Showing posts with label creative. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creative. Show all posts

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Superheroes and Gods Just Ain't All That

When I was just a callow youth, fifteen or so, I stumbled into a part of the Internet where I realized I could build creative muscles that were then still thin and scrawny things. Specifically, I recall my line of thought going something along the lines of, "Sweet! This is a comedic setting so I can do whatever I want and I don't have to justify it!" While this sort of path is worthwhile for getting practice at the craft, sooner or later the training wheels need to come off - and sooner or later that justification, that plausibility, becomes more and more important in whatever you're creating.

Plausibility! The byword of stories and alternate history timelines alike, a necessity if you want people to follow along with the tale you're stringing; people have to be able to accept that what you're telling them could be the case, that you're *not* just leading them down the garden path. Good stories need to accord with the world as we know it to be true, or they're fatally compromised as a result.

Sometimes it's difficult to really wrap one's head about why this is important. Recently I came across an article on Gizmodo regarding the Pentagon's withdrawal of support from the movie The Avengers. As author Spencer Ackerman put it, their reason was that "the Defense Department didn't think a movie about superheroes, Norse Gods and intergalactic invasions was sufficiently realistic in its treatment of military bureaucracy." Presumably, the implied conclusion we're supposed to draw is that this is ridiculous, hair-splitting stuff, and that the Pentagon is just being a bunch of jerks who want to cramp the movie's style.

You know what, though? The military is right. According to the Defense Department, their main problem is that they couldn't figure out where the US military stood in relation to S.H.I.E.L.D., which Wikipedia describes as an "espionage and secret military law-enforcement agency," which really narrows it down - and, hell, I imagine it's easy as hell to maintain secrecy over something like a giant flying aircraft carrier. S.H.I.E.L.D. has, from what I understand, been the subject of fan debates over just what it is for a good chunk of the last fifty years.

Answering questions like this is important. They define what you can and cannot do in a story, and as such reduce the unmanageability of everything being possible into more restricted channels that can guide the flow of a narrative. Something that is shadowy, nebulous, and ill-defined even to the people writing it does not lend itself well to the best writing. Creators need to know how their creations work, even if that information never filters down to the audience.

While you could in theory make a plausible case for, say, this public art installation being in fact part of a point-defense laser system, unless you've already established a world where things like that are known to happen it's not going to fly very far.

Here, I speak from experience - while I was still planning the background of some "future investigation" stories, one of the biggest hurdles was establishing the organizational background they'd lean on so that I could have a better idea of what sort of stories I could plausibly write. Real-world agencies were right out of the picture; unless you're actually a part of something like that, or have invested a huge effort in studying it, it's extremely difficult to write one accurately. While the idea of a general "world police" was tempting, given the potential involved in globetrotting adventures, it's not very plausible - how many countries do you think would be willing and eager to hand over their law enforcement to, say, the United Nations? Would any?

Here's the simple, unalloyed truth about The Avengers - the presence of superheroes, Norse gods, and intergalactic invaders acts as an add-on to the world as we know it, and does not give creators license to freely abandon the world as we know it unless they show us how that presence changed it. It only comes up as a strange-looking issue because most people don't know how military bureaucracy works to begin with. If it was something more familiar to the common person - like if cars suddenly ran on molasses instead of gasoline with no reasoning or explanation - the point, I think, would be a lot clearer.

There's no problem in bringing new things to this ordinary world - just so long as you're doing it, you don't contradict the way we already know this ordinary world to function.

Monday, March 5, 2012

Pay No Attention To What's Come Before

And I say,
Bounce a graviton particle beam off the main deflector dish
That's the way we do things, lad, we're making shit up as we wish
The Klingons and the Romulans pose no threat to us
'Cause if we find we're in a bind, we just make some shit up
- Voltaire, "The U.S.S. Make Shit Up"

Building a coherent universe is a big responsibility - after all, it is a universe with all the detail that the word implies. Fortunately, creators don't have to go into detail on everything, or even most things; coherent universes can be built with broad strokes and implication, and the nature of those people and places and things that are focused upon in the narrative can imply a great deal about the society they come from.

Use too many broad strokes for too long, though, and you're in danger of a universe that doesn't look particularly like anything much at all. While some creators might be able to pull off that sort of thing, for most people too many broad strokes means that detail is lost. It's particularly easy to fall prey to this sort of thing when you're working in a shared universe - something like, say, Star Trek.

Yeah, that's right.

One of the problems with most of the Star Trek series came from one of its strengths - the starship setting, which meant that at the end of every episode the crew could leave those particular problems behind and not have to face them again. Even when those problems were solved, it was as if the solution was wiped from everybody's mind after the credits rolled because you certainly wouldn't see it show up again. Generally, if a writer was in a jam they - or, for that matter, the script editor who filled in the instances of [TECH] in the scripts - would create some particle or technological doubletalk to make the problem go away, but they wouldn't be filed away for later use. It's not as if every problem the Enterprise encountered was completely unique, but there's rarely if ever any attempt to try solutions that worked in the past. The same thing happens in terms of background details - in many shared universes, it seems, the preference is for something new to be created at need out of whole cloth rather than building upon something that's already been established to exist.

The problem with this is it leaves a long spoor of one-use solutions and settings, and makes the universe sort of like a puddle a mile wide but a millimeter deep; it appears to be big and dynamic and thriving, but it's the authorial equivalent of a set on some soundstage. Because authors didn't take the opportunity to build on what came before, there's a veneer of artificiality to the whole thing.

It's easy enough to correct, and particularly in the modern day - when fans maintain meticulously detailed wikis of their favored properties - there's a lot less reason for writers in someone else's shared universe to be unaware of firm foundations. For something that you created yourself, it behooves you to go back through every once and a while and reacquaint yourself with your work; it could be that some minor off-the-cuff thing you established ten stories ago is just what you need to help resolve something today.

Monday, August 2, 2010

Common Words: Pattern Recognition

PRESCRIPT: Yes, I am aware that William Gibson also wrote a novel with the same title. I wasn't aware of that when I independently arrived at "Pattern Recognition" as the working title of this story-in-progress. Had it been finished, it would have been re-titled; as it is, I'd prefer not to retroactively edit it and give it a title that would have better application to something complete, and I don't think "Incomplete Work 01" is a particularly attractive alternative.

Although I try to follow Heinlein's rules for writing, I can't always be successful at it. There's a reason that one of the most common stereotypes for depicting a writer is of a frustrated person moping at a desk next to a wastebasket filled with crumpled-up pieces of paper, stories abandoned before they had a chance to unfold. I've had my share of that, but they continue to live on my hard drive - and I'm arrogant enough to believe that if I went to the trouble of even starting them, they don't suck that much.


"Pattern Recognition" is a short that I wrote two and a half years ago, back in March 2008, when most of the details of my universal setting were still coming together. It was to have been about personality uploading, but I can't remember if the plot was ever any more detailed; that's one reason why I never did finish it. Taryn Liang is a character I've mentioned before and who continues to have a part in stories I'm writing now, but most of the details have shifted since then. Per was to have been an implanted microcomputer running an artificial intelligence, but I have since ditched that aspect of the setting because I really didn't want to have to deal with the implications of AI in addition to everything else. The future is going to be complicated enough when we only have human brains to worry about.

I believe CTIE was meant to stand for "Canadian Technological Intelligence Establishment."

*****
"Pattern Recognition"
by Andrew Barton
*****

On the other side of the knobless door, a man was busy killing himself so that he could live forever. Taryn Liang shivered in her gear as she crouched alone in the concrete stairway, waiting for the two-minute warning. Dr. Minami's erstwhile customers would no doubt be upset once she bolted their door to heaven.

"Don't worry, it's almost time." Per's silky, synthetic baritone came like a spring breeze through a grassy park when the birds had just started to sing. "Just close your eyes, listen to some music and relax. I'm well-versed with how you must be feeling."

