Nawrimo 09 - c'est tout c'est fini

Once again, with scant seconds to go (well, all right - a day) the word count reaches 50,000 words... and so I get my 'winner' badge from the NanoWriMo website. Oh, the relief.



Sadly, unlike last time (can I link to it again? Please?) this one slightly ran out of control... so although I reached the 50k word limit and thus am considered a 'winner' of the NaNoWriMo thing, this victory is marred slightly by the fact that I am only about two-thirds of the way through the plot... so there will be more writing. So, no, you can't read it now. Which I know you're all just gutted about. Yes, you are.

So work must continue. Urgh. Really don't have much enthusiasm for the prospect right now... but who knows, hopefully sometime in the new year I will be able to post the complete manuscript for my latest oeuvre - 'Rain over Xanadu', a trashy bit of science fiction from the people who brought you (here's the link, here it is here it is! Yay!) 'Government Joe Must Die'. This one is rather darker, though, and for sci-fi buffs, it owes more to Alastair Reynolds and Kim Stanley Robinson than... whoever I said GJmD owed a lot to, I forget. Someone slightly more frivolous, probably.

So, that's it for another year... except it isn't. Because I will finish the damn thing. Argh. I leave you with these words from our sponsors:

National Novel Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30.

Valuing enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft, NaNoWriMo is a novel-writing program for everyone who has thought fleetingly about writing a novel but has been scared away by the time and effort involved.

Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality. The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly.

Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that's a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down.

I am saving this image as someday soon it wil be very useful

http://www.27bslash6.com/p2p.html


As core77 said, stop what you're doing and go read this. V. amusing.

Nanowrimo - hacking through the verbiage jungle

Urgh. Okay, so - so far I am managed 2,000 words a day - if I keep this up then I should just about make it to 50k. I seriously doubt that the story will be complete, though, and then what? Don't fancy spending December writing more. That sounds too much like masochism.

Two hours later and they were all rigged up in their best clothes – or at least, their cleanest clothes – collecting up the plates of those around them and taking turns in the kitchen. It had been, they had all agreed, a fine meal, considering. And now, as they sat around and contemplated how much better the human digestion system worked under gravity, their guest of honour rose to make the traditional remarks. The Tigerwinds were, according to the commissar, an ancient and illustrious dynasty on Mars, and their involvement in the politics and administration of Humankind’s oldest colony stretched back beyond living memory. However, the crew had been quick to notice that he was slightly vague on how he came to be sent with a colony ship to Mars.

“If that’s not a punishment posting, I don’t know what is.” Freda had cackled, as they discussed it in the dormitory, with all the excitement of girl scouts on their first night away from home.

But now, the old commissar rose and shone his steely smile at them. The lights in the canteen had been turned down, and each table had a night light placed on it;  under their spell, the man’s blue eyes glinted with all the jolly bonhomie of a shark.

“Ladies and gentlemen – crew and captain of the good ship Wednesday’s Child…” he spread his hands in welcome, “…my friends. I am most grateful for the wonderful welcome to have given me to your humble vessel, and proud to have shared this wonderful meal with you.”

“I have called you friends, and I am delighted that I can do so, so freely. To be as welcoming and civilized as you have been, at the end of an epic journey such as you have taken-“
Chris leaned over to Panab next to him, and murmured, “Steady on, pal, it was only three months-”
“-is a credit to you and to your society. Truly, Ganymede has much to be proud of in this ship and its crew.

“You left your homes behind and embarked on this perilous voyage in the hope of planting the flag of humankind on another world. I can only wonder at your emotions when you discovered, as I’m told you did, halfway between planets, that this goal had already been achieved by my own small team. I am sure, had our positions been reversed, there would have been some amazement, some anger, and a great deal of bewilderment on my own ship if we had discovered you already here. Bewildered, yes, we would have been bewildered – when one’s purpose is suddenly rendered unnecessary, how does one feel, how does one react? I do not envy you your position. But as a friend, I hope I can offer some advice.

