Casimir Hypogean: Chapter Eight

Casimir Hypogean: Chapter Eight

(Catch up on earlier chapters here)

Chapter Eight

            Lucien toweled off his body, evaluating his abs in the fogged mirror.  He’d been working lots of shifts lately and letting the morning crunches slide.  Sloppy of him.  An alarm chimed suddenly inside his PUDI, the warning signal that someone was coming down his hallway.  He left off his vain musings and pulled on a pair of pants as he headed through the bedroom leaving damp tracks across the plush cream carpeting.

It was Sif.  Lucien had been expecting her sometime that week, knowing she’d run out of her Drift vials soon.  Her pale skin was painted with black markings, the kind used to confuse the facial recognition programs in the drones and various surveillance cameras.  She was also stumbling gracelessly to his door, making more noise then he’d ever heard her make in the years he’d been her Drift supplier.

He had the door open before she’d reached it.  Her green eyes were glassy as they stared up at him and she just shook her head, pulling out a small metal spike from a pocket in her black pleather belt.

“Poisoned. Hunter-killer drone,” she said, stumbling past him toward the main examination room.

Lucien caught her elbow and gently guided her to the secondary room.  His patient was still recovering in there, out cold on the table.

“All right, I can analyze the chemicals, come on, sit down here.”  The secondary room was set up much like the first, only far smaller and without the moveable lights and adjustable tables of the main.

He noted her slight recoil from the space.  Sif had an intense dislike of examination rooms, probably from her youth as a science experiment.  He’d asked her once what really bothered her, wanting to know more in a clinical way than a personal one, and she’d only shrugged and said “it smells like blood someone tried to wash away, over and over.”

Now she said nothing, just sank into the chair and ripped open her sleeve for him to see the tiny wound.  It was puffed up and the skin, so delicate, so inhumanely pale, was an angry bruise now with deep red lines shooting through it.  Her superior immune system was fighting as hard as it could, but losing slowly.

He pressed two fingers to her wrist.  Her pulse was sluggish and he guessed the poison had a paralytic in it.  Cheap, lazy chemists.   Lucky for Sif, however.  There were far deadlier substances available, for the right price.

“I’ll give you a shot of Drift, it’ll help until I can make an antidote.” Lucien talked as he worked, swabbing the dart for a sample.  The hollow tube had a sack inside that ruptured when it struck and many tiny holes along its length to let the poison seep out into the wound.  It hadn’t gotten deep in Sif and plenty of the stuff remained on the dart turning almost sticky as it evaporated and dried.

Sif bit her lip and some of the light came back into her gem-like eyes as he loaded a syringe with Drift for her.  Her perfect mouth curled into a half smile as the drug settled into her damaged veins.  The relief was instantly apparent. Her face smoothed out into the doll-like perfection that Lucien could never get enough of looking at.  Some would find her uncanny.  Not he.  He appreciated the level of skill and decades of research and experimentation that had gone into creating the genies.

Her friend, Ryg, now.  There was an unfortunate accident of nature and science.  A necessary byproduct of experimentation, but sadly still living on.  Ryg was as disgusting to Lucien as Sif was beautiful.  He still repaired and did what he could for the abomination.  He was a doctor and keeping something like Ryg alive was a point of personal conflict.  Mercy killing it would be preferable, but Lucien knew the day he did that would be the end for him.  Sif would end him.

Sif was almost perfect and perfectly deadly.  The need for the chemicals in Drift was her only weakness and it bound her to him more firmly than if he’d tied her down with all the chains in Casimir.

“Shh, easy,” Lucien told her as he laid her back on the table.  She didn’t want to relax under his hand but he kept firm pressure on her uninjured shoulder and she relented, letting him feel her over in a mostly clinical manner. “I have more supply for you, though not as much as I’d like.  Things have been tight with the worry over the Council nomination.”  This was, of course, a giant lie.  He had people in his proverbial pocket all the way from street dealers to administrative staff for the Council families themselves.  Drift, pure, clean, untainted Drift, wasn’t any harder to come by now than before the suspected assassination.

“I’ll take it,” Sif said, closing her eyes.

“Paying with credits, or. . .?” Lucien left his ungloved hand on her thigh, watching that lovely doll face.

“Or,” she said so softly he might have mistaken it for a sigh if he hadn’t been watching her lips.  She didn’t open her eyes as he smiled and his hands started to rove again, this time gently removing her clothing.

His heart started beating a familiar rhythm and his loose, drawstring pants suddenly felt too tight as arousal hit him in a hot wave.  Her body relaxed completely and Lucien knew she was taking herself away, deep into the quiet, crazy mind of Sif, deep where no one could reach her.  She was soft, pliable flesh beneath his dark hands, so warm and paper pale.

This body could kill him in an instant and it thrilled him.  This was the real joy, real power.  He bent low and drew her thick gold hair from its braid, burying his face in it. She smelled of paint and sweat and something underneath so sweet and tangy, like fresh cut goya fruit.  Lucien stood up and soaked a cloth in water.  Gently he washed the paint from her face and then stroked the cooling damp rag down her naked body.

“Sif,” he murmured and she turned her face away, bringing another smile to his face.  Not so deeply gone, then.  Still here, still feeling his presence, awake and aware of her submission to him.  Good.  Still smiling, Lucien reached for the ties on his own pants.  Tonight hadn’t turned out so poorly after all.

* * *

            Ryg wasn’t alone when Hex finally got back to the apartment.  Kadin’s presence wasn’t that surprising because Ryg had said the job that had just gone completely sideways was one he’d contracted through Kadin.  Hex didn’t recognize the tall woman with skin as smooth and dark as finely lacquered wood.  Her eyes were a rich brown, flecked with violet in a way that reminded him of his daughter’s eyes and caused an instant dislike the roiled like a tangible thing in the air between them.

Ignoring the confused look on the woman’s face, Hex focused in on Ryg.  He looked smaller somehow, curled in his chair in front of the screens with even more of a kicked in expression than normal.

“The whole thing went to the roaches,” Hex said.  He knew he should establish who this woman was before he blurted out about the damn job, but screw it.  Her being here, Kadin being here, Sif not being here.  It was too much.  “Non-lethal patrol drones? Really?”

“What happened? Where’s Sif?”  Ryg craned his head around, looking for her in the room beyond.

“Don’t know.”  Hex shoved the image of her sprawled in a concrete hallway, convulsing with poison as Grey Guard burst in, shooting her on sight just because of what she was.  Or not shooting her.  There were worse things and a genie wasn’t a person at all to the Guard.  Hex knew what they might do to her; how they might take her if she wasn’t dead.  He’d been one of the Guard once, half a life ago.  Before the law said his illegal second child had to die.  Before his wife had died instead with a Drift needle still in her veins.

“Shit,” Ryg muttered.  “She’s got her PUDI set to bounce.”

“And Tommy isn’t responding either,” said Kadin.

“Who is Tommy?” Hex started to ask and then glanced at Kadin. “Wait, “the Mouth”?  That Tommy?”  Tommy “the Mouth” was a scrappy little code junky.   Hex felt he was unreliable, but had nothing solid to complain about.  Tommy mostly dealt with Ryg when they had to deal with him at all.  Eggheads speaking the same language and all that.

“Yeah,” Kadin said with a heavy sigh.

“And who the hell is she?” Hex jerked a thumb at the woman standing around like she’d rather be anywhere else.  Not that he blamed her.

“I’m Nico,” she said with a shrug of her slender shoulders as if to acknowledge that her name would mean less than worms to him.

“Great,” Hex said.  “So what were we really doing up there in Kajipe?  Something that took a code junkie and a drift junkie apparently, yeah?”

“I’m not a Drift junkie,” Nico said when Ryg just pressed his lips together and looked like he was going to take a year or two to compute a reply.

“Sure, sweetheart,” Hex muttered, giving her a disgusted look, “and I’m not a man.”