He couldn't know. All the study in the world couldn't get across the feeling of her creaking bones and aching muscles, or the cold and stern weight of a gun. When it came to men willingly peeling their brains like onions for hollow immortality, she felt the same way.

"No, no music tonight," she said. The unlicensed upload clinic's back stairwell was cramped enough already without the entire Bratislava Symphony Orchestra squeezed in with her. The shrieking Kosovar buzzgrind tracks her friends at the front door were pumping in to rattle the doctor and his keepers would only have made it bitter, anyway. She only wished they could've pumped in tear gas instead. "Your code's on the line here just as much as I am."


"I have every faith in the plan if it succeeds, and in your flexibility if it does not," Per said. "Worrying about anything else would be counterproductive. I cannot materially affect the outcome, after all."

"Maybe not, but I feel a lot better just having you in my ear." She smiled and rubbed the tactical vest she wore. If not for its diamond weave, the firm contours of Per's hardened housing would have guided her fingers. "Butterfly in my belly."

Her thoughts were interrupted by the cutting whistle of the two-minute warning. She held tight to the pistol in her right hand while her left found a standard-issue dazzler. Once blinded by it, if only for a few minutes, a person wouldn't get far.

There were six rounds in her gun's magazine and a seventh in the chamber, just in case someone did. It would take at least an hour and a half of paperwork to account for the use of just one.

She touched a finger to her ear. "This is Agent Liang, reporting ready." Then she waited.

The three tinny squeals of the attack code whined in her ears. One small window in her helmet hudscreen relayed a view from a swatbot's camera, with just enough detail to resolve the layout of the doctor's once-sealed sanctum as the front door ground open. It was dark and cluttered, with only three human-sized heat sources showing up on the infrared overlay.

The command post was analyzing the feeds with a stamp collector's eye. That was just as well, for Taryn couldn't glean anything more out of it before the view dissolved in flame. The fiery belches and roars from the room were unmistakeable, but they didn't matter. Her seven seconds were up. Per made sure the door was open, and she threw herself into Hell.

She emerged into a narrow corridor, lined with shelves and filed with boxes stacked nearly to the roof. The tight squeeze was more than enough to shield her from prying eyes while she stole toward the main open area of the sanctum. With the swatbots and possibly even her fellow agents at the breaching point dead or dying, those seven rounds would wear heavy crowns.

There were three bodies in her infrared scope, one close to the main door. Two others, close together in the room's center, were probably Doctor Minami and one of his keepers. A smooth underhanded toss put a blinding, deafening flashbang grenade squarely between all of them. She knew it couldn't be as loud as her jackhammering heart.

"CTIE! SURRENDER! NOW!" It was her voice, but slowed to an earthquake's rumble. The room fell away, drowned in shadow, all but for the man closest to her. One of the hostage-takers. He wore a helmet that would have fit better on a robot. She couldn't even see his eyes. He could see hers. She had no problem seeing the rifle as he swung it toward her.

Big. Black. Enough to give a girl in diamondweave tactical armor a very bad day. Her vision went red, then black, and her legs buckled. She couldn't see anything but his faceplate, inhuman in its polished smoothness. A few more seconds and she'd faint.

One, two, three.

A devil with fist aflame hammered her midsection. She didn't burn, yet. The first man crumpled. Another charged. Her dinner turned into a lump of cold steel. How many of her friends were dying out there, while she danced...?

Four, five, six.

The heat was unbearable. Like the worst greenhouse duty she'd ever pulled, drowning in her own boiling sweat. A voice whispered her name. It couldn't be her father, Hell was too good for him--

Seven.

The man slumped. Her weapon clicked empty. She stood, blinded by the fog and the smoke and the shadows drowning her eyes. Alone. Surrounded. She fumbled for a new magazine, ejected the old, and slammed it in. The shadows lifted enough to tell her there were no more men standing.

"Agent Liang!" Lieutenant Grimmell in the command post. She could hear his frantic terror, as if he'd done anything to warrant it. "Agent Liang, report your status immediately!"

"Liang... I'm here." She looked around the room with dusty eyes. One hand explored her midsection. "I'm alive. I don't know about the rest of the team, I... the targets were heavily equipped. Anti-personnel rifles. They're down, they--"

The remainder was lost, drowned in her burning bile. She fell to her knees and vomited, carrying up everything. Every time was a little bit easier than the one before, but it still wasn't enough.

"Taryn." Per was calm, cool, and rational as he always was, as she'd come to think he could never not be. "You're extremely agitated. I cannot help but be concerned for your well-being."

"I'm fine, Per." The tunnel her eyes saw through had been lit up again. "Do you... have anything for me?"


"You were a spendthrift with your bullets. I have already summoned medical personnel. Dr. Minami seems to have intercepted one of your shots. As has the brain resolution apparatus, I'm sorry to say."

She staggered toward the machine. The doctor was curled over one side, moaning in impenetrable Japanese. The half-sphere that had housed the brain, keeping it static and stable while the keen-bladed waldoes sliced it into hairline chunks for thorough scanning, was a leaking ruin. There was no telling how much of the patient's brain had been cut through before she'd arrived, but the dripping chunks left over wouldn't be worth the price of meat.

Meat was expensive, these days.

******

This story is distributed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 license. That means you are free to Share - to copy, distribute and transmit the work - and to Remix - to adapt the work - under the following conditions:

Attribution. You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

Noncommercial. You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

Share Alike. If you alter, transform, or build upon this work, you may distribute the resulting work only under the same or similar license to this one.

Previously on Common Words

Monday, May 10, 2010

Common Words #12: Sparrowstrike

Here's something new. You may recognize some names in here if you've read previous bits of my work, particularly #11. As it turns out, this was the prototype for that one - while it uses the same characters, it was written three months before, in September 2006. My mind is, unfortunately, rather empty today, and I know it's not right for me to leave an equally empty day in the log.

The primary difference between this story fragment and "A Scene from the West" was that, in the latter, the setting was shifted to Montana. Here, things take place in southeastern Arizona, 1876. Not exactly the wettest place around.

I can't remember where I got the title from, or what it means, either.

**********

The man had to be mad. Siobhan Cameron tilted the brim of her hat down, wishing it could keep the sweat as well as the light out of her eyes, and regarded him with a long stare, as if enough attention would make him fade from existence like the mirage that he was.

Whoever the man was, he was persistent, and steadfastly refused to disappear.

"Well, this don't look all that usual at all, Brendan," Siobhan said, one hand stroking her horse's thick brown mane. "How's about we make a stop, see if we can find out what the deal is, and give you a couple minutes of rest as part of the bargain? You'll like that, you will. Go on now, Brendan."

Siobhan urged her horse forward at a slow walk and leaned forward in her saddle, squinting as if she was staring into his soul. The man didn't seem to have noticed her presence yet, or if he had, he wasn't giving any hint of it. His attention was on some device Siobhan didn't recognize, what looked like a solid brick of iron on the end of a metal pole, that was connected by a tangle of wires to his backpack. He moved in a straight, regular pattern in a square of land, never going over his footsteps in the time Siobhan watched him, moving like a horse lashed to a plow.

He was a white man, that much was obvious. For all the savagery of the local tribes, Siobhan knew that none of them would be crazy enough to let themselves roast under an unforgiving sun.

As she approached the man, more details emerged from the bright glare that seemed to make the very air around him glow. He was modestly attired in clothes that gave him the look of a seasoned operator, and his boots were worn and coated with the dust of many miles. His hair was a tousled brown mop, visible despite the hat he wore, and he carried himself firm, without the hint of a slump.

He still hadn't taken notice of her approach. Siobhan said a silent prayer, thankful that she had found him before some vainglorious highwayman. She had learned from hard experience that the desert was not a place to lose touch with one's senses, lest death hide in one's shadow.

"Pardon me, sir," Siobhan said, taking up an oft-practiced respectful tone. "Do you know if Silverbridge is far?"

