'm merely half Fridean, my friend, and you're more than half-dead at this moment. What's your game?"
Malk opted for the truth. It seemed wisest. "Body alteration. Sense amplification, extra limbs... you want it, you got it. I'm one of the best in several fields. I could give you that second heart."
The captain smiled. "One is all I require, thanks. What quirk of nature made you decide to force your presence on me?"
Malk opted for falsehood. "I have some creditors who've been waiting just a little too long for their payback."
"No, really."
Malk blinked. "Erm... well, okay, let's have it all out, then."
"I'd prefer that."
"I was hired to do a job on Galley, and as it turned out it wasn't what they told me it would be. They didn't want to take no for an answer. I left." Malk closed his lips on all that remained to be said, schooling his features to an emotionless veneer. He wouldn't have accepted his story had he been in the Captain's place. There would be questions, he was certain, and he didn’t want to answer them. It was far too humiliating.
"And what did you expect would happen once this ship had lifted off? A job? A ride to somewhere in particular?"
The question was so unexpected that Malk stood unprepared for a moment, discarding thoughts. "What I expected… yes, I guess I did expect something. Perhaps to be thrown from the airlock. Once there was breathable atmosphere outside again. Are you certain you're not interested in my specialties? Even if you don't want mods yourself, it's a very marketable skill. If you could tell me where we're going, I could…"
"I don't think so.” A deep sigh from the figure in the shadow. “Trouble breeds trouble is what they say, I believe. You are a surgeon? A biotech? What else can you do?”
“Not just bio stuff. Tech in general. I can fly a small ship, break codes, mix a damn fine martini. Quite capable of shooting weapons. I made my living as an accountant in my youth.”
Paul Southern raised an eyebrow. “A veritable renaissance man. Well, with such a panoply of skills there’s bound to be more that you haven’t mentioned. Your potential usefulness increases. Still, it’s too soon to write a contract. Will you be content to be my guest for a few days?”
Malk blinked again, taken aback twice in as few minutes. “I really don’t have a better option. I’d love to be your guest. But the take-off? Am I out of the frying pan into the fire?”
“Time will tell, my friend.” The Captain leaned forward into the light, shadows defining saturnine features. “Time will tell.”
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