Her eyes narrowed but she half-smiled, saying “well, I’ll just take your word on that one,” and suddenly Hex started to like her a little more.

Not enough to thaw out fully.  Junkies were unreliable, even the smart ones.  Maybe especially the smart ones.

“It’s my fault,” Kadin said, holding up placating hands.

Hex got the impression from the quick look Ryg and Kadin shared that they’d been talking over their PUDIs about what to tell him, so he glared really hard at Ryg, imagining how his scrawny white neck would feel if he gripped it and shook until all the metal bits and pieces and maybe some truth fell out.  Shaking wouldn’t make Sif get back any quicker, or make her any safer.  He took a very deep breath and waited for whatever story they were about to spin him.

“You can’t tell it all to Sif,” Ryg said softly, surprising Hex.  Ryg and Sif shared everything, like twins almost.  He’d learned quickly, years ago, that he couldn’t get between them and didn’t want to be there even if he could.

“Tell what?”  He felt very tired, the long night and the adrenaline dump coming up on him like a thick bat to the head.  He backed up a couple steps and leaned into the wall, crossing his arms.

“We hacked into a government black box.  At least, we might have.  Tommy has the drive and he’s missing,” Kadin said.

“That office you and Sif were in was patched into the government hard wires and it created a leak.  I used that chip I sent you with to load in programs to get me into the servers below.  My programs collected data using keywords and dumped it onto a drive, which is what we’re now missing,” Ryg said, anticipating Hex’s questions. “But I’m not sure it worked.  The power got cut sooner than I expected I guess, because the security and stuff in that office wasn’t what I expected either.  That’s listed as an administrative filing office, not a sophisticated server room.  And definitely no records of Hunter-killer drones.”

“And we don’t know if Tommy was successful.  He went offline and now isn’t responding on his PUDI.”  Kadin shook his head, worry creasing his dark brow.

“Sif, too.  Not a good sign.” Ryg hunched over further, looking translucent and hollow, as though his clothes hung on an empty frame instead of bone and flesh.

“Nothing on the Wires about anyone being picked up?” There was always a chance, Hex knew, that this would leak quickly.  It’d been well over a couple hours now and the illegal Wires would still be running even though it was past curfew.

“Nothing,” Ryg said. “A little chatter about the Guard being called out to the Totsi Electronics building and then nothing further.  The power grid is up again, so they’ve got the Guards from the hub.  But they won’t be able to tell them much.  That part went off fine.”

“If they had Tommy or Sif, we might not know until morning.” Nico shook her head.

“If they have Sif, she’s dead.” Hex didn’t mean to say it so flat and hard like that, but he couldn’t help himself.

“No, they won’t get Sif.  Not Sif,” Ryg said it more like a prayer than a statement.

“Why hack the box? Is there credit in this?” Hex remembered the promised six hundred.  Didn’t seem likely now.  But they could have had a buyer for this information, whatever it was.

“The appointment,” Kadin said.  “We wanted to collect any data on the nomination for the new Councilor.  That could be worth a lot of credit to the right people, maybe even saleable to more than one group depending.”

Hex chewed the inside of his cheek and thought about it.  It was a gamble, but he understood what they’d been thinking now.  That six hundred was gone for sure and that made him a little sick inside and angry again.

“You conned us,” he said to Ryg, not caring that it made the hollow man flinch as though physically threatened.  “You’re right, Sif will be pissed.  You know how she feels about anything to do with the Council.  That’s your problem.  You don’t tell her if you want, but you’ll be explaining the missing credits.  Six hundred.  Each. You pull that number out of your mechanical ass?”

“Hex, please,” Ryg said, shivering now.  He looked as though he might cry and Hex wondered if he still could with all the implants.  He felt mean and small and exhausted.

“No. Explain the rest later.  I don’t care.  I’m going to bed.  Wake me up if I need to shoot someone.  Otherwise, fuck off.”  He slammed his way out of the room and across the common space, kicking a pillow as he went. It hit the far wall with a very unsatisfying fuft noise.  Hex flopped down on his mattress and closed his eyes.

Come back to me, Sif, he mouthed in the dark.  Eventually he fell asleep waiting for the sound of a door that didn’t open and he dreamt restless dreams where a violet-eyed girl asked him if she could have breakfast yet.

(Continue Reading in Chapter Nine)

Neo-pro Interview: Lon Prater

Interview: Lon Prater

Who are you? 

Lon: I’m Lon Prater. I retired not long back from the Navy and now hang my hat in Pensacola, Florida.

What’s your genre/history/etc?

Lon: Mostly dark. Horror (Lovecraftian and otherwise), Weird Crime and History.  Occasionally science fiction.  I suppose the lightest story I tend to write would be classified as a “cautionary tale.”  The mood of much of my work falls somewhere between noir and tragedy.  Despite this, I am a pretty happy person who finds a lot of joy and laughter in the real world.

What’s your Race score? (1 pt for every short story out to market, 3 points for every novel query (1 per novel only), 8 points for every full (once per novel only also) )

Lon: Thanks for reminding me–not just of the Race scoring system, but that I’m supposed to send my stuff out.  As I write this, I’ve just finished my bi-or tri-monthly push to get my stories out there pounding the pavement, looking for work. So my score at the moment is 20.  Soon to plummet, no doubt.

And I don’t dare mention what the score was 12 hours ago. Did you know it really is possible to die of shame?

When did you “get serious” about being a writer?

Lon: Heh. Which time?  Family members claim I declared my intention to be a writer when I was about 6 years old.  I made several flawed attempts between then and 2003, when finally something I threw out into the world landed in the much beloved Borderlands series, volume 5. Not long after, I entered Writers of the Future and ended up a Published Finalist in 2005. Since then, I’ve only gotten serious about being a writer five or six times.  Somehow, though, I tend to get more things published when I’m just having fun with being a writer.  So it’s all good.

What are your goals with your writing?

Lon: Sometimes, I want to write stories that challenge my abilities and what I think I can do with the form.  This would be epistoleries such as “Never the Twain” [Daily Science Fiction”] and weird second person thingies like “You Do Not Know What Slipstream Is” which appeared in the much-missed Lone Star Stories.

Sometimes, I want to write stories that capture some theme or insight that is bugging the crap out of my brain and will continue to do so until I get the darn thing written and out there into the world.  Most recently, this would be the experimental novels I indie published this summer: The American in His Season and The Island of Jayne Grind.

And yet other times, I just want to have so much fun writing my stories that strangers who read them send random emails telling me how much they enjoyed them (which sometimes means “how much they were disturbed by them”).  I’m thinking here of “This Is My Corporation, Eat” which was published in IGMS at the beginning of this summer, and “Kids Cost More” about a magic-wielding Mafiosi out for revenge.

Where do you see your career in 5 years?

Lon: I plan to still be writing, and trying to get my stories inside the heads of more readers. I’d like to have landed a traditional publishing contract at some point, but that’s only one leg of the tripod.  I’ll always  adore the risk-taking small press and like to support worthy ventures and bold visions.  Self/Indie Publishing is the final leg of the tripod.  I’m fairly new to the joys of Kindle, Createspace, etc. but I like to think I’m catching on fast.

I don’t look at the career end as very “career” to be frank.  This is something I do because I enjoy it. I like to write stories and create whole worlds in other people’s heads who come back for more. It’s great when I can get a happy meal or a car payment out of it, but I don’t foresee a day when all I do for a living is write. For one thing, where would all the good material come from?  The idea of becoming some bestseller who always writes about writers because that’s all I know anymore kind of terrifies me. Good thing most of my writing is so niche-oriented that I hardly have to worry about that nightmare coming to pass, eh?

Do you have a particular story or idea you are dying to write? Or, if you could write a tie-in to any established universe/franchise, what would it be?

Lon: I finished my average 60K words early this year (plus a bonus short story!) and have been focusing on converting some older published work to ebook, revising a few originals for the same end, and–more to your question–plotting a fun and somewhat spicy arc for a series character that I want to begin writing before the year is out.