“My view of your situation is, I’m afraid to say, an unhappy one. You travelled here hoping to claim a new land for Ganymede, to throw off the yoke placed upon you by the intransigence of your bullying neighbours Europa and Callisto. Yet when you arrive here, others have already claimed the land; and your mission has been thrown open to those whom you hoped to outmanoeuvre, your enemies! So you are caught between a rock, if you’ll pardon the pun, and a hard place. Your mission is compromised, its function redundant, its intention infiltrated by your rivals. Europans and Callistans will arrive here just in time to take the benefits of your hard labour.

“My friends… we can help. Our colony is young, and needs your help, just as you need us. Mars can be your ally against the rivals who have compromise your mission. We have an established land base, with an established administration which can easily take you under its wing. With your help, our colony can be firmly established beyond all doubt, and Mars and Ganymede united as friends.”

He sat down, to polite applause – but even as he did so, there was a low murmur round the table.
“That cheeky bastard…” Chris murmured, half-admiring.

Phil rose to make some polite answering remarks. Frankly, Panab didn’t really pay much attention – but he did hear Phil turn to his guest and say, “Of course, our rivalry with Europa and Callisto is common knowledge; but sibling rivalry is part of human nature, and a healthy part.” And woe betide the stranger who tries to intervene , the commander didn’t have to add.

Nanowrimo - quota central

Okay, so it's a day late and maybe a dollar short, but I'm getting my quota in now. I figure, all I have to do is write 2,000 words every weekday, and 10,000 words each weekend, and I'll sail past 50,000 with a couple to spare.

So today, I Reached my target of 25,000 words. In fact, I went past that and reached... 25,007. Woohoo.

I went back and re-read 'Government Joe must Die' last night. I wa surprised - I remember it being pretty clunky, but it was actually pretty readable. Okay, the plot is a tad flimsy, but I was pleasantly surprised by how readable it was. This one, though, is taking a long time to get going. The problem is, I know what's going to happen. Last time I really didn't, which made it easier; this time, I have a plotline which I ahve to stick to, and it's taking a long time to play out. I may not even reach the good bits before the end of the month!

“Hey, Panab.”

“Hmm?”

It was Chris, from the acceleration couch next to his. They had been relocated to the briefing room; theirs were the only two couches in here. It felt lonely.

“You think the Martians could’ve sabotaged our route?”

“What?”

“You know, mined it or something. It’d be awfully easy – I mean, we haven’t exactly been silent in our approach, they’ve known we were coming for a month at least.”

Panab pondered this. “It wouldn’t take much, would it,” he agreed sombrely.

“A few pebbles in the upper atmosphere, a low orbit maybe. Crack that heatshield and we’re toast.”

Panab grimaced. “Well, thank you for that happy thought.”

“Sorry.”

A long pause. They were about twenty minutes away from Titan’s upper atmosphere now; the view from the few cameras still pointing forwards showed a distant curve of the planet’s horizon. Panab knew that that horizon line was slowly flattening as they approached – but it was happening too slowly for him to be sure he was seeing it.

The canteen smelled faintly of old meals, of greasy meat and boiled cabbage, of cold coffee and ageing plastic.

“Sorry, buddy.” Chris said eventually. “just this silence makes me nervous.”

Panab turned his head to look at him. “Chris, my old friend,” he said, surprised. “It is out of our hands. If God wills it, we die here. If not, then we continue. We can never know the time or the place. How many times in your life have you, could you have been killed by some careless movement from someone else?”

Chris gave him a look of disbelief, then laughed shakily. “Thanks for those encouraging words, pal.”

Panab shook his head, frustrated. “Sorry, I expressed that badly. But if you are worried because it is now up to fate, or God, or whatever you wish to call Him, well – it has always been so. As God wills it, it will happen. Once you accept that thought, well, you still get scared, but at least now you have a handle to help control it. A handhold on the precipice, if you like.”

Chris considered this. “I never took you for the religious type, buddy.”