The man stopped in his tracks and his head spun toward Siobhan at an unnerving speed. Words died in her throat as she looked at the man, who regarded her in the cool and distant manner that a falcon might gaze across a valley from its perch. His face was placid and his chin was shaven, but she could see a quiet determination in his steel-grey eyes.

"Is that a lady's voice I hear?" the man asked. He was a New Englander from the sound of it. "Or is the heat boiling my brain?"

"I am a woman, but I can't speak for the state of your brain," Siobhan said, dismounting her horse with practiced grace. She retreived a water canteen from her saddlebag and offered it to the man, whose face overflowed with rivulets of sweat like miniature Mississippis. "Siobhan Cameron is my name. What might yours be, sir?"

"No need for 'sir' out here, Miss Cameron," the man said, taking the canteen in his free hand. He took a brief swig before handing it back. "Do I look like a duke or a general to you? The name's Morgan, Samuel Morgan, and I can tell you it's a pleasure indeed to meet someone like yourself in this wasteland. I know there aren't that many people who would share their water with a stranger."

"Likewise, Mr. Morgan," Siobhan said. "I could hardly ride by, knowing what the sun does to people under it. I can't help but wonder what it is you're doing out here all alone, though, and with that contraption of yours as well."

"It's simple, really," Morgan said. "I am a man of science, and these are my tools. Speaking of which, you wouldn't happen to be hiding a couple of batteries under your blouse, would you?"

Siobhan frowned and crossed her arms. Her experience across the coarse-tongued frontier nonwithstanding, such words never became easier to weather. To hear an educated man speak that way only made it even more painful. She would have expected him, at least, to have some politeness in him.

"The only cannon I have is the one that Mr. Colt provided, and as for what's under my blouse, that's not for you to know," Siobhan said as a great deal of her curiosity toward the device evaporated. "Not that I can see what a man of science would need with artillery."

"I mean electrical batteries, not cannons," Morgan said, holding a hand to his temple. "People always... no, it doesn't matter. I need electrical batteries to power my contraption, as you call it, and it drinks them dry like a shootist in a hot saloon."

"I've certainly got none of those," Siobhan said, frowning at him now. "Nor do I appreciate being spoken to in such a manner, Mr. Morgan. This may be an uncivilized land, but I will be damned if I allow myself to be dragged down to its level, or to yours."

Morgan's eyebrows shot up, as if her statement took him by surprise. Siobhan had to take a step back at that. Surely he wasn't so far removed from reality that he hadn't realized how she would react to his words, was he?

For a moment he floundered under her arrow-straight gaze, unspoken justifications or apologies dying as they met open air. She noticed the sweat starting to run down his forehead anew, despite the brief wind that had kicked up around them.

"I didn't mean you any disrespect, Miss Cameron," Morgan said, staring at the ground. That much wasn't a surprise, as she'd dealt with plenty of men who would rather be buried to their neck in the desert than apologize. "It's just, you know, I don't have the opportunity to talk to ladies like yourself, decent ladies, all too often. Not that many of them left in these parts anymore, either."

"Is that an apology?" Siobhan asked, eyebrow upraised. "What a fine work of camouflage. Here I thought you menfolk had all the subtlety of an artillery barrage."

"It... yes, Miss Cameron," Morgan said, still unwilling or unable to look her in the eye. "I... I apologize. It's just that... well, stay out here for long enough, and you'll feel the courtesies of the civilized world start to just fly away."

"That's something I'd prefer to avoid, thank you," Siobhan said. "I accept your apology, Mr. Morgan. Try not to be so uncouth in the future, though... or is it thoughtlessness?"

"Probably some of both," Morgan said. "Look, Miss Cameron, I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot, and I'd hate to lose out on your acquaintance because of one stupid remark. You're headed for Silverbridge, right? It's only a couple of miles down the road."

"I am," Siobhan said. "In a manner of speaking. I go where the road takes me, and if Silverbridge lies along it, so much the better."

"What's left of it," Morgan said, shaking his head. Sadness? Regret? Siobhan couldn't tell from her limited interaction with the man. "All right. There's a place there called the Blue Castle, and it's a good enough spot to get your bearings. Tell the barkeep that I sent you along, and he'll treat you right. Once I get back to town, maybe we can try so start from the beginning again."

"Fair enough, Mr. Morgan," Siobhan said. "You do seem a conscientious sort, after all. As long as you keep from disrespecting me in such a way, I'm sure we'll get on well."

"I'm already looking forward to the opportunity," Morgan said. "I know enough not to waste second chances. Just be careful in Silverbridge... the place isn't exactly enlightened, you know."

"I know all too well," Siobhan said, mounting her horse once more. "Sometimes I wonder if there's any room for enlightenment at all out here."

"Only what you can carve out for yourself," Morgan said. "It's something, but it's hardly ever enough."

"Perhaps, Mr. Morgan, but if there was enough, there'd hardly be any thrill to the challenge, would there?" Siobhan asked, winking at the man. "I'll see you in Silverbridge, then. Good luck with... whatever it is you're doing out here."

"Only the business of necessity, Miss Cameron," Morgan said. "The most important business there is. I've almost got this problem beat, too. Then everything'll be right as a trivet again. Just you see."

"Perhaps I will indeed," Siobhan said. "Till next we meet, Mr. Morgan."

"Same to you, ma'am," Morgan said, tipping his nonexistent hat. "Safe journey."

Siobhan glanced back at Morgan as her horse trotted down the road. He'd already turned his back to her, once more consumed in the pattern of his movements, guiding his contraption over the dirt like a plowman steering a horse.

"That Mr. Morgan seems like an odd duck, doesn't he, Brendan?" Siobhan asked, stroking her horse's mane. "Good enough man, though, considering."

Something did seem unusual about him, though, in a way she'd seen in only a handful of people before. There was something strange about the way he spoke and the way he moved, as if he wasn't entirely tethered in reality. She wondered if it could be that he was one of the few...

No, Siobhan thought. He can't be. I know the Art. I would have been able to tell.

But then, to Siobhan Cameron, used to the orderly farms and bustling cities on the fair side of the Mississippi, the vast expanses of the West had always had the air of the unreal.

**********

This story is distributed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 license. That means you are free to Share - to copy, distribute and transmit the work - and to Remix - to adapt the work - under the following conditions:

Attribution. You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

Noncommercial. You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

Share Alike. If you alter, transform, or build upon this work, you may distribute the resulting work only under the same or similar license to this one.

Previously on Common Words

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Common Words #11: A Scene from the West

It's been a long week, and while it wasn't a particularly trying week for me until the very end, now that it's over I'm in the mood to celebrate the weekend, even though it's not a long one. Today I'm going to leave the news of the Toronto election and the rest of the world at the doorstep. It's too nice of a day outside to dwell. Instead I'm going to post another bit of creative work.

This bit is the first scene of a story, a science fiction Western set in 1876 Montana, that never went beyond the working title "Siobhan Super Adventure." It reads as having been modified last on December 22, 2006, and so it probably reflects a slightly more halting grasp of the craft than I have now. Could be that one day I'll decide to go back and give it a thorough rewrite, see what I can find that shines.

**********

Siobhan Cameron had never really known anger before the day they killed her horse.

The first shot went wide, and that was the only thing that saved her. A bullet that had probably been meant for her instead sliced through the air a few feet above her head, giving her a few precious instants to dodge Death's icy scythe. She threw herself off Brendan's back into the bushes that flanked the path, confident that a legacy of gunfights had taught her horse to get out of harm's way when the gunpowder burned.

There was another crack of artificial thunder, and her horse went down as a screaming, quivering thousand-pound sack of flesh and bone. Siobhan peered out from between the leaves and got her first clear look at her attackers, and felt the rage bubble up as she drew a bead on the closest. He had the typical look of a six-gun highwayman, rough and ruthless.

There were five men in all, equally scruffy in dress and tactics. They'd been amateur enough to spoil their chance at a clean ambush, which suited Siobhan well enough. She wasn't in the mood to give them an opportunity to learn from their mistake before Judgement Day.