Till now, I’ve never felt like I wanted to work in series fiction. But I’ve always found ways to push my own limits, and with this character and idea, I think I have enough traction to make a go of it.

If I was to get a chance to write in other people’s worlds, I think I’d get a kick out of writing a Calvin & Hobbes novel.  Yes, I know this one will never, ever happen for anybody, but that just makes me want to do it even more.

What are your hobbies outside writing?

Lon: I am a devoted Texas Hold’em nut, but I really like playing card and board games of all descriptions. We have been playing a lot of a Canasta style game called “Hand and Foot” lately.  When the winds are good I tend to take my stunt kites out to the beach and tear holes in the sky with them.

What’s your writing process like?

Lon: It’s changed a lot over time.  At first, the trend was toward writing gradually longer stories as my “writing muscles” developed.  In time, I discovered my natural novel length is at the 50K end of the spectrum.  (I’ve never done NaNoWriMo, though. The timing and pace stinks for how I usually work.)

Then I began to really understand story structure, and it colored my process quite a bit. For a long time I thought in terms of four act structure, and found that I tended to work very similarly to the first few steps of Randy Ingermanson’s Snowflake Theory. I still use a model much like that when plotting a story (or editing one.) But now there’s the new wrinkle, adapted from Dan Wells’ 7 Point Structure, of considering the changes in status from beginning to middle to end.

I’m always looking for new craftsmanship ideas to try on, creatively. Some I use for one story, some I keep for years until I outgrow them.

What’s been toughest about your journey so far as a writer?  How do you keep yourself going?

Lon: I think it’s probably been distraction and guilt.

It’s easy for me to get distracted by the shiny stuff on my laptop screen and make no progress even when I am dedicating time for nothing but forward progress on a project. The best workaround on this for me has been the Alphasmart Neo. All you can do with it is write.  I’ve put over 700 pages on mine so far, and I’m still on the first set of betteries.  Only downfall, IMHO, is that it is just smidge too simplified of a word processor.  I’d kill for the ability to do italics and underlines when composing on the Neo.

Regarding guilt, there’s two parts. First, I’d go read writers blogs about the daily progress meter and how “writers write” and if you aren’t writing every day, you must not be a writer.  That kind of thing used to get me really down. Because I don’t write every day.  I do keep track of my writing, with a simple date, # pages in Standard Manuscript Format. This helps. I write somewhere north of 60K a year, usually over about 30 well-scattered calendar days.  And I submit the stuff I write to editors who actually pay me for the right to publish it!  Realizing that I must be a writer even though I don’t apply butt to writing chair every day was a huge relief.

The other part of the guilt is that when I am focused on writing I feel guilty about all the things I am not doing with or for my family. I am grateful to have their support, but there’s an uneasy, whispering voice that’s always there, telling me if I really cared about my wife or my kids, I’d stop writing right this instant and go spend time with them.  Finding a balance and feeling like it’s okay to do this writing thing for is a tricky hill to climb, and one I always feel like I’m falling down the wrong side of.

Any tips or tricks you’ve figured out for improving your writing?

Lon: The best piece of advice I can offer anyone–and this is what I feel has done to most to improve my stories and craft–is to aim for some new goal with every story you write, and to keep that goal in mind every time you sit down to write. Also, pick some particular aspect of your technique that you are going to be mindful of with every session–whether writing or revising.

I never thought I’d write a time travel story, until I challenged myself to figure out what a Lon Prater time travel story would look like. Beyond Choose-Your-Own-Adventure, I’ve never had much use for writing in the second person, but I’m still proud of accomplishing what I set out to in “You Do Not Know What Slipstream Is”.  When I edited one story in particular, I gave myself the goal of paying extra attention to sensory elements beyond sight and sound.  Another time, I focused on bringing out the theme and mood  by finding better verbs all the way through.

The key is: Consciously challenge yourself in some deliberate way, every time you write or revise what you have written. And after, make sure you know what you learned from the process.

And finally, got anything you want to pimp?

Lon: There are free previews available for my two indie pubbed novels, The American In His Season and The Island of Jayne Grind at my site. I’d be delighted if readers of your blog were interested enough to go there and take a look.

Thank you to Lon!

Casimir Hypogean: Chapter Seven

Casimir Hypogean: Chapter Seven

(Go here to catch up on previous chapters)

Chapter Seven

            Dr. Lucien Graeme had just come home from a mandatory ten hour shift at the Ijipe Morninglight Clinic and all he wanted to do was take a long, scalding shower and curl up in his bed and surf the Wires until he fell asleep.  He walked up the last flight of steps to his door, noticing the blood trail that slowly grew from droplets on the hallway floor to a ragged smear along one dingy blue wall outside his door.

It seemed there truly was no rest for the wicked.

Lucien’s day job was as a surgeon for the city clinics, beholden to the Council and its dictates for his livelihood.  And while the pay was enough to survive on, it certainly didn’t allow for Lucien’s own expensive and often less than legal tastes.  The easiest way to afford his toys and the extra rations was to run his own clinic and go on being a doctor long after official hours were over.  Casimir had a seething underbelly of not quite legal people doing not quite legal things, and sometimes those things led to injuries that would be inconvenient to explain.

So he stitched up and patched up and medicated all sorts of criminals and in return got paid, sometimes in credits, sometimes in favors, most often in goods or services.  Lucien thought of himself as a very reasonable man.  He always found ways for his extracurricular clients to settle their debts.

The boy curled up in a ragged ball outside his door this time wasn’t someone Lucien had seen before.  He stared up at Lucien with bruised-looking eyes too big for his thin face.  Not a boy, a man, but a skinny, unkempt one, clutching a satchel and a badly broken arm.

“You the doc?” the man said through chattering teeth.  Lucien recognized the signs of shock and wondered how far this idiot had come with that arm.

“Sure,” he answered, unlocking his door.  The hallway was clear, his PUDI was linked into his private wires and monitoring the security system installed.  Lucien owned the entire floor of this section.  He liked his privacy and needed the space to hold all his specially acquired equipment.

He helped the man up, noting his dilated pupils and unsteady breathing as well as the thin film of sweat coating the guy’s face.  Definitely in shock.

“I’m Dr. Graeme.  How’d you find me?”  Lucien asked as he half carried his patient through the foyer and into his after hours examination room.  It was highly unlikely this sucker was working for the Grey Guard or anything.  Even they wouldn’t go so far as to give someone a compound fracture just to uncover an illegal medical practice.

“I’m Tom. A friend said, I mean,” the man said, shivering. “I can pay.  Friend said you fixed up people who aren’t on the official forms.”

“Let’s get an IV in you and set this arm, then we’ll worry about payment,” Lucien said in his best bedside doctor voice.

Tom seemed to relax at that, though he didn’t want to let go of the satchel until he was assured it would just sit on the floor until the procedure was finished.  Lucien got him comfortable and pulled on gloves.  Everything was laid out in a neat, orderly fashion, but sometimes he missed having a competent nurse.  Too much risk, however, and a nurse would have to live in the flat to be any real use since his after hours clientele were erratic at best.

What he didn’t tell Tom was that what he was adding into the IV would knock him out.  The man’s thin face smoothed out and his jaw went slack as Lucien counted back slowly from fifty as he got his implements ready and assembled what he thought he’d need on a tray.

With his patient blissfully unaware, Lucien was free to examine the arm.  A hand-held x-ray imaging machine slowly scanned and loaded a picture of the broken arm.  The radius was the bone sticking out of the skin, and it was fractured into three pieces.  The ulna looked better, but had a nasty fracture as well with hairline spidering of the break all through the bone.  He’d lost a lot of blood as well but at least his tendons looked mostly undamaged.

A quick slide and check revealed blood type and Lucien started a bag going.  Tom’s heartbeat was steadier now that he was on painkillers and unconscious.  Lucien took a deep breath and tucked his mask up over his nose, pinching the bridge.

