"Reee-laaax", Thompson said, and he smoothed out the shoulders of my jacket. "We're gonna wow 'em. We've got a great product. You made a good product."
He was damn right, I had. BX900 had been mine, from inception and design through to prototyping and trials, and I'd done damn good work.
BX900 was, in fact, my best work.
"You coulda worn a sharper tie, though." He tugged at my tie, straightening it.
"I like this tie," I replied, and I must've betrayed some measure of tension or stress because Thompson flinched, let go, and stepped back.
"Okay, okay, easy, there, Cam. The tie is fine." He was damn right about that, too -- it was the art deco one that Lucille gave me right after we got married. In fact, I'd worn this tie to keep me focused and grounded, not to mention to help me cope with the reality of the moment. In just a few minutes, a bevy of military brass would be stepping into the show lab, and Thompson would try to sell them the greatest thing I've ever made: the most unlikely weapon they'd ever seen.
They weren't gonna buy it.
"...see that Balthazar Dynamics' reputation is well-earned. Our state-of-the art R&D facilities, paired with the latest in manufacturing processes, allow us to synergize...." Thompson was into his spiel, and eight aging men in uniforms, chests crusted with bars of color and gold, listened. I stood beside him, hands folded in front of me, holding the remote. After he'd introduced me as the lead designer, I fell into half-paying attention to Thompson; I used to be in sales, long ago, and there was -is- still a hole in my soul from that experience. But eventually, I heard him give me my cue: "...the BX900 Field-Deployable Tactical Superiority BioPlatform."
I pressed the button on the remote in my hands, heard the pen door open, took a breath --
-- and waited.
Two seconds later, BX900 strode out of the pen and into the center of the show lab.
Silence hung over us all, until one of the military men found his wits -or maybe just his voice- and said:
"That's a cow."
Thursday, October 19, 2017
Thursday, October 12, 2017
Astroarchaeology 101
"Score."
Sendero grinned, slowly at first, but soon let the smile spread over her entire face. The buzz of discovery and success never got old; neither adulthood nor university-ingrained professionalism could dull that shining, childlike sense of wonder and pride.
She knelt to the ancient floor, heedless of moss and rust, and placed her hands to either side of the battered panel on the wall. A tilted shaft of wet, grey sunlight speared down from what used to be the ceiling, giving her enough light to work by. She reached into the tool pouch across her chest and found the familiar handle of her multidigger by touch. She read and re-read the flaking, distressed letters on the wall in their ancient script:
Sendero grinned, slowly at first, but soon let the smile spread over her entire face. The buzz of discovery and success never got old; neither adulthood nor university-ingrained professionalism could dull that shining, childlike sense of wonder and pride.
She knelt to the ancient floor, heedless of moss and rust, and placed her hands to either side of the battered panel on the wall. A tilted shaft of wet, grey sunlight speared down from what used to be the ceiling, giving her enough light to work by. She reached into the tool pouch across her chest and found the familiar handle of her multidigger by touch. She read and re-read the flaking, distressed letters on the wall in their ancient script:
MEMORY CORE ACCESS
Behind her, Lev paced back and forth, arms crossed over his chest, but ready to drop to his blaster. He was watching the hole in the wall, beyond which the trees and mist could be hiding anything. Still, there was nothing to indicate to him that they'd been followed, or that anyone knew they were here...
...which was exactly what made him so nervous.
Lev and Sendero were on the fifteenth floor of what used to be a state-of-the-art high-rise tower, before whatever event occurred to drive its inhabitants away, not just from the city but from the entire moon. "Probably about three, four hundred fifty years ago," Sendero had suggested during their pre-landing recon flight over the ruins of the city. "That's long enough for the rainforest to press back in. See the trees, coming out of the cracks there in that concrete plaza? That takes a while."
"They sure didn't leave me much space to land. I'm gonna have to set down away from the buildings. I hope you're not averse to a hike down in that." He'd gestured out of the cockpit toward the ground below, wild with greenery and cloaked in mist. The viewscreen wipers squeaked and rumbled, wiping away sleet.
Sendero mumbled something, then pointed at a leaning tower. Stacks of white rings, greyed with time and moisture, rose past the treetops. "There," she'd declared, and Lev swore he'd seen her jump in her seat a little. "Put the ship down there!"
He'd grimaced. "Are you nuts...? Didn't you just hear me say--"
"I heard fine, Zeno! That's where we're going! That's my site!"
"That's an old building."
"A research facility! It's in the notes that Professor El Madrid gave me! That's the one, the one!"
He'd stifled a sigh, found the closest and clearest spot he could, and set the Red Barchetta down in the middle of what had been some kind of road, now choked with wet grass and vines.
Sendero twisted her digger, and used it to pry the panel away from the wall. "Lovely...!" She set the panel aside and gazed within. Time had been kind to the mechanisms inside; the metal parts were of something rustproof, and the moon's humidity had helped to keep the plastics from getting brittle. And in the heart of the machine sat the memory core -- a ridged cylinder about 45 centimeters tall and 20 in diameter, heavy with the secrets of the long-dead.