They were advancing now, likely to see if she was still a threat. Siobhan was expressionless as she aimed at the leader. She'd killed her share of criminals in situations less just than this, and when she pulled the trigger it seemed to have no weight at all.

Her revolver thundered. The first man stopped as if he was suddenly yanked backward, fell, and was still. His confederates scrambled for cover, but it was futile. Siobhan hadn't scraped out a living in the lawless frontier on wits and charm alone. Two more shots, good straight ones, and two more men were swallowed by the Reaper's shadow.

The last two men were brave, she had to admit. Most bandits would turn tail and flee if they'd seen their friends cut down with hardly a chance to act. Siobhan caught one of them levelling a rifle at her hiding spot, one that looked powerful enough to blow her apart as sure as a stick of dynamite. She fired fast, without regard for careful aiming. He pinwheeled into the dust, rifle discharging as he fell, and there was blood mixed in with the dirt.

"Shit! Shit!" The last man's reserves of courage had run dry, and he was chasing after them, back into the deep woods. Siobhan held her fire once his back was to her. There wasn't any honor in killing a retreating enemy, and she knew all too well that honor made all the difference. Putting a wounded enemy out of his misery, though, was something else entirely.

Once she was confident that she wasn't walking into a renewed ambush, Siobhan stepped back onto the path and kneeled beside Brendan. The horse was making a few quiet, painful neighs, but she could tell the life was flowing out of him fast. She put her arms around his neck and held the dying animal close, unable to stop her own tears.

"It'll be all right in the end, Brendan, it will," she whispered, her old accent striking through the pain. "Just sleep now. It'll all be better soon. Close your eyes and think of the meadows, now. Find your peace."

The horse's breathing got shallower and shallower, and Siobhan wished she had the medical knowledge to save him, or at least keep him blinking until she could walk him to a doctor. Far too little time had passed when Brendan wheezed and fell silent. She felt a piece of her own soul tear itself away at that moment, perhaps to make sure that he wouldn't be lonely in whatever world waited beyond.

When she rose to her feet again, she left her sense of mercy on the ground. She stalked to where the rifleman had fallen and found that he was still gasping for air, albeit weakly. There was no sense of satisfaction in what she was about to do, no revenge, only justice that had to be done. Siobhan's coin purse may have been light enough to not matter, but she knew well that Charon took payments in kind.

The man was terrified, but that didn't stay her hand. If he'd been too stupid to know that it had been fated to end like this - if not her pulling the trigger, than someone else - he didn't have any business living. Siobhan drew her gun down to point at the center of his chest, and placed a boot on his neck to make sure he didn't try to scramble away.

"Please, good God, don't do this!" he wheezed. Without her boot, and the weeping wound just above his waist, he probably would have been shouting. "Have some goddamn decency! I can tell you... I can help you..."

"The only help you can give me is some fucking peace of mind," Siobhan said with a level look barely restrained. "You won't be killing any more horses, today or ever."

She fired. The bullet tore through the man's torso and buried itself in the dirt beneath. The man convulsed and the air filled with the stench of death. Siobhan was no stranger to it, but that didn't mean it was something easily tolerable. She holstered her revolver and stood still for a long, silent moment, summoning the strength to go on.

After a few moments of introspection, Siobhan gathered what belongings she could salvage and headed down the path, following the tracks of the man who'd fled. Her burning temper was barely cooled by the soft, mountain breezes that had brought her to Montana. True justice would only be served once she eliminated the menace the gang of ruffians presented, totally and completely.

It would be a long walk, but Siobhan Cameron was not a woman to shy away from a challenge.

**********

This story is distributed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 license. That means you are free to Share - to copy, distribute and transmit the work - and to Remix - to adapt the work - under the following conditions:

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Previously on Common Words

Saturday, March 13, 2010

For All Nails #301

Before I was a science fiction writer, I was a follower of alternate history - a subgenre of speculative fiction placed in settings where the actual flow of history took a different course than it did in our textbooks. Sliders, the worldhoppingest of Nineties Adventure Shows, introduced me to the concept, and the Internet exposed me to a world of it - sites such as Kedamono's Alternate History Travel Guides and many others that have since been lost, but the core of it was the Usenet newsgroup soc.history.what-if. Timelines such as President Chester A. Arthur's For All Time, a supremely dystopian unfolding of the Cold War, took my interest, and projects like For All Nails sealed it.

For All Nails is a collaborative extension of the richly detailed alternate history set out by Robert Sobel in 1973's For Want of a Nail, where a British victory at the Battle of Saratoga in 1777 led to the end of the American Revolution and a vastly altered North America, one dominated by the British-influenced Confederation of North America and its great rival, the United States of Mexico. Sobel's summation of the history left off in the early 1970s. In late 2001, Noel Maurer started the project where Sobel left off, and intended to take it to the 21st century. It eventually attracted more than a dozen contributors, including Randy McDonald of A Bit More Detail, and by the time I stumbled into the project in 2003, more than two hundred and fifty posts had been made.

Shortly thereafter, it seems, the project lost steam barely having made it to the 1980s. I wrote a few posts focusing on Quebec - in this alternate history, a semi-independent associate of the Confederation of North America - and left one unfinished. I began work on it on October 5, 2004, but it lay fallow until late September 2009, when I returned to it and completed it. The most recent post, FAN #300, was made on July 26, 2005.

Five years is a long time. I'm not sure what kind of a reaction it would get on soc.history.what-if. Still, I can't abide something going unseen - so, for better or for worse, it'll at least be live here.

#

For All Nails #301: An Independent Quebec Within a United CNA

"The greatest failure of the Bastien government was that, in seeking to please everyone, it succeeded in pleasing no one. While Sir Geoffrey Gold, eager to salvage something out of the CNA's Executive Revision debacle[1], was quick to approve Quebec's petition for its own Viceroy, there were many in Quebec who were unsatisfied with the arrangement. In requesting and welcoming Sir Albert Hardy as Viceroy, Bastien reminded Quebec of ties to Britain that many would prefer to have forgotten."

- From _It Began With A Whisper: A History of the Quebec Crisis_ by Michael Deschamps. Dorchester: Upcountry Press, 1997.

*****

Dorchester House
Quebec City, Associated Confederation of Quebec
16 June 1977

One could be forgiven for thinking that the residence of the Honourable Sir Albert Hardy, Viceroy of Quebec, had seen better days. Sir Albert himself certainly thought so. The place had been built while Queen Victoria was in power, and aside from a rather hasty renovation that had characterized the first fortnight of his occupancy in Dorchester House, he didn't imagine it had been well kept up since then. In one of his more contemplative moods, he'd realized that it was eminently logical. After all, from what better place could he watch over the slum of a continent than a dilapidated mansion?

A year of living in his "temporary lodgings" had hardened his spirits. His official residence, the Palais du Québec - he had preferred "Viceregal Palace," but had been overruled - was little more than a wooden frame in undeveloped parkland. The most hopeful estimates didn't anticipate it would be ready for another five years, at least. The contractors called it a regrettable necessity in light of the Viceroy's august office. The Viceroy himself called it shiftlessness. With a hundred years of internal sovereignty behind them, and North America at their doorstep, Sir Albert wondered how they could have fallen so far.

Of course, that wasn't to say that recent events had proved the Johnnies down south to be much better. The people of Quebec knew where their true loyalties ought to lie, even if North America had forgotten.

A hard rap at the door put paid to those thoughts. Sir Albert put down the memorandum he'd tried to read five times and of which he'd retained not one line and signalled his watchman to let the scandalmonger in. Luther Macpherson, a stout, competent Scot who'd proven his grit on blood-soaked French fields, entered with a notebook-clutching, fire-eyed young lady in a knee-length skirt and knitted blouse in all the colors of Quebec's damnable flag. All that London had done for them, and not even a hint of the Union Jack that had made it all possible.