It would be easiest to amputate the arm at the elbow.  Otherwise this would take a pin or two, a lot of stitches, and using one of the special breathable casts he’d acquired from the clinic.  Far, far simpler to just remove the damaged arm at the elbow.

Underneath the mask, Lucien smiled.  Simple was for hacks and quacks.  This arm was a challenge, and as tired as he was, he still couldn’t resist the lure of putting something so broken back together again.

Besides, the man had said he could pay.  Amputation was so much cheaper than surgery.  Tom would pay, Tom would be grateful.  A little consideration now might yield unknown dividends in the future.  Small-minded men where the ones who didn’t plan ahead, didn’t seek longer term advantages.

Lucien’s foot tapped the satchel as he pulled up his chair next to the examining table.  He made a mental note to go through the bag this man had clung to through all his pain and trouble, a bag that might have something to do with how his arm was crushed in the first place.  Later.  Now, now was the time to begin his latest masterpiece, now he would deal with this ruined arm and make it whole again.

* * *

            Sif figured whoever had come up with the design for these stupid Hunter-killer drones must have been the god of con artists.  The little drones were quick, but their hovering depended on magnetic forces, so their movements were simple to predict.  They also hummed a little, the kinetic motors creating an almost aural static that a normal human ear might have been able to track, but her ears did just fine.

The Hunter-killers also broke easily, not being designed at all for slamming into walls and floors at high speed.  Against a slow, stupid thief with no night vision, she could see the darts working. Maybe.  These drones were never going to have the chance to find out.

Using her PUDI as a mini-map for the building, Sif led the drones away from the stairs she’d sent Hex up.  There was another way to the roof from here if she went out a fire escape access point and she wasn’t averse to a little climbing.  The hallways dumped into each other, one winding corridor after another, and she knew this was taking too long.  Hex would be well away by now, however, and the drones seemed to have given up pursuit.

She was nearly to the door when the whir warned her.  Sif dove to the side, dropping down.  A sharp prick stung her shoulder but she ignored it, twisting and rolling down the hallway in a half-tumble.  The murmur of the drone’s motor located it for her and she was up again, kicking off one wall to gain height as she leapt and smashed the annoying thing into the concrete and plaster wall.  It lodged there, humming angrily.

Sif’s arm started to go numb and she could almost feel her cells curdling and dying as the poison tried to invade her system.  With one hand she plucked the dart out of her shoulder.  It was thick and short with the dark gleam of the poison coving half its length, seeping out from the hollow center through invisible holes.  So tiny a thing.  She tucked in gingerly into a pocket in her belt.

It wouldn’t kill her. Probably.  But it meant a detour on the way home.  She felt the familiar hunger in her blood.  She needed more Drift, she was burning through her body’s resources too quickly doing everything she’d done tonight and, now, fighting off the poison.  There was nothing else for it.  She’d have to go see Lucien and barter something other than credits for his services and her drugs.

            With a grimace, Sif slipped out onto the fire ladder and into the neon-lit night.

(Continue Reading in Chapter Eight)

My Orycon 33 Panel Schedule

Yes. They are putting me on panels. Seriously. It’s a squee Immareelritur moment.

So here is where you can find me during Orycon 33, which takes place in Portland, OR from Nov 11 to the 13th.

Fri Nov 11 2:00:pm- 3:00:pm The Real Middle Ages
Why do writers love the Middle Ages? What do writers leave out or get wrong?
(*)S. A. Bolich, Donna McMahon, Annie Bellet, Renee Stern

Sat Nov 12 11:00:am- 12:00:pm Heinlein’s Rules
What are Heinlein’s rules of writing, and should you follow them all to the letter?
Steven Barnes, (*)Edd Vick, Mike Shepherd Moscoe, Mark Niemann-Ross, Annie Bellet

Sat Nov 12 12:00:pm- 1:00:pm Kung Fu vs Wire Fu
Are your fight scenes realistic? Even if they are, do they work on the page? What makes combat feel real, what makes it clunk, and how much blood you can get away with splashing on your readers.
Sonia Orin Lyris, Rory Miller, (*)Steve Perry, Annie Bellet, Steven Barnes

Sun Nov 13 1:00:pm- 2:00:pm Self-publishing, the new vanity press?
Will going it alone work or not?
John C. Bunnell, (*)Jess Hartley, Annie Bellet, Victoria Blake

Sun Nov 13 2:00:pm- 3:00:pm Getting your first professional sale
An author can struggle for months or years before achieving their first success, but even after writing their opus, they can be tripped up by a process which is both entirely new to them and yet critical to their success. This panel describes what an author may experience as they revel in their first success.
(*)Jess Hartley, Mary Robinette Kowal, Annie Bellet, Edward Morris, EE Knight

So if you are in town, Orycon is a pretty sweet little convention.  And you could watch me get kicked out after being mobbed by my fellow panelists (note: mobbing is not promised.  But my friends have always said my special superpower is that I can make anyone want to hit me and I have some pretty strong views on writing as anyone reading this blog might have noticed, so I predict at least a few sparks in some of these panels).  I also am doing the writing workshop and have multiple victims stories to read and critique for that, which any of my fellow Clarionauts can tell is my favorite thing, ever. Really.

It should be fun though. I enjoyed Orycon when I went a couple years ago, and it is neat to be able to come back as an invited panelist.  Shows that even though I still feel like I’m sitting in the ditch, I have actually come quite a ways in the last couple years with this whole writing thing.

Neo-pro Interview: Nathaniel Lee

Who are you?  What’s your genre/history/etc?

Nathan: I’m Nathan, or Nathaniel Lee for my Srs Writer Name.  I write oddball stuff that probably would get stuck in “magical realism” or “slipstream” or whatever the term du jour is.  My standard approach is a basic modern-day setting with Something Different About It, and a dearth of explanation as to how or why, for example, words now cause physical damage to match their emotional damage or a hole in the ground is swallowing all the water in the world.  I think of myself as mostly a fantasy author, if that helps, treading on the borderlands of horror every now and then and rarely dipping into SF.

What’s your Race score?

Nathan: I’ve got 21 stories out right now because that’s all the stories I have in a finished state.  I’m a little behind with my polishing; I’ve got three or four stories waiting for revisions/edits, whereas normally I keep that down to two or fewer.  Duotrope says I’ve submitted somewhere around 140 stories in the past twelve months.  My policy is to juggle them right back out as soon as they hit my inbox with the rejection note.  I’ve got a “Writing” label in Gmail that is a deep purple, so when I look at my e-mail and it starts looking like a bruise, then that’s my To-Do List for the weekend.  Once they’re sent back out, I can archive the rejection letters and move on with my life.

  When did you “get serious” about being a writer?

Nathan: Around about 2008.  I am not making tons of progress, but on the other hand, I was fairly desultory about it for the first year or so, writing only a half-dozen stories or so.  I’ve written 20 stories so far in 2011, which has been much more satisfying.  I joined a support group of sorts where the ostensible goal was to produce 25 stories for the year, or one story approximately every two weeks.  I think I’m the only person left actually trying to achieve that, but it really helped for the early bits.  I cannot emphasize enough how much even the tiniest bit of outside accountability helps boost one’s productivity. The effect is astonishing, even on someone as lazy as I am.

  What are your goals with your writing?

Nathan: Well, it would be nice to be able to support myself with it, but I am fully aware that is a pipe dream.  I would be content as a D-grade celebrity, able to go to tiny local conventions and attend events as a Serious Writer or have the occasional successful signing at a local bookstore.  Be one of the names that gets scooped out of slush at a few decent magazines rather than languishing with the hoi polloi. Even just having a book published that I can go to a bookstore and see on the shelves.  I do not want fame and fortune; very mild success will suffice for me.