She grinned again, bit her lower lip, and got to work.
Lev said, "Is that the thing?"
"This is the memory core, yes." He was impatient, this one. "Give me...ten minutes to extract it."
He frowned. "Ten?"
"I've got to be careful. There are leads and clamps and -- stuff that I need to work ar--"
Something arced into the hallway, through the hole in the wall. It was small and round and circumscribed by a ring of blue light.
Lev's eyes shot wide, and almost without thinking, he leapt sideways, grabbed Sendero under the arms, and hurled her down the hallway.
"What the -- ?!"
He dove down next to her and pressed her face down to the old tiles, just as the stun grenade detonated with a crack and a whine.
Sendero felt an electric whip snap through her spine into her skull, and her vision filled with sparks for a heartbeat; her body told her she was horizontal, but her brain insisted she was treading water. Half in panic and half in curiosity, she tried telling her body to flip over so she could see what was going on--
She felt herself swing like a pendulum, but she found herself sitting up, looking down the hallway toward the hole. She was vaguely aware of Lev, still face down, inches away from her, motionless.
At the far end of the hallway, a blurry figure -damn, everything was blurry!- hovered into view -- humanoid, dark, faceless, not touching the ground. Its arms were out at its sides, with something in each hand. Blasters...?
"Today's a holiday for you, right?" The figure's voice was amplified, filtered. "Probably. You people have a holiday for everything...anyway."
Her vision sharpened. Yeah...blasters.
"Well today's a holiday for me, too!" The figure -not a figure, a man- glided closer. "I call it...
"...ass-kicking day."
In case it wasn't painfully obvious -- unless I specify otherwise, everything you read here is a first draft. I do some editing as I go along, yeah, but for the most part, it's all rough. It sure shows on this one, doesn't it?
In any case, the characters and situations presented here aren't new -- they've been bouncing around in my head, and on my gaming table, for some time now. They need definition, though, so maybe by writing about them on Whoops, Fiction! will help me establish that.
In case it wasn't painfully obvious -- unless I specify otherwise, everything you read here is a first draft. I do some editing as I go along, yeah, but for the most part, it's all rough. It sure shows on this one, doesn't it?
In any case, the characters and situations presented here aren't new -- they've been bouncing around in my head, and on my gaming table, for some time now. They need definition, though, so maybe by writing about them on Whoops, Fiction! will help me establish that.
Tuesday, October 10, 2017
Satisfied Detachment: A Character Sketch
It was the kind of evening that Shiv liked, which meant that everyone else was miserable.
"Jesus, it's like walkin' through curtains." LiquidMax wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. "Curtains of soup."
Shiv was pegging his jeans, and didn't look up. "Well it's gotta feel like somethin'." He finished work on his left ankle, and switched feet on the little wall in front of the parking lot between The Den and Pizzapocalypse. He was sweating, too: beads of the stuff prickled at his forehead, ran down into his eyes, dripped onto his mirrorshades. But he didn't say anything about it, out of -- what, pride? Obstinacy? Rebellion? He didn't know.
He didn't want to know.
LiquidMax stood next to him, tapping a sneaker on the pavement, hands in his pockets. "Pícale, cabrón. It's gonna get late and she's gonna leave." Down at the corner, the arcade's hologram projectors flared to life and threw a pair of dogfighting starfighters over the street; the laserblasts they traded had a fuzzy blue halo, their edges softened by the humidity in the air. LiquidMax jabbed a finger at them. "See? Getting dark."
Shiv rolled and tucked the hem of his jeans, then set down his foot with a stomp. "Okay, okay! Jeez! Damn, man." He pushed his fingers through his mohawk and shook himself out. Under his breath, he grumbled: "...just a girl."
'Max nailed him with a glare -- even with his robot glasses on, you could tell he was glaring. He didn't say anything; he didn't have to. Shiv waved forward impatiently, "Well, c'mon, hurrypants! Go!" He snarled and glowered and started walking, and he shut his damn mouth before he said what he was really thinking, or expressed anything else.
Well, at least the evening was nice...he concentrated on that, and on the fact that no one seemed to like it but him. He focused on that feeling of satisfied detachment.
He imagined, for a moment, that someone told him that he was actually hiding in it. Someone in particular.
He started humming a song so he wouldn't have to think about her anymore, and led LiquidMax off into whatever dumb adventure he'd be a part of tonight.
"Jesus, it's like walkin' through curtains." LiquidMax wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. "Curtains of soup."
Shiv was pegging his jeans, and didn't look up. "Well it's gotta feel like somethin'." He finished work on his left ankle, and switched feet on the little wall in front of the parking lot between The Den and Pizzapocalypse. He was sweating, too: beads of the stuff prickled at his forehead, ran down into his eyes, dripped onto his mirrorshades. But he didn't say anything about it, out of -- what, pride? Obstinacy? Rebellion? He didn't know.