"Your Excellency," she said, offering an obviously-practiced curtsey. "It's a privilege to meet you. I'm Eve Devlin, of the Frontenac[2] _Intrepid_."

"Madame," Sir Albert said as he rose from his chair. He clasped her hand for a moment and found it nearly as hot as coal fresh from the furnace. "I hope you'll understand that this interview must be brief by necessity. Would that you were the only demand on my time."

"Brevity is my job, Excellency," Devlin said. Young and shapely, she was, the sort of woman for whom those scandalous Mexican costumes were made, and most likely a calculated maneuver by her editor. He'd hardly be the first man to have a few wrong words slip out. "May I be seated?"

Sir Albert motioned to a rickety, uneven chair, the only other one in the room. Few visitors had the inclination to prolong meetings after a few moments balancing on it. With luck, she'd ask the sort of questions that would allow him to trot the same old answers out for a ride around the stables.

Did he see further friction between London and Burgoyne? No, he said, Britain has always been ready for North America to choose its own path. Will he be active in pursuing greater cooperation between Quebec and Britain? Of course, he said, and he'd taken a primary role in the continued cooperative development of hydroelectric stations at Gallivan Falls.[3] Devlin asked sharp questions, and he thought it a shame they'd only appear in some upcountry rag of a newspaper.

"What's your opinion on Quebec's decision to retain its ties to the United Kingdom separately from the CNA?"

"I'd call it a recognition of historical connexions, and one that remains most welcome in London," Sir Albert said. "My presence as Viceroy of Quebec is a recognition of the role the United Kingdom played in ensuring Quebec's continuity as a distinct culture on this continent. Without British aid, you would have been helpless against Fanchon and his heirs, and hopeless to maintain its unique identity without being subsumed into the greater whole of North America."

"You might have some people disagree with you on that, Excellency," Devlin said. "I don't believe there's a nation on this Earth as stubborn as the Quebecois. Nevertheless, I--"

"I'm sorry, madame, but I'll have to stop you there," Sir Albert said, raising one hand. "I've given you twenty minutes now, and I think I've been more than generous. I'm certain you've collected enough material today for an entire series of articles. For myself, as I said, important matters of state do not wait, not even in the company of beautiful women."

Devlin blushed. "I'm thankful for your time, Excellency. It was a privilege and an honour."

Sir Albert thanked her and let Macpherson lead her out. He returned to the memoranda, and the files, and the requests for services and signatures that piled his desk, and kept his back to the wall. He couldn't help but think she'd find some way to pound his words into a knife.

*********

From the Frontenac _Intrepid_, Page A1
20 June 1977

QUEBEC "HELPLESS AND HOPELESS" WITHOUT BRITAIN: VICEROY

*********

[1] See FAN #253.

[2] OTL Toronto, Ontario. Given the differing patterns of settlement in eastern Canada due to the lack of United Empire Loyalists, among other changes, Frontenac is a far smaller and lower-profile city than Toronto was even in 1977, when the Anglophone exodus from Montreal had only just begun.

[3] OTL Churchill Falls, Labrador. They weren't discovered until after the POD in any event, and had a succession of names before being renamed after Winston in 1965. Here they're named after Ezra Gallivan, who is still fondly looked upon in Quebec for his role in the 1889 plebiscite. Owing to Quebec's access to Niagara Falls and multiple dammable Ontario rivers in the FaNTL, as well as more limited historic industrialization, there was less motivation to tap the falls' potential as early as in OTL.

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Words About Words: Consistency Through Prereading

It doesn't take many careless slip-ups to make you look like a knownothing. For some readers, the slightest mistake screeches and jangles like a first-day violinist playing along with the orchestra, and they won't give you another chance to let them down. An author is the architect of a window onto a world, and one of the author's jobs is to ensure that the glass is polished and clear and without so much as a crack.

But mistakes happen. No matter how detailed your research, no matter how familiar you are with an aspect of the story, some nit will inevitably slip through. That's why prereading - reading over the story with an eye to content, before it crosses the desk of someone who might be inclined to buy it - is so important. It's a lot harder to take an author's world seriously when the author bends or breaks reality without realizing it.

When I was younger, I always wondered how writers could let contradictions and errors scuttle in from the cold. Weren't they as interested in the story, the background, the nature of the world as I was? Didn't they care to take care about what they were putting together, to make sure it was solid? That was, of course, before I started writing in any serious way. Now I know better, because even though I am interested in the story, the background, and the nature, that doesn't mean it will be perfect on the first pass, or the fifth.

Part of it's just down to the way writing is done. In a good story, the seams where the writer kicked off for the night and picked up the next day won't be visible, but psychologically they're there. Sometimes a writer might establish something offhandedly in one paragraph, but by the next day it's slipped from the brain. Other times, it's the result of a subconscious tug-of-war as to how a scene should be presented. I've run into this error myself in a story that's still searching for a home. One scene I'd vaguely envisioned as wintry, though I'd never specifically established that, and additional description written the next day - people lying on the grass, a man taking his miniature horse for a walk - suggested, upon later reading, something at least autumnal.

What made this worse was that I didn't discover this until the story had already been rejected from the first place I sent it. While I know that there's no way a story would be bounced if that was the only consideration - editors, after all, change words all the time - it left me with a bad taste in my mouth.

That wasn't the only time I made that mistake, either. In another story, two characters have no choice but to escape a stricken space station without spacesuits, or any other kind of protection. As neither of them are Batman, and thus cannot breathe in space, I spent a while gathering information on vacuum exposure in order to make it as accurate as possible for someone who's never been more than 40,000 feet above sea level. One of the key facts of vacuum exposure, and one that I didn't want to flub, is that the "common sense" maneuver of taking a big, deep breath before jaunting into the vacuum is actually a really, really bad idea, as rapid decompression would create pressure differentials that would seriously damage the lungs. To say the least.

So, if rapid decompression is going to happen, the best thing to do is to totally empty one's lungs of air. This is what I had my characters do. What I also had my heroine do, unfortunately, was count out the seconds until she triggered the airlock and created the rapid decompression event. This didn't strike me as off at the time, but a few days later I tried it myself. (Talking after emptying my lungs, that is, not experiencing rapid decompression.) The result wasn't even so much as a croak - croaks, at least, are audible. I edited the scene slightly so that someone else was giving the countdown over the radio.

Errors can slip in anywhere. You've got to always be vigilant if you want to get ahead of them. So after you've finished something, leave it for a while and read over it again with fresh eyes. The nitpickers will always have things to complain about, but it's not an author's job to make things easy for them.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

The Convenient Coincidence

I've heard it said that once is coincidence, twice is happenstance, and three times is enemy action. To say it another way, if in a work of fiction something happens often enough it's preferable for it to have been planned that way by an actor within the story. When writing, I think that keeping one eye on this is important. Good plots should be moved by the choices of the characters who are caught up in them, and not by unlikely intercessors streaking out of the sky. There are very few instances in history where the lack of a coincidental occurence would have been enough to make events switch to an entirely new track.

I remember when I was first starting out with serious attempts at writing, twelve and a half years ago. Back then it was extremely tempting to make things happen just because, without rhyme or reason, so that I could do whatever I wanted and wouldn't have to justify it. Thankfully I left that particular habit by the wayside before I started sending submissions out to the markets in earnest. In retrospect, it's an attitude that works in a similar way as training wheels on a bicycle. With "easy mode" plotting, where things happen because Author Wants Them To Happen, beginner authors have the opportunity to assemble whole stories and start getting handles on the process. Once you have your sense of balance, though, those training wheels will only slow you down and trip you up.

There are probably authors who eschew the use of coincidences as much as possible - I can't think of any offhand, but I would be surprised if they didn't exist. If that's what a person is comfortable with, great. I can understand why some authors would want to banish that kind of capricious artificiality from their stories, so that the plot unfolds solely due to the actions of the characters. I don't go that far. There is room for coincidence in stories - and it helps get a better handle on characters. It opens up their fields of choice, because most people don't factor bolts from the blue into their everyday lives.