I’m frankly skeptical I’ll ever achieve that, mind you, but I’ll keep plugging away.  Next year is Novel Writing Year, where I will force myself to finish at least one Damned Book.  (I have three or four 50K+ half-finished manuscripts lying around.  My ADD and general pessimism keep sapping my will to continue on such long projects.)

Where do you see your career in 5 years?

Nathan: Well, barring some kind of unexpected surge, I might have a book and maybe an agent to go with it by then.  Judging by my progress to date, there will be an awful lot of running without much forward motion on the old treadmill.  I think this video pretty much sums up how I picture my writing career: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cMO8Pyi3UpY

Do you have a particular story or idea you are dying to write? Or, if you could write a tie-in to any established universe/franchise, what would it be?

Nathan: Usually if I want to write something, I just do it.  I have a list of story seeds right on my desktop, and I open it up whenever I finish a story to pick the theme for the next one.
I’m not hugely into fanfiction – due to Sturgeon’s Law, mostly – but if I had the chance to work on, say, a novelization of an Avatar: The Last Airbender story/sequel/standalone, that would be a ton of fun.

What are your hobbies outside writing?

Nathan: I am a gigantic nerd.  Like, massive.  I read a lot of spec-fic, naturally, and I also enjoy neuroscience and psychology books or interesting science books in general.  I love roleplaying games – much of my writing skills were honed playing forum-based Vampire and D&D and so on, actually – and I am deeply into board games.  We have an entire walk-in closet that is pretty much full of board games.  I favor abstract strategy games, but I also like word games, war games, and your basic Euro-game with little wooden cubes and no way to burn down your enemy’s huts, alas.

I’m also a total hipster/snob about this stuff.  I’m really insufferable.  Like, I don’t play just D&D or GURPS; that’s so *pedestrian*.  No, the games I really like are weird offbeat indie games, like Don’t Rest Your Head and Nobilis and Mouse Guard.  I’m the guy who will cheerfully sit and chat in-character for hours but gets antsy after twenty minutes of combat.

What’s your writing process like?

Nathan: I call it “gumbo.”  I get an idea, and I jot it down.  Then it goes into the Pot of the Subconscious and simmers with all the other stuff down there.  Periodically, I pull something out and look at it more closely, see if I can see characters, a plot, etc., to go with the original striking image or phrase or thematic idea.  Often, I toss it back in the pot to keep cooking, but sometimes I can tell an idea is “done” and ready to go, at which point I dish it up, add spices, and serve.

To drop the metaphor, I am primarily a “pantser,” but not a pure one. I rarely just start writing without any forethought whatsoever.  I just don’t write any outlines or character sketches in advance; it all builds up in my head, organically, and I leave the details vague.  As I write, I find the specific notes I want to hit flow very smoothly out so long as the basic idea has “simmered” for long enough.  If I find myself hesitating a lot or dithering over whether, say, the protagonist has a beloved father or a lost spouse, I know the idea wasn’t cooked all the way through when I pulled it out.  I usually complete a story in one or two marathon sessions of two to six thousand words.  More rarely, I will work on a story slowly over a week or two, but I find those stories tend to need a lot more editing and refining afterward.

What’s been toughest about your journey so far as a writer?

Nathan: The resounding “meh” with which I have largely been met.  Hatred is fine; apathy is hard to swallow.  Given that I tend to love stories that everyone else also says “Meh” to and to dislike stories that receive widespread acclaim, I have attempted to resign myself to being a niche taste with a relatively limited audience.  Which I’m fine with; I just would like to find my audience already.

How do you keep yourself going?

Nathan: Well, I’m going to be making up stories no matter what; if I weren’t writing for publication, I’d be putting excessive amounts of time into some forum roleplaying game or something.  I figure, I might as well send the stories out and see if I can sell ’em, y’know?  It costs nothing, or almost nothing.  I keep a pessimistic outlook and assume failure is a given; that way, when I get rejection notes, I get the grim satisfaction of being proven right about how crappy my writing is, and when I manage to score a sale, it’s pure frosting.

Any tips or tricks you’ve figured out for improving your writing?

Nathan: Nope.  There’s only one way to expertise, and that’s practice.  Read a lot and write a lot.  That’s all you can do.

And finally, got anything you want to pimp?

Nathan: I maintain a daily writing blog of 100-word stories at www.mirrorshards.org.  It is called Mirrorshards, creatively enough, and it is the closest thing to an Author’s Website I have.  (There’s a link to my bibliography on it and everything.)  I’ve been writing a story a day since November 2008, though last year I dropped it to six days a week.  I do not update regularly enough, but I try to catch up whenever I miss a day or two.  I flatter myself that I have developed a decent level of talent at microfiction at this point.

All the stories there are under a CC license that explicitly allows derivative works so long as the original is credited, so anyone who wants to steal my ideas and write a “real” story with them can freely do so.  Not that anyone but me thinks they are interesting ideas, but still.

Casimir Hypogean: Chapter Six

Casimir Hypogean: Chapter Six

(Catch up on previous chapters here)

Chapter Six

         Ryg started cursing again as one portion of his screen, the window following Sif and Hex, went dead blank.  He couldn’t reach them through their PUDIs either.  But his progs were running.  Whatever had jammed the Wires and stopped communication wasn’t jamming up the feed that ran through the hard cables up to the array on the roof and down into the hidden government black box below.

Hex and Sif can take care of themselves.  Ryg had his own job to do.  He hadn’t known what kind of programs he’d need to help him get into the servers, so he’d loaded the chip with the works.  Now he streamlined it, pushing his best trackers and code-catchers to the front, searching for the access points.

To anyone on the outside, the data flowing past Ryg’s eyes would have looked like numbers with the occasional strange characters woven in, but to him it was another world.  There! When the BioCore servers had been rigged to piggyback on the government array, they’d left open doors into the servers.  It was a clean, efficient job and Ryg almost wanted to meet the code writers who’d done this.

Stop admiring someone else’s work and do your own, he told himself.  He tripped the keyword hunters he’d laced his progs with and cued them up to compile the data onto the right hard drive, the one that Tommy would swap out as soon as Nico and Kadin cut the power.

Sitting alone in his room, Ryg bit his lip and focused in.  His friends were all out of contact.  Beyond his control.  Easier to contain what he could and let the rest go.  He was almost in, almost there.  The progs were copying things from the BioCore servers as well, but that would just help confuse anyone looking for a trail.  And who knew? That information might come in handy or be sellable at some point.  He had things perfectly under control.

Then his screens went black.

* * *

            Nico scanned the help document on the console in front of her and brought up the right control screen.  The tech, currently sweating this out tied to his chair, had logged in when he’d arrived at work, which made her job a lot easier.  But she needed another code to open the override box on the wall behind him.

“Alim?” she said softly, guessing at his name from the user log on the console. “I need a code to open the override.”

“Don’t you tell them nothing,” the fat guard said.  He was sweating to and kept posturing with verbal threats as though his words were scare Kadin and her away.  The man was called Combs by his partner, as in “shut the hell up, Combs” and “for Loria’s sake, shut the damn hell up, Combs”.

Kadin glared at him and threatened to backhand him again.  Combs already had a fat lip from a gentle tap a little earlier.  He shut up again, glaring, looking like a fat grey sack with big dark circles of sweat stinking up his creased uniform.

“Alim?” Nico didn’t want to seem in a hurry, but time was passing and they needed to throw the switch soon.

He glanced at the two guards and then, sighing as though the building had just come down onto his chest, he gave her the code.  The door of the override box slid open, revealing a bright red lever with a bunch of warning text written too small to make out from a distance.

“Red, of course.” Nico smiled at Kadin.  “Get the door.”

Kadin opened the door and blocked it with his body.  Nico waited for his nod and then grasped the lever.  With the jammer on, it was impossible to know if they were running exactly on schedule, but the timing was close.  Seconds shouldn’t matter.

“Good night,” she said, and flipped the switch.

* * *

            Tommy felt the humming within the walls die out as the tunnel he lay in went eerily silent.  Things were going exactly to plan.