Panab laughed. “Well, that’s the way I was brought up. My parents were Moslems of the Ohio Heresy. They left Earth when the Middle Eastern Moslems began their purges, and… stop me if you’ve heard this.”

“No, really, go on. What’s Ohio?”

“It was a town in America. There was… well, that’s beside the point. Anyway, my parents left Earth, stopped on Deimos for a while, but never really settled. When my grandparents died, they inherited some money, and came on out to Ganymede. I think they hoped there’d be religious freedom there, but-“

“There is. “Chris looked confused, his baffled frown looking perhaps offended.

“Yes, of course there is… but back then, well, there was religious freedom, but there was a lot of stuff to do it was a hardscrabble life. So although they were practising Moslems, many of their practises had to be curtailed just because it wasn’t possible. I mean, praying five times a day when you’re-“

“Woah! Five times a day?! I don’t even eat five times a day.”

Panab frowned a little at that, but carried on. “ – when you’re in a spacesuit, or teleoperating a robot for nine hours straight, it simply isn’t possible.”

Chris chuckled. “Sure, I can just see some big construction rig getting down on its knees in the middle of a building site!”

“Precisely. So, they remained Moslem in their hearts, and hoped to get back to practising their full religion… but, well, to cut a long story short, they brought me up with the theory, but not much practice.”

Chris absorbed this, staring up at the ceiling – which is the only truly comfortable position in a proper acceleration couch.

Suddenly the room shuddered. The ship creaked and groaned alarmingly, popping noises came from all around them. And a thin thunder started somewhere behind their backs, echoing round the ship until it was impossible o tell where it came from.

“Relax, my friend,” Panab said loudly over the increasing noise. “And remember, we have a job to do as soon as we come out of the other side.”

Then, gradually at first, the weight began pressing down on them. It felt like someone was pressing them into sand, burying them alive. Breathing was a great effort. And all around them, the ship thundered and groaned. There were a couple of distant bangs… but they weren’t suddenly engulfed in a fireball, so Panab told himself that it was something none-essential, and concentrated on regulating his breathing.

In the flight plan, the aerobraking manoeuvre was supposed to take just over half an hour. In reality, it seemed an eternity. Panab had just about got used to the noise by the time it began to subside. Gradually, his joints ceased to feel as if they were being put through a mincer, and became merely painful; then, blissfully light once more.

Phil’s face flashed up on one of the screens in front of them. He looked pale and strained, but composed. “Panab, Chris: have you established contact with the probes?”

“Not yet… ah, there it is. Probe 1 now online, probe 2 still not responding… okay, we have probe 2 now. “ Chris sounded as fresh as a daisy, in total control. Panab had to look over at him to see the sweat on his pale face, to see how much he’d been affected. “They’re all nominal, Phil. No sign of a response to our re-entry from the Martians.”

There was no response.

“Phil? Come in please. Anyone on the bridge?”

Finally, Phil’s voice came back on the line. “Chris – you may not see a response. But we’ve got one up here.”

“Bridge?”

Phil was suddenly brisk. “Yep, okay, probe team. We’ll fill you in on the details later. It’s just… the Martian commander has transmitted a brief, voice-only message to us. Hello and welcome to the system, sort of thing. We’ll replay it to the rest of the crew when we’re fully squared away with parking the ship.”

“Roger that, bridge.” Chris said formally. “We’ll continue to monitor the satellite surveillance. Probe team standing by.”

It took a good ten minutes for the post-manoeuvre checks to be sort out. The bangs Panab had heard turned out to be a camera which hadn’t retracted fully and had sheared off, hitting one of the ultra-low frequency antennae and taking it with it.

“Nothing serious, then.” He said with relief.

Freda was down with the EVA team checking out the damage. Her voice sounded intimate in his ear. “No, not at all. The ULF antennae was really only there to be used if we got submersibles into the sea – but even then, we may not even have wanted to talk to the ship in orbit, we may have had some support vehicle much closer. So it’s pretty academic. And the camera was just an inspection system, we can replace that easily. So pretty light damage, in all.”