Despite the endurance of the old saw that says "there is no such thing as coincidences," I don't agree. I don't think there is any sort of plan for the universe. Things can, and will, happen that individuals just can't predict. That precise thing happened here in Toronto just yesterday. On Tuesday, the Toronto Transit Commission approved a fare increase, one which has resulted in many gnashing teeth and complaining complainers in the media, on Twitter, and elsewhere. On Wednesday, a third-party contractor putting in natural gas lines accidentally broke through into the subway tunnel, which the TTC shut down for a safety inspection - right through rush-hour. People were irritated at having to wait for shuttle buses, already frustrated at the 2010 fare increase.

Coincidences happen, and they can't be predicted. Every once in a while it's useful to drop one on your characters and see how they dance.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Halloweener

For me, Halloween was always the holiday for kids. It wasn't one that was ignored when I was growing up, and if there is one thing I can say in favor of subdivisions, at least they're built in such a way that doesn't make it too problematic for kids to go from house to house looking for tricks or treats. Still, it was pretty standard. Like, I would imagine, most other dudes of my generation, I went out once as a Ninja Turtle. For Halloween 1984, I was a hobo. That's me on the left.


Still, I got older and the concept of dressing up and going out for treating and trickery lost its appeal, as it should - that part of it is for kids. That doesn't mean I didn't get involved anymore, though, be it handing out candies to the kids at the doorstep to being part of my mom's Halloween setup. For that I wore a big, heavy black robe that completely concealed me and did not move at all, to make the kids think I was just some stuffed figure. Then, when they weren't expecting it, a terrifying growl - awesome.

But that, again, was an artifact of the suburb I grew up in. When I moved to Toronto, I quickly found that things don't work the same way here - or at least in my part of it. I've never seen kids going door-to-door here. The management of my apartment building put up notices in the elevators saying specifically that children weren't to be going between apartments. For me, usually, it's just another day - the only difference this year being as that it fell on Saturday, it wouldn't interfere with my commute home. All the parties along King and Queen, you see.

The Silver Snail, easily the epicenter of the comic book/general nerd scene for the entire city of Toronto and much of the surrounding area, hosts one of those parties. My roommate went last year as Cecil Stedman from the comic series Invincible, and this year as Metalocalypse's Charles Foster Ofdensen. Early yesterday he reminded me not only of the Silver Snail's party, for which he had an invitation that would let him bring a guest along, but of an idea I'd had just after Halloween 2008 that I'd never followed up on.

A Tim Buckley costume.

For those of you who aren't aware: Tim Buckley is the man responsible for creating the webcomic Ctrl+Alt+Del, and is seen by a lot of people as a total hack due to his apparent unwillingness to improve the quality of his work. He's known colloquially as "B^U" for good reason - look at it like you'd look at a smiley, and you'll see the facial expression his characters wear 95% of the time. Other people have examined Tim Buckley's issues and Ctrl+Alt+Del's failings with more depth than me - in June 2007, John Solomon of Your Webcomic is Bad and You Should Feel Bad took him to task, and while that weblog has been deleted a copy of the post remains, thanks to the Internet Archive.

So, I had my concept - which, I'll admit, was inspired by a photo I came across last year, so I can't take credit for the idea. My execution, though, drifted a bit from my inspiration. I had one resolution, and one resolution only: I would put precisely the same level of effort into the costume that Buckley seems to put into his comics. Anything else, I figured, would detract from the spirit of the costume.

My first stop was Shoppers Drug Mart, where I picked up a roll of masking tape and a sheet of yellow bristol board. This was to create the "yellow box" aspect of the costume - in Ctrl+Alt+Del this is the comic's "narrative voice," though it's frequently poorly used and states or restates things unnecessarily. For the mask portion, I had been on the lookout for paper bags, but the only ones I could find were far too small to fit over my head. Instead, I worked with two 10x13 inch full-page manila envelopes.

The envelopes, too, were too small to fit over my head, as I discovered when I ruined the prototype. Still, it wasn't that hard to overcome that. For the production mask, I cut it lengthwise along the seam in the back so that I could unfold it and wrap it around my head. Then, I used part of a third envelope to make a "bridge" connecting the two flaps that had been the back of the second envelope. This was secured on the outside with a great deal of Scotch tape, and on the inside with masking tape. I then prepared the front of it with "B^U" and cut a pair of vision holes.

It would've worked a lot better if I didn't wear glasses. As it was, the mask pushed my glasses further along my nose than I'm used to, and it was distinctly unpleasant. Too, my vision through the holes was extremely restricted - not only was I only able to see directly in front of me, I could only see clearly out of one eye. It was enough - barely - to get around, but not enough to have much more than basic awareness of where I was and what I was doing.

I came to realize that once we arrived at the party. I'd never been to the place where it was held, and my mental picture of it is extremely limited because of how restrictive the mask was. What's more, I felt distinctly out of place. There were people there who had put real, honest work into their costumes. What did I have but a stupid mask made out of shipping envelopes and a piece of bristol board taped to my chest?

So I left, after not too long, It just didn't feel right. I think, here, that the idea of the costume was a lot better than its actual execution. I think that maybe next year I'll go as a civilian SG-team member or something. I know they sell the shoulder badges at Ad Astra. Nevertheless... since it is, at least, fairly off the beaten track, here's a photo of how I went out for Halloween 2009.


B^U, man.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

Art Project: Something Old and Embarrassing

I'm taking a break from Public Domain Photography content today. Against my better judgement, my desperate search for content has led me to declare today Post Something Old and Embarrassing Day. Fortunately, you lucky, lucky people, I have a great heaping amount of embarrassing things to choose from, and fortunately for me, the vast majority of them will never, ever, ever see the light of day.

Back in 1999, when I was sixteen, I was mostly working on improving my writing style. At one point, however, I did take a detour to try my hand at drawing a character. I can't remember the context of the drawing at all, or even if there was ever any context to begin with. This is the result. I didn't do much more afterward. On the plus side, it does give you the opportunity to see what a coworker described as my "engineer's" handwriting. And those red spots on her arms are supposed to be bloody cuts, not rashes or something. As I recall, I used a pencil for the outline and pencil crayons for the color.

I wonder what might've happened had I kept on with it. Maybe by now I could've been beating Tim Buckley at his own game.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Common Words #8: Corona