He didn't want to know.
LiquidMax stood next to him, tapping a sneaker on the pavement, hands in his pockets. "Pícale, cabrón. It's gonna get late and she's gonna leave." Down at the corner, the arcade's hologram projectors flared to life and threw a pair of dogfighting starfighters over the street; the laserblasts they traded had a fuzzy blue halo, their edges softened by the humidity in the air. LiquidMax jabbed a finger at them. "See? Getting dark."
Shiv rolled and tucked the hem of his jeans, then set down his foot with a stomp. "Okay, okay! Jeez! Damn, man." He pushed his fingers through his mohawk and shook himself out. Under his breath, he grumbled: "...just a girl."
'Max nailed him with a glare -- even with his robot glasses on, you could tell he was glaring. He didn't say anything; he didn't have to. Shiv waved forward impatiently, "Well, c'mon, hurrypants! Go!" He snarled and glowered and started walking, and he shut his damn mouth before he said what he was really thinking, or expressed anything else.
Well, at least the evening was nice...he concentrated on that, and on the fact that no one seemed to like it but him. He focused on that feeling of satisfied detachment.
He imagined, for a moment, that someone told him that he was actually hiding in it. Someone in particular.
He started humming a song so he wouldn't have to think about her anymore, and led LiquidMax off into whatever dumb adventure he'd be a part of tonight.
Shiv and LiquidMax are old characters of mine. They're cyberspace cowboys in the Gibsonian tradition, young and impetuous and full of the virtues and flaws that make you human. Shiv, in particular, is kind of my avatar; he feels the things that I don't want to anymore. They inhabit a retrofuturistic cyberpunk neverwhen, an amalgam of the 1980s and some pre-dystopian future that only the 80s themselves could've -or would've- imagined.
I've written more about the characters and the setting, and they have tons more to say for me, but for right now, this is enough.
SUGGESTED MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENT: "A Million Miles Away" by The Plimsouls
SUGGESTED MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENT: "A Million Miles Away" by The Plimsouls
Yeah, I'm New Here, Too.
What's up? Yeah, me too. So...what's with this blog, huh?
Well, here's th' thing: I like to write, but I can't call myself a writer. See, writers write, and I don't do that with enough frequency to, you know, call myself that. I need to spend more time doing it, on the regular.
Enter this blog.
The idea behind Whoops, Fiction! is for me to write for about 30-60 minutes a day, to get myself into the habit of actually writing -- even if I'm what I'm writing isn't continuous. I'll write little scenes, character studies, dialogue, outlines...you know, fiction stuff. Maybe the stuff in one post will inspire or lead into later posts, creating fiction almost --
-- almost by accident.
I could do this on paper, but a blog lets me assign tags and stuff, to create a mocking semblance of organization. That way, anyone who wants to read this stuff can sort through, follow what they like, and skip what they don't.
So. Who in the hell am I, and why would you want to do that stuff I just said?
I'm Andrew. I just turned 43, like, four days ago. I like to make stuff up, and use words to move and entertain people. I favor science fiction, especially the space opera kind -- but I am a nerd of many loves, so maybe I'll write fantasy, action, or even moody, doomed romance stuff now and then. I'll do my best to keep it PG-13, and fairly safe for work. I think I'm funny, so some of what I write will reflect that pretense. If you laugh at it, good. If you laugh because of it, better.
This post is too long. I need to work on brevity.
Okay. First fiction post to follow in the next 24 hours. Hope you enjoy whatever it is I come up with.
Well, here's th' thing: I like to write, but I can't call myself a writer. See, writers write, and I don't do that with enough frequency to, you know, call myself that. I need to spend more time doing it, on the regular.
Enter this blog.
The idea behind Whoops, Fiction! is for me to write for about 30-60 minutes a day, to get myself into the habit of actually writing -- even if I'm what I'm writing isn't continuous. I'll write little scenes, character studies, dialogue, outlines...you know, fiction stuff. Maybe the stuff in one post will inspire or lead into later posts, creating fiction almost --
-- almost by accident.
I could do this on paper, but a blog lets me assign tags and stuff, to create a mocking semblance of organization. That way, anyone who wants to read this stuff can sort through, follow what they like, and skip what they don't.
So. Who in the hell am I, and why would you want to do that stuff I just said?
I'm Andrew. I just turned 43, like, four days ago. I like to make stuff up, and use words to move and entertain people. I favor science fiction, especially the space opera kind -- but I am a nerd of many loves, so maybe I'll write fantasy, action, or even moody, doomed romance stuff now and then. I'll do my best to keep it PG-13, and fairly safe for work. I think I'm funny, so some of what I write will reflect that pretense. If you laugh at it, good. If you laugh because of it, better.
This post is too long. I need to work on brevity.
Okay. First fiction post to follow in the next 24 hours. Hope you enjoy whatever it is I come up with.
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