It's called 'Rain over Xanadu', by the way

I have to say, this time around I'm a bit disappointed by the quality of my writing. Am I always such a lecturer? It isn't flowing, it's sheer hackwork. Hey ho. Bash on - hopefully the next 18,000 words will come a little easier than the last lot.

Approval was granted swiftly, and suddenly everyone was talking about it. Panab didn't remember them having made an announcement, but Drew stepped up and revelled in his new role as official spokesman of the Steeplechase Committee. This was good, becaues Panab didn't really have that much time to spend on it - he was still being worked hard by Phil in an effort to get as much intelligence on the Martians' activity as possible. It was tiring, wearing work - but at least he had something else to talk to people about. It was funny - he'd gotten so used to people sidling up to him and gently trying to tease clues about surveillance out of him, and now they were doing the same thing to try and get some clues about the steeplechase course! The first time it happened he laughed out loud, just from relief. In fact, it got slightly out of hand: deprived of group entertainment for such a long time, the crew of the Wednesday's Child fell enthusiastically upon Panab and Drew's idea like a pack of starving hyenas. It was strange fro Panab, though; his work with Phil was intensely private and quiet - nobody was allowed on the bridge while they were up there, and with just the two of them working in the darkened room, it was a very intense experience... and then he'd come offshift, and be surrounded by people wanting him to make decisions, or help out with the course, the competitor lists, even choosing the font for the runners' numbers.

In fact, interest in the steeplechase got to such a fever pitch that the steeplechase committee began meeting at night, and even then its first three attempts to choose a course had to be called off because people had gotten out of bed specifically to follow them around the ship and try and find out where the race would be held. In the end, Phil ordered the virtuality kits to be broken out of deep storage so the the committee could walk around a model of the ship and pick the course that way. Breaking out the VR kits was a major undertaking; it hadn't been expected that they'd be needed until quite late in the settlement process, so they were buried underneath everything. At least one spacewalk had to be undertaken just to reach them. This seemed rather melodramatic to Panab, and to many others, and caused some debate about whether the whole steeplechase thing ahd been blown out of all proportion - but Phil was quite firm that it was necessary, and even encouraged the whole process. When he mentioned this to Drew, though, the big engineer laughed.

"Well, sure. He's adding to the theatre of it, the whole media fuss."

"Why?"

Drew punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Because it's taking people's minds off what we're heading into, dumbass! The more fuss there is over the Race, the less they're fussing over evil Martians with ray guns waiting to blow us out of the sky."

"There aren't any evil ray guns, do not be foolish."

Drew adopted a shocked pose. "Woah, man, did I hear that correctly? Was that a top-secret military secret that just fell from your big secret agent mouth?"

Panab hit him, and Drew drifted backwards, laughing. "Dude, you're one hopeless secret agent. Can't even keep a secret - and anyway, where are all your secret gadgets? No invisible spaceship? Does your watch have a laser beam in it? Is there an AI on your shoulder telling you secret stuff? Is that why you have that vacant look on your face the whole time? Oh, no, sorry, that's just your expression."

"Ha ha."

"And, dammit all, where all the hot chicks? If I'm hanging out with a secret agent dude, there should be good-looking ladies practically dripping off me! You're a failure, Khaledi, a failure. More secret squirrel than secret agent. It's all very disappointing. Let's hope you're a better running-mate."

"What? I'm not taking part."

Drew stared at him. "Of course you are, man! Everybody else is, you have to too."

Panab was about to protest, but hesitated. "Everyone? Even Phil?"

Drew nodded. "Yup."

Aargh Nanowrimo encore une fois

More trashy science fiction, from the author who brought you "Government Joe Must Die"- hurrah! Except we're nearly halfway through the month and I've only written 7,500 words - bugger. Only 42,500 to go! Ulp.