If you're looking for horrid writing today, than have I got writing for you - my first real story, "Corona," completed on Thursday, June 5, 1997. As it turns out, I've been writing for longer than I can remember. "Corona" was not, by any stretch of reckoning, the first story I ever wrote - but it's the first that seemed particularly significant at the time I wrote it, and as such it's as good a starting line for my career as a wordguy as anything I can think of. It's my own personal reflection of the Golden Age of Science Fiction, which in this case was 14. "Corona" was written as a Grade 9 English assignment, and came back with a mark of 10/10 with comments from the teacher of "interesting characters," "technically superb," and "imaginative." In the context of a classroom full of fourteen-year-olds, I'm sure it probably was. Back in 1997, though, I had only a vague comprehension of what I was doing. (Paragraph breaks? What are those?) The dialogue - both the characters' and the narrator's - is laden with infodumps, the conflict is almost entirely absent, and there's no resolution at all. At the time I was probably imagining it as the first part of something larger which never got off the ground. Nevertheless, despite how horrid I find it now, it was a beginning. The 10/10, I imagine, greatly buoyed my fragile, barely-teenage self-confidence at the time. Otherwise, I might never have gone anywhere.
********** Corona by [Phoebe] Barton **********
In the outer perimeter of the Beta Ancaster system, there was sheer emptiness. Here, between the orbit of the outermost gas giant and the system's Oort Cloud, there were barely one hundred atoms per cubic meter, as opposed to billions, perhaps trillions, of atoms in a comparable space at sea level on Earth. In this void, the only objects of appreciable size were rare vagabond asteroids or comets on their way in-system. This area had changed little since the birth of its sun billions of years ago. Then, there was a flash of light followed by a blue vorted; the traditional signature of something dropping out of hyperspace. Seconds after the vortex disappeared, two objects were faintly visible. They approached with amazing speed, and within five seconds their identification plaques were visible. Located on the dorsal hull, where the light from the star reflected off them, two names were visible; FSS ARCTURUS and FCC CORONA. Seconds later, they had become small dots again, heading toward the sun. # On board the Corona, Captain Tyrone Richards was awakened from his sleep by the sound of his door chime. Grumbling about being woken up at 2 a.m. ship's time, he hurried over to the closet to put his robe on, pausing only to place an ancient paperback copy of "The Hitch HIker's Guide to the Galaxy" back on the shelf. Since he was still half-asleep, he stumbled over a small step-stool on the way to the door. Conducting a near-flawless faceplant, he picked himself up and strode over to the door. He punched in a code on his wall pad, disabling the locking mechanism, and was greeted by Commander Michelle Hall, the Corona's executive officer. Standing 1.7 meters tall, with short space-black hair, she was one of Corona's most valuable officers. Born on the planet of Ithaca, the fourth planet of the Arcturus system, she was slightly stronger than most members of the crew, as Ithaca had a gravitational pull of 1.4 gees. After graduating from the University of Altair with honors, she enrolled with the Terran Federation Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland. She rose through the ranks quickly, and at thirty-one Terran years old, was one of the youngest XO's in the navy. "Good morning, sir," she said. "I'm sorry that I had to wake up you up like that, but you turned off your comlink." "Yes, I did," Richards replied. "I haven't had very much sleep since we left Alnilam, so I thought that I would take advantage of this opportunity." "I understand, sir, but the captain of the Arcturus is on Commchannel Four and wishes to speak with you. He said something about 'unusual electromagnetic fluctuations' in the vicinity of the fourth planet." "All right," Richards said as he attempted to brush his hear out of his eyes with his right hand. "I'll meet you on the bridge in five minutes. Thank you for bringing this to my attention." As Commander Hall walked down the corridor toward the bridge, she began to get a bad feeling about the energy readings, much like a certain other Federation officer had received immediately prior to the Battle of New Jupiter. Figuring that it was nothing, she shook her head and walked to the turbolift. # When Captain Richards arrived on Corona's small, circular bridge, the image of the Arcturus was visible on the viewscreen. The viewscreen's field of vision was centered on the Beta Ancaster star, with the ventral hull of Arcturus's forward hull appearing in the upper middle section of the streen. Its nose was pointed almost straight ahead, likely scanning the fourth planet. Sunlight reflected off the destroyer's xeranium armor plating, revealing a multitude of laser turrets and missile launchers, ready to defend the small convoy if necessary. Even though Federation HIgh Command had thought it prudent to bring a destroyer along, just in case a Fhyoni battlecruiser decided to drop by, Richards seriously doubted the logic of it. Just before he turned away from the viewscreen to open a commchannel with Arcturus, he noticed a small flag which looked exactly like the one on his shoulder; a blue rectangle with two olive branches. It was similar to the flag of Earth's United Nations, but was different in one respect. Huddled between the branches, where the UN flag showed a polar view of the Earth, lay an above view of the Milky Way galaxy. Even though the two organizations had different flags, they both had similar goals: the United Nations strived for world peace from 1945 to 2056, when the first planetary government was formed, and the Terran Federation had been trying to establish galactic peace since its founding in 2112. However, the campaign had not gone smoothly in recent years, ever since the Fhyoni War broke out in 2445. How ironic, Richards thought, that the worst war the galaxy has ever known began exactly five hundred years after the worst war that Earth has ever known ended. Glancing at the flashing "incoming communications" indicator mounted beneath the main viewscreen, he knew that trouble was brewing, as Arcturus's Captain Hansen rarely opened a commchannel unless there was a problem. Taking his seat in the command chair, he turned to the comm station. "Lieutenant Kiritis," he said to the cat-like Sirian at communications, "open a commchannel to the Arcturus." The Sirian replied in the affirmative and quickly set up the link. Within seconds, the image of the Arcturus had been replaced by the visage of Arcturus's CO, Captain Telerius Hansen. Originally from Bellatria, he left his homeworld at the age of seventeen Terran years to study at the prestigious University of Altair. After his six-year tenure at the school, he signed on to become a fighter pilot at the Federation Pilot Academy on Demeter. After becoming one of the most talented pilots to ever attend the FPA, he piloted a Banshee in such conflicts as the Perseus War (2449-2450) and the War of 2452. After being promoted to his current rank in 2456, he had served in several major convoy battles, commanding the Arcturus in all but one. The Arcturus itself had been in drydock when, due to the insistence of Federation High Command, its repairs were cut short in order to escort a freighter from Alnilam to Beta Ancaster, a small orange dwarf in the deep boondocks of the Perseus spiral arm. While it was not exactly an optimal use for a Proxima-class destroyer, Hansen preferred that Arcturus was out in space, under its own power, rather than having technicians swarming around the vessel back at Starbase Omicron 7. After he had finished confirming that the channel was secure, he turned his head up to a level where the viewscreen could see it clearly. Behind him, members of Arcturus's crew were visible walking around the bridge. "Captain Hansen," Richards said, "to what do I owe the honor of communications opened by you?" Laughing, Hansen replied, "That's the Tyrone Richards I remember. Back on the Saratoga, you had a comedic quote ready for every day of the week." "Yeah, that's right," Richards said. "So, Telly, what can I do for you?" He intentionally mentioned Hansen's old nickname to see what kind of response he would receive. "It's not 'Telly' anymore, it's 'Tellus'. A man like you should know that." "Okay, 'Tellus', I'll remember that. Now, what's the problem at hand? Gravity flux? Ion storm? What?" Responding quickly, Hansen said, "No, it's neither of those, but they are good guesses. In fact, it's quite similar to our primary problem, the EM flux near the fourth planet. One of the moons of the outermost gas giant is displaying strange energy readings. When we analyzed them, they almost seemed like a Fhyoni signature." Looking concerned, Richards sat up in his chair. "Judging by the power of these energy signatures, what would be capable of producing htem?" "Just a second," Hansen said as he worked a computer. "According to this, it looks like a simple hyperfusion power plant that's been abandoned for a year." "All right," Richards said as he stood up, "but do you think that this discovery should take precedence over the electromagnetic flux over Ancaster IV?" "Hmm..." Hansen put his hand on his forehead, apparently in deep thought. "No, I don't believe so. However, we can't just thunder away before we investigate this phenomenon." "I agree," replied Richards. "What I think we should do is send Corona's Banshee to investigate the moon, while four of Arcturus's Hurricanes take up a position half a million kilometers ahead of us. Doing that will increase our scanning range and lessen the possible risks toward Arcturus and Corona." Even though neither of the ships had any evidence that the EM flux threatened the ships in any conceivable way, it was Federation policy for phenomena like this to be treated with caution. This policy had come into place back in 2314, over one hundred years before, when the starship Polaris was destroyed by a sudden solar flare erupting from the primary star of the Capella system. When Polaris's telemetry was analyzed one