“Booyah, go time,” he said and rolled up to his feet.  He shook out stiff limbs and worked his head around to loosen up his neck muscles.  Then he picked up the heavy pry bar and worked the door open.  With the electronic locks disengaged, it was easy work.  Just an understanding of physics, a little applied pressure, and bam.  He was in.

Tommy left the pry bar in the doorway, just in case they had the timings off and the place tried to lock down on him.  The room was a reinforced, repurposed utility room.  The servers stood in a single bank in the middle, with heavy fans venting out into the old sewer tunnel.  Those fans were one of the things that had tipped Kadin and his team off to where this box might be.

Tommy slipped the hard drive out of its case in his satchel and counted down the banks until he found the seventh.  He was pretty sure Ryg had meant seventh from the top, anyway.  The room had a lot of shielding and his PUDI wasn’t cooperating even with the power out.  No way to check, so he’d just go with his first instinct.  Seven from the top.

The drive slid free easily and Tommy replaced it with the duplicate.  Someone would notice the replacement at some point, but he doubted anyone checked on this place often.  There hadn’t even been distinct footprints in the settled dust outside the door.  The replacement drive was generic, bought with stolen credits, and untraceable.

Tommy tucked the new drive into his satchel and grinned.  Let them try to come for him, come beg for their dirty little secrets.  On this drive would be information about the upcoming nominations.  Info someone would pay dearly to have.  He licked his thin lips, tasting the synthetic fibers of the mask.

A vibration, then a low hum were his only warning.  The power kicked in, more quickly than even his fastest calculation.

“Crap on a stick.” Tommy dove for the closing door, getting his hand on the pry bar before it shut.  The heavy steel inched open as he worked it with the bar, but red alarm lights had come on and time was running short.

Tommy wedged his body through the opening, the steel crushing in on his thin chest and hips.  Almost. Almost.  His body made it through but the door crunched shut on his arm, the pry bar keeping the locks from engaging fully.  Tommy screamed and scrabbled at the door with is free hand, finally gripping the pry bar enough to force a space so he could yank free.

His arm was crushed, the flesh purpled and bleeding and his fingers wouldn’t move when he tried.  Pain lanced through him.  No time, no time at all.  He left the pry bar and bolted down the tunnel, hugging his arm to him.  Somewhere behind, he heard the telling whir of a security drone, but Tommy didn’t look back.

* * *

            With their PUDIs jammed, Hex and Sif had to communicate with gestures.  Any sound would give away their positions to the Hunter-killer drones.  The heat and noise of the server banks helped disguise them for the moment at least and the positioning the of the servers meant the drones couldn’t come in over their heads.

Hex caught Sif’s eye and she made a tiny motion indicating she was going to engage to the right.  Sif had out her longer knife now, but Hex wasn’t sure how much good it would do against the tiny balls of metal darting through the room.  His gun would at least disable them, if he didn’t miss.

So I won’t miss.  No problem at all.  He took tiny breaths and waited for Sif to move.  She was quick and her movement would distract the drones.  He had to let her go out there.

When the government had been experimenting with making quick humans, the genies, for a controllable, replaceable workforce for outside the dome, the initial trials hadn’t gone well.  Ryg was a model from one of those earlier attempts.  Sif was the last and best of the attempts, before the government shut the program down in favor of just using illegal children and captured criminals.  Too much money, too much expense, too many ethical issues.

But not before the Sifs had been created.  Assassins, lovers, guards.  Playthings for the elite.  Smarter, stronger, faster.  Genetic masterpieces utilizing the full majesty of the human DNA code mixed with something more.  Sif had never told Hex what that something was.  He knew she had issues, and that she got something from the creepy doctor Lucien Graemes.  But he never asked her what.  Sif had always made it crystalline clear that she took care of herself.  No questions.

So he didn’t argue with her mimed plan, just gave a slight nod that he knew she’d pick up even in the red-tinged shadows of the server banks.  The grip of the eletro pistol was smooth and almost soft in his hand, the rubber warming to his nervous hold.

Abruptly, the hum of the servers died away and the sudden silence hovered thick and strange around him.  The lights had gone out as well and for a moment Hex couldn’t see at all.  He jerked his night vision goggles down over his eyes and jammed the wire into his PUDI by feel.

The world turned to green shadows and Hex threw himself aside just in time as a shiny greenish ball hurtled toward his location, a fine dart pinging off the server framework where his head had been a moment before.  Guided more by instinct than reason, Hex brought his pistol up and squeezed the trigger.

The drone hit the concrete floor with a satisfying thunk.  One down.

“Program chip,” Sif’s voice said over the re-activated subvocals.  The power was out, which meant, thank the gods, that jammer was down.

Hex slid around the side of the servers and felt for the right spot with his free hand.  Another thunk told him Sif had found a target and disabled another drone.

“Got it,” Hex said.  His fingers found the chip and he yanked it out.  Too late to leave without a trace, but there was no point in getting sloppy and making it easier to trace them.

Green glinting metal and the flicker of a bright patch of light caught his eye.  Hex ducked behind another bank of servers, working his way toward the door.

“Are you guys all right?” Ryg had rebooted the connection now that the jammer was gone.  “What’s going on?”

“Hunter-killer drones,” Hex said, shooting down another one.  Sif materialized from the darkness and leapt up, nearly to the ceiling.  She kicked off the wall in a half-sideways jump and slammed another drone into the floor as it came around the servers, just ahead of where Hex stood.

“What?” Ryg said something else but the high pings of servers rebooting and the renewal of power to the jammer somewhere in this room cut him off.  It was wire silence again.

Hex quickly disabled the night vision before the renewed lights could blind him fully.  He sprinted hard for the door, but Sif got there first, slamming it open and leaping up to spike another drone into the hard concrete.  They ran, not trying to speak, keeping low in the corridor and making for where he remembered the stairs should be.

The jammer had a range on it and Hex could have shouted with joy when his PUDI started connecting again and the maps of this stupid place came up, pinged by Ryg who was clearly waiting for the two of them to come back online.

Sif shoved him aside into a wall and Hex grit his teeth at the bruising force as he felt a dart skim past his hair.  The whir of more drones filled the hallway.  Too many.

“We’re screwed here,” he told Ryg. “We need a better exit.  These things’ll be able to go anywhere we can.”

“Can you shut them out? Get to a door?”

“We’ll just be trapped and they can probably come through the vents.”

“Working on it,” Ryg responded.

They hit the stairway doors and Sif kicked it in.  It was a fire door, heavy but on hinges, with a safety bar that gave easily to Sif’s insistence.  Hex was on the first step when he heard the door close behind him and the thunk, thunk, thunk of drones hitting hard surfaces.  He jerked around, gun ready.

Sif wasn’t behind him.  The stairwell was empty for the moment and beyond the closed door he knew she was fighting the Hunter-killers.  Alone.

“Move,” her voice ground out over the sub vocals, a soft burr inside his head.

She’d catch up.  He’d just get in her way.   Probably.  It was better this way, safer for both of them.  It’s better, like that makes it easier, yeah.

Hex holstered his gun and made for the roof, taking the stairs two at a time.  This stairwell opened into another hallway, leading to more stairs and finally to a roof access ladder.  He came out, half expecting to find the Grey Guard or at least some security drones waiting.  Wind rushed across the dark surface of the roof, rustling through the leaves of a small garden just in front of him.

Hex waited for a slow count and then took off across the roof, scrubbing his face clean of the paint as it started to rain.  It wasn’t curfew yet, if he could make it down to street level after going across a few buildings, he’d be safe enough getting back to Ijipe before the city shut down.

“See you,” he murmured to Sif across the wires.  There was no response.  Refusing to think about it too much, Hex headed home, his face set and grim.  Time for that discussion with Ryg.

(Continued in Chapter Seven)

New Collection and Also Music for Writing

First, the business stuffs or whatever.