month later, it was determined that the solar flare had been detected approximately one minute before the vessel's destruction. As a result, the Chief of Naval Operations quickly devised a policy dealing with strange sensor readings. "All right, I agree," Hansen said after some deliberation. "I'll scramble the Hurricanes immediately. I suggest that you do the same with your Banshee. Out." Hansen's face vanished from the screen, and was replaced with the Arcturus realigning its course and getting ready to power up its ion engines. "Well," Richards muttered to himself, "who should I send on this mission? Can't be the pilot - he transferred off at Alnilam. Wait a second - yes, that's it!" Standing up from his chair, Richards surveyed the cramped bridge, looking for his executive officer. Finding his quarry, he started to speak. "Commander Hall," Richards said, "What is your current pilot rating? Level 4?" "Actually, sir," said the Ithacan, "it's Level 7. I did some training exercises when I was on Spica last month." "All right then, how would you like to take a spin in the Banshee?" Richards wore a grin on his face. "I'd like that very much, sir," said Hall. "Then what," said the captain, "are you waiting for? I know you've been waiting a long time for this opportunity, so go! I'll download your mission parameters into the fighter's onboard computer." "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Hall saluted, then turned around and entered the turbolift. Returning to the command chair, Richards pressed the intra-ship comlink button. Speaking loudly, he said, "Richards to hangar deck!" Seconds later, the words "Hangar deck here," were emanating from the speaker. "Hangar deck," he said, "get the bird ready to launch. Arm it with plasma torpedoes." The hangar deck's affirmative response filtered through Corona's circuitry within milliseconds. Upon hearing the reply, Richards terminated the comlink. # Several minutes later, after donning her flight suit, Commander Hall exited the turbolift and walked into the upper hangar deck. A short, tunnel-like passage jutted out ahead of her for approximately fifteen meters. At the end of the passageway sat the door into the flight control room, a cramped space with a small positronic computer and vessel-to-fighter uplink system. The walls of the passage were covered with transparitanium, affording Hall a spectacular view of the hangar bay directly below. The hangar bay itself was a seemingly cavernous room, kept at zero-gee at all times. Three maglocks extended down from the roof of the bay, seeming like stalactites deep inside Mammoth Cave on Earth. The locking appendages, specifically designed for Banshees, extended further down from the maglock tubes themselves. They were arranged in a layout similar to that of a triangle; the forward clamp was attached to the forward fuselage over the tachyon communications antenna between the cockpit and the hyperradar array in the nose, while the bottom two were attached to the port and starboard wings. The outer thirds of the wings themselves were currently folded upwards at a ninety-degree angle to conserve space, not unlike the wings of fighters based on aircraft carriers in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. In addition, a small, vertical tube which completely covered the cockpit extended up and into the corridor where Hall was standing. After confirming that there was an atmosphere and zero-gravity in the tube, Hall unlocked the hatch and floated down into the Banshee's cockpit. The Banshee's cockpit was standard for most fighters and small shuttles in service of the Terran Federation, with a small, padded seat that had emergency ejection capabilities, a gravity generator, a control stick, and lots of displays. While managing such a craft would certainly seem daunting to the average skyskimmer pilot, it was no problem for experienced pilots like Hall. She sat on the pilot's seat, automatically triggering both the grav generator and the seat harnesses. Pressing a button on the main console, she closed and sealed the cockpit. Giving a verbal command to the Banshee's onboard computer, she heard the relaxing sound of the fighter's ion engines coming on-line. "Computer," she said, "open a channel to Control." "Control here," came the reply. ""Control, this is Banshee. Begin launch sequence." "Acknowledged." Underneath the Banshee, the great bay doors began to swing open, creating an exit path for the fighter, seeming like a bomber about to drop its explosives. "Computer," Hall said, "fold wings to flight position." The computer complied, and several seconds later it said that it was ready to launch. "Okay then," replied Hall. "Computer, release the maglocks!" Even in zero-gravity, the force of the ejection was enough to push Hall down into her seat. When she cleared Corona's hull, she set a course for Beta Ancaster VII. Rocketing towards the planet at full velocity, Hall decided to open the mission profile. After a relative lull in the mission lasting for about an hour, the flight time from the take-off point to Beta Anc VII, a relatively quiet klaxon sounded in the cockpit. Upon hearing the klaxon, Hall ordered the fighter's computer to end reciting the most recent copy of the Arcturus Picayune, Hall's homeworld newspaper. While the newspaper itself had its head office on Ithaca, it serviced the planet of Ithaca, its two moons, the six inhabited asteroids, and the ten moons of Arcturus IX. Before the computer had stopped reading the publication, it had been talking about a large earthquake near New Corinth. Hall then adjusted her helmet-mounted HUD (Heads Up Display) and said, "Computer, overlay the location of the energy signature on the HUD visor." On the green, transparent sheet of duraglass, a red dot pulsed in the moon's southern hemisphere. Steering the Banshee towards the location, Hall switched the active weapon from the particle cannon to the plasma missiles, which formed the image of wandering crosshairs in the HUD. The missile had almost locked onto the energy signature when laser fire began erupting from the surface of the moon. Reacting almost instinctively, Hall jerked the control stick away from the moon. After exiting the range of the lasers, Hall had a decision to make. Should I fire a plasma torpedo and risk destroying half the moon, or should I execute a strafing run? she thought. After agonizing over the decision for several minutes, she decided on the strafing run. Just before she was going to tell the computer to set up a course for the run, the "Incoming Communications" light winked on. "Computer," she said, "what type of commchannel are we currently receiving?" After analyzing the transmission for a second or two, the computer responded by saying, "It is a standard Terran Federation broad-band distress signal." Distress signal? she thought, then she remembered the EM flux at Beta Anc IV. "Computer," she said, "let me hear it." The resulting noise was a combination of static, multiple explosions, and people trying ot be heard over the din. "To any and all Federation vessels near the Beta Ancaster system, this is Captain Hansen of the Federation vessel Arcturus." Hall felt a chill with the mention of the destroyer's name. "We are under attack by multiple enemy vessels. We've lost engines, and the shields are buckling. They have already crippled the freighter we were escorting and forced it to crash-land on the third moon." An explosion, louder than all the others, filtered through into the Banshee's cockpit. Accompanying it were the unmistakeable sounds of a hull breach siren and a damage control team boarding a turbolift. "Please," Hansen repeated, "if you can hear this message, please assist us! I repeat, we are under attack in the Beta Ancas-." The last three letters of "Ancaster" were drowned out by the sound of a monumental explosion, which was replaced by static several seconds later. Hoping that the static was just a result of the primary tachyon transmitter being damaged or destroyed, Hall realized that she had to assist. "Computer, close the commchannel, engage the stealth field, and plot a hyperspace microjump as far in-system as possible without putting the ship at risk." When the computer reported that it was ready to execute the microjump, Hall simply said, "Engage." In a flash of light, the Banshee promptly disappeared into the swirling blue hyperspace vortex. # Arriving at Beta Anc IV twenty minutes later, Hall's eyes were met with devastationi. Debris - tools, frozen bodies, hull fragments littered the scene. While the majority of the fragments were the size of Hall's fighter or smaller, the hypperradar quickly detected a fragment fifteen meters long. As it drifted into view, Hall was able to make out the letters "FSS ARCTURUS DD 475." "That explosion I heard must have been the antimatter reactor losing containment," Hall said, thinking aloud. After the fighter's radar had finished scanning the wreckage, discovering no life-signs in the debris, Hall swung the fighter towards the third moon. Upon achieving orbit, Hall said, "Computer, scan the moon for life-signs." "Scanning," the computer said. Finally, it said, "One hundred and four life-signs detected." "Computer," Hall said, "can you specify the life-forms on the moon's surface?" Within seconds, the computer responded, "Detecting eighty-seven humans, nine Sirians, three Trannians, and five Bellatrians." Realizing that, since Corona's crew complement was only fifty-six beings, part of Arcturus's crew had survived. Those crew members might be able to give descriptions of what Hall had dubbed the "Battle of Beta Ancaster." Sending a coded tachyon burst transmission to Starbase Kappa 16, informing them of the situaiton, Hall piloted the Banshee through the atmosphere to an effortless landing among the wreckage of the Corona. ********** This story is distributed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 license. That means you are free to Share - to copy, distribute and transmit the work - and to Remix - to adapt the work - under the following conditions: Attribution. You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work). Noncommercial. You may not use this work for commercial purposes. Share Alike. If you alter, transform, or build upon this work, you may distribute the resulting work only under the same or similar license to this one. Previously on Common Words