I have a new fantasy short story collection out.  Here are the shiny details:

A pregnant witch must decide between protecting her heritage and protecting her unborn child… A man looking for a better life learns there is a permanent price attached to change… Grieving for his lost brother, a man faces the mother of all tornadoes with a little magical assistance… When a social worker threatens to break apart her family, a single mother of two must use all her imagination and courage to escape to a better world.

This is a collection of four fantasy short stories from Annie Bellet.  Included are: River Daughter, La Última Esperanza, Roping the Mother, The Scent of Sunlight.

*Bonus Material*
The first five chapters of “A Heart in Sun and Shadow”, a fantasy novel set in a re-imagined ancient Wales.

You can buy it for Kindle here: http://www.amazon.com/River-Daughter-Other-Stories-ebook/dp/B005SM8372/

And in all other formats via Smashwords here: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/93998

Now, on to what I want to talk about in this post.

Music. Specifically, the music I use when writing.  I’m always curious about what other people listen to while writing (or don’t listen to) but I am not sure I’ve shared some of my favorites.

It often depends on what I’m writing, but generally, I can’t write without music.  I gotta have it.  I prefer music without English or Spanish words (or at least pretty incomprehensible lyrics if they are in a language I understand).  But instead of just waxing on forever about this band or that song or whatever, I figured I’d just post some links so you can listen to things yourself.

For writing SF, lately I’ve been totally hooked on the Halo 3: ODST soundtrack.  Listen to this and tell me it doesn’t make you want to go write something full of spaceships and brave people and guns and stuff:

I’ve also been listening to the Bastion game soundtrack a ton.  You can get the soundtrack (or listen to it) here: http://supergiantgames.bandcamp.com/

For writing fantasy, especially epic-feeling fantasy, Two Steps from Hell is pretty much the winner.  Listen to this and then go write a giant sword fight or sweeping reunion among long-lost companions: 

In general, I’ve been enamored of the Red Sparowes lately:

And for writing romances or fantasy or pretty much anything highly emotional scenes, you can’t go wrong with anime soundtracks.  I really love the work of Yoko Kanno:

So that’s the story with me and writing music.  The right song while writing a scene can help me tap into the emotional core I’m looking for or help me visualize the story I’m telling.  I don’t know how people write without music.  It works for some. Just not for me.

By the way, I’m always on the lookout for more writing music.  So if anyone has suggestions of things I might not have heard of, don’t be afraid to post some links in the comments.

Neo-pro Interview: Rick Novy

Interview with Rick Novy

 

It’s Thursday, so here’s an interview!

Who are you?  What’s your genre/history/etc?

Rick: Rick Novy, I write mostly science fiction but stray into other spec fic areas from time to time.  I have something like 40 short stories published, but I’m still missing that third SFWA-eligible sale, though I do have a third pro sale to a non-eligible market.  I also occasionally write non-fiction, usually science or technology aimed at the non-scientist.

I have also edited two anthologies, Ergosphere and 2020 Visions,both from M-Brane Press.

What’s your Race score?

Rick: Very low at the moment, though my high-watermark is around 55.  I had an extremely difficult life situation for about 3 years that sharply curtailed my productivity, and it took about an additional 2 years to recover from it.  I have been coasting on all those stories for half a decade without refilling the tank.  While I have a few new short stories in circulation right now, most of my recent efforts have been long fiction.  I made the decision to become an indie author, so in many ways the Race is no longer a relevant benchmark for me.

When did you “get serious” about being a writer?
Rick: The day I decided I would finish my novel no matter what.  that would be around October 2004.
What are your goals with your writing?

Rick: Foremost, I want to entertain.  I’d also like to make a living at it, and assuming the indie model I have in mind holds true, I think that is a real possibility.

Where do you see your career in 5 years?

Rick: My goal at the moment is focused on long fiction, and I believe I can produce 3 to 4 novels per year. That included all the publishing aspects also.  If I can sustain that pace, I would have 23 novels out (including the three I am trying to finish this year and starting the clock on Jan 1)

Do you have a particular story or idea you are dying to write? Or, if you could write a tie-in to any established universe/franchise, what would it be?

Rick: Two very different questions.  I have a lot of ideas that are in the queue for novels. I have a list taped to my computer desk that is 7 novels deep. I have another list that 8 deep set in the same universe, most of which does not overlap the first list.  I have lots of ideas for long fiction.

I would someday love to write a Doctor Who novel, a Star Trek (TOS) novel, and a Star Wars novel.  The first two I could handle, but I suspect there is so much non-cannon material for Star Wars that I would never be able to be consistent in that universe.

What are your hobbies outside writing?

Rick: More than I have time for. Probably the most visible is that I am a fishkeeper. Today I have 11 fish tanks set up for various species. Some for breeding, some just to have that fish around.  It can be a lot of work if you don’t keep up with the water changes, but if you stay on it, it’s not bad.  Benefit of so many tanks is if I have a health problem in one tank, I still have a bunch of healthy tanks so I don’t get as upset about it.

What’s your writing process like?

Rick: Fits and starts.  I don’t outline on paper–much of that happens in my head.  I pick benchmarks in the story and I let the characters get to them however they get there.  I like to write regularly but as long as I am being productive on some aspect of the business I’m satisfied.

For novels, I use a spreadsheet I got from David Gerrold to track my progress.  I find it helps to pull me through my word count for the day.  I enter my word count and time writing into the sheet at regular intervals.  Watching the daily tally add up (and how quickly it can add up) encourages me to add more.  It’s basically tricking myself into being productive,but it works for me.

What’s been toughest about your journey so far as a writer?  How do you keep yourself going?

Rick: Distractions. I have a lot of them and it’s usually the writing time that is sacrificed to do other things–other people’s demands on my time.  Motivation has never really been much of a problem for me. I’m self-motivated and I believe in my work.  One of the benefits of making the decision to become an indie author is that I have no roadblocks to publication other than my own.  That has been a serious motivator to be productive because I control a lot more of the business. I have become the one who puts up the most roadblocks because when I’m productive, I grow a body of work.

Any tips or tricks you’ve figured out for improving your writing?

Rick: Read and write, and do both a lot. Submit, submit, submit. Subscribe to Heinlein’s rules. don’t let anybody tell you that you can’t do it.

And finally, got anything you want to pimp?

Rick: Neanderthal Swan Song is my first novel. It’s available all over. My website www.ricknovy.com, Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & noble, CreateSpace.

Thanks to Rick for participating!

Casimir Hypogean: Chapter Five

Casimir Hypogean: Chapter Five

(Catch up on previous chapters here)

Chapter Five

“You wanna cup of soup or anything?” Dan Garner asked his coworkers in the Kajipe power hub.  He was already pulling on his coat over his broad shoulders and bored to tears facing another twelve hour shift.  He sure in hells wasn’t planning on doing it while hungry.

“We aren’t supposed to leave, numbnuts.”  Bennett Combs was his fellow guard, a middle-aged, slightly overweight man with a weak chin and reedy voice.  In Dan’s opinion, the chin matched Combs’s personality.

“Sure, I’ll have soup if they got any.”  Alim, the stocky, snub-nosed tech, didn’t even glance up from his datapad.  He was watching something, though the Wires were restricted in here.  But he was an egg-head, so Dan figured he’d found a work-around.

“I’m hungry,” Dan said to Combs, “My lunch is meager as shit since Kira’s mad again, and I’m gonna grab something before curfew closes everything down.”  He glared at Combs, though it was mostly for show.  The guy didn’t have enough spine to report him and Dan had seniority anyway.

“Fine, get me something crunchy and maybe some fresh tea? Stuff they got in the back is crap.  Should be enough on that.”  Combs dug out a plastic WIC card, handed it over to Dan, and then slumped in his chair. The position did unflattering things to his already puffy gut.

Dan hid his grin and punched the open button for the door.  It slid back and he looked down at a slender woman with crazy black and white face paint who was kneeling on the floor.  She had an electro pistol in one gloved hand, pointed right at him, ready to spit paralyzing current.

For the space of a shaky breath he just stood there, staring at her.  Her eyes were brown, flecked with purple and strangely hypnotic.  He tried to cue up the PUDI, get a call out, but it felt like static in his head.  Jammer.  There had to be a jammer nearby.  He felt as though the world had slowed down, as though this was something happening to someone else and he were stuck watching.

“Yo, Danny, that door’ll close on you.”  Combs couldn’t see around him, Dan realized, but his voice broke the freeze and time sped back up again.  Dan started to reach for his gun, fumbling with the safety snaps.

A shadow to the side of the door resolved itself into man, who stepped up behind the kneeling woman.  His hair was short and silvered with age, but the man’s body was still thick with muscle and his dark face was painted in the same terrifying black and white patterns.

“Don’t be a hero,” the man said in a gravelly voice.

“The hell? What’s going. . .” Combs squawked from behind Dan but was cut off by Dan’s sharp gesture.

He backed up slowly and the man and woman followed him, letting the door slide shut behind them.  “What do you want?” Dan managed to croak out.

“For us all to sit tight here,” the man replied.  “You,” he said to Alim, who was half-rising from his seat and reaching for the console controls, “sit back down.”

The woman didn’t speak.  She pulled out a handful of plastic twine from a cloth bag at her waist and started tying Alim to his chair while the man motioned Combs and Dan back against the wall.

“What’re your names?” he asked them.

“Daniel, uh, Dan Garner,” Dan said.

“Shut up, man,” Combs hissed at him.

“They don’t want to hurt us,” Dan said, putting emphasis on it.  He prayed it was true.  Names helped, right? Personalized you to the attacker. He couldn’t remember what they’d told him in training.  All he could think about was Kira’s puffy face and how dying on the job would just make her angrier.  She’d probably yell at his corpse and then go shopping with her lazy daughter.  Dan quickly shoved those thoughts away.

“That’s right, Dan.  We don’t want to hurt anyone.” The man smiled and his teeth looked like fine polished bone.

The woman, who still hadn’t spoken, removed their guns and turned first Combs, then Dan gently around, tying their hands behind them and then easing them into sitting positions and tying their feet.  Combs grumbled and started to resist her, but she jammed her thumb into his throat.

Dan didn’t resist at all, he couldn’t give Kira and his step-daughter the satisfaction.  Her gloved hands were strong on his shoulders as she helped him sit and he caught the scent of something sweet and almost flowery underneath the stronger smell of the paint on her face.  When she turned away he had to stifle a little gasp.

She didn’t have the x-shaped scar or small interface jack in her neck.  A woman without a PUDI? Everyone got them when they were five.  People turning criminal, sure, he knew about that.  Living below the grid and all.  But to start that young? Dan shuddered, more worried now about who these people could be.

Dan still couldn’t figure what they wanted, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it but memorize every detail of these people and hope to get out alive to report later.  With him and the other two secure, the invaders seemed to relax and do nothing.  The woman fiddled with the control console a little, but seemed satisfied to mostly stare off into space. Like they were waiting for something.  Or some appointed time.  Dan shivered, testing the bindings.  Tight. He forced himself to take deep breaths and wait.  They couldn’t remain here forever.

The worst part of it was, he was still damn hungry.  Dan swallowed hard and prepared for a miserable night.

* * *

            Hex and Sif found the door they wanted.  It was a reinforced steel door, built to nominally fit in with the rest of the doors in the hallway, but any close inspection revealed it had been replaced long after this building was constructed.  There was a keypad inside a plexi box with a slider for a magnetic keycard on the side.

“We need a keycard,” Hex told Ryg over his PUDI.

“Sif has it,” Ryg responded.

Sif was already stepping up to the door, a thin piece of plastic in her hand.  She swiped it and waited.  Nothing happened.  In Hex’s head he heard the muttered string of curses from Ryg, who’d left the communication channel open.

“Give me a moment to think,” Ryg added.

Sif shrugged and pulled out a knife, looking at Hex with a raised eyebrow.

“Alarms?” he asked her over sub-vocals.

In answer she jammed the tip of the blade under the edge of the plexi box and used her superior strength to jimmy it open.  The plexi cracked and then broke open.

“Sif! Damnit.” Ryg started another string of curses. “We’re trying to leave minimal trace.”

Hex shook his head and kept an eye on the hallway.  No audible alarms were going off yet and no security drones came buzzing out.

“Fine. Here, use this code,” Ryg again.

Sif punched in the code as he fed it to her PUDI.  This one worked and the door slid open.  Quickly the two of them ducked inside.

“I thought this was supposed to be an auxiliary office.  Administrative and such?” Hex said, looking around.

There wasn’t any furniture in the room.  It was a large space, as though walls had been removed to combine offices and Hex found where a second door had been cemented over.  Against the far wall was a bank of servers, humming away in the near darkness.  They stretched from floor to ceiling and had a thick rope of wires patching them into a gaping hole in the far wall.

“This is, different, than I expected,” Ryg muttered, seeing the room through Sif’s forehead camera.  “When I found the leak, I thought. . .” he stopped himself, as if realizing what he was saying.

“What leak?” Sif’s voice was deceptively soft over the PUDI.  Hex read suspicion in her face that was reflected in his own.

“What are we doing here, Ryg?” he added.

“I’ll tell you later,” Ryg said, sounding resigned. “Just stick the chip in and get the programs running.  We’re on a timer here with those patrol drones.”

“Later,” Sif said, making the word a promise.

Hex pulled the chip with the programs on it out of his jacket pocket and found a port on one of the servers.  He slotted it in.

“Good?” he asked Ryg.

“Yes, I’m in, just. . .” Static cut Ryg off.

“Ryg? Hey?” Hex tried to re-establish the connection and met the hard silence of a jammed signal.  Not good.

Sif met his eye and they melted into the shadows of the room, taking cover behind the server banks as red lights came on and the air filled with the whirring noise of Hunter-killer drones.  Nasty little things, Hunter-killers were fist-sized and carried three lethal darts each.  Whoever had set up the security here wasn’t messing around.

Hex slid his gun out of its holster as quietly as he could and took a deep breath.  No job ever went perfect.  If he got out of this alive, he and Ryg were going to have a very, very interesting chat.

(Read More in Chapter Six)

September and Sundry

September was a stressful month.  I was still recovering from the summer and Clarion (and all the other travel I did).  I was also doing a lot of sitting around and trying to figure out what I should be writing and where my energy should be going.  I think I’ve  got that sorted at least, though it means writing in other genres.  Science Fiction just doesn’t have the large readership I want to tap into, so I’m expanding my horizons and testing new waters.

Ebook sales started out amazing and then died off almost completely until the very end of the month.  I don’t know why but I wasn’t the only one seeing the Kindle sales fall like a stone, so who knows.  I put up another short story collection and a novel in a different genre under a pen name.  Over the next six months or so I’ll be putting up quite a bit of work under pen names, so Annie Bellet probably won’t have much new (other than The Raven King which is coming this winter at some point, I promise).  My Clarion project book is also in the works and that will be up in the next month or two.

Here are the stats, such as they are:

Ebooks sold: 102

Paper books sold: 0

Words written: 11,206

In other news, Daily SF got SFWA qualified, which means that if I can scrounge up 80 bucks, I, too, can be a full SFWA member.  At the moment I’m super broke, so I won’t be joining.  But I will before WorldCon next year, probably, even though I’m more or less leaving NY publishing behind and focusing my efforts on publishing my own work.  I am still going to write and (hopefully) sell stories to magazines, so it might be useful to be an SFWA member.  We’ll see.

I will be a panelist at the Portland, OR convention Orycon.  I’ll post my schedule closer to the convention.

So that’s the news with me lately.  Chapters of Casimir Hypogean will still go up each Monday and I have many new victims for my Neo-pro Interview series, so look for those on Thursdays.

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