Phil stirred in his seat. “Okay, people,” he intoned, “RPC2 coming up. AIM takeover engaged?”
“Engaged.” Panab replied. Inwardly he heaved a sigh of relief. He knew Phil’s old-school ethos made the skipper insist on human supervision wherever possible, but as far as Panab was concerned this whole thing could have been handled by the computer, and they all could have been… well, he could have been in bed, damn it. Automatic Insertion  Mode was important now, though – if Titan’s orbit proved to be harbouring something hostile, it’s doubtful the humans in the loop would be able to react quickly enough. Panab could hand over to the ship’s systems with a clear conscience, and would do so gladly; he hated feeling like the weak link in the chain. But there was still the RPC2 checklist to go through… and as he worked his way down the task list, he couldn’t let his mind wander. Somewhere out there, four weeks ahead of them, the Ganymedans’ first probe to Titan was about to give them a first hint of what they were really in for.
This was obviously on Phils’ mind, too.  “Panab.”
“Skip?”
“Looks like a quiet couple of minutes – you’ve got the conn.”
“Yes, sir.” He replied automatically.
Phil grunted – Panab heard him doing something, then suddenly Phil’s voice boomed out across the ship’s PA.
“Crew of the good ship Wednesday’s Child, listen up.
“We’re about to get our first good look at what Titan has in store for us. It’ll be a peek through the keyhole, no more than that, but it should help resolve a few, uh, issues that I’m sure have been weighing on your mind as much as they weigh on mine.
“As you all know, Jovian Combined Security satellites picked up a ship from the inner system making a course change towards the Saturn system six weeks ago. Since then we’ve been under a communications embargo, which I know has not made things easy for you, and I’m very proud of the calm, professional way you’ve all conducted yourselves under that burden of silence. Obviously, whoever launched that ship did so under conditions of great secrecy. Our own launch was as secret as we could make it, and at this time I’m informed that whatever happens out there, in our little backwater of the solar system, will be between us and whoever else is in Titan orbit.”
He let that sink in for a moment. To Panab, the implication was obvious. This little game has no referees – it could get rough..
Phil continued. “Now, I know it wasn’t what we hoped for, but this is one outcome that received planning attention, and I’m confident we are not underresourced. More importantly, though, I’m confident that I’m facing the future with the best crew I could possibly have. I’m very proud of the way you’ve conducted yourselves to this point, and I have no doubt that we can and will surmount all obstacles to achieve our goal – a goal, I’ll remind you, which could have enormous benefits for us and for all those we left behind on Ganymede.

So let’s go to it. God bless us, and our cause.”

There was silence throughout the ship for several seconds. Then Panab heard a distant noise like waves breaking, drifting up from the depths of the Wednesday’s Child. It took Panab a moment to place it; down in the canteen, one hundred and fourteen people –  the entire crew -  were applauding.
 

It was time. Panab gave his checklist a quick onceover, then tapped in the AIM arm codes. On the screen in front of him, the animated top hat perked up, and shook gently. One oversized eye peeked out from underneath it.
“Heatshield temperature decreasing – all systems nominal for heatshield sep.”
“Roger that. You have a go for heatshield sep.”
A few moments delay, then the top hat was magically lifted off the little logodog. It blinked one eye sleepily. As more sensors came on line, it cocked an ear, then opened the other eye, until finally it was awake and alert, wagging it tail and glancing from side to side – waiting for something to happen

It didn’t take long.

The little animation sprung up, it’s cute little nose in the air, one foreleg poised over the ground in alert. “Okay, we’ve got a transmission, it’s weak but readable, 113 kilohertz. I’m buffering it now,” Chris announced. Panab could hear him tapping away. “Seems safe enough – broadcast English, mono audio, no band outliers. Wanna hear it?”
Phil waved a hand. “Just to the bridge.”
The sound of tapping again, and then a deep, jovial Santa-Claus voice began to declaim across the room, its mellow tones thinned by the crackles and pops of distance and of Saturn’s savage electromagnetic field. To Panab, its measured, loving tones perfectly evoked feelings of happiness and security, of trust and faith, of some pre-Diaspora happy family on Earth, a fire crackling in the grate, loved ones all around. It was undoubtedly machine-generated.
“…know the vastness of space to be an inexhaustible treasure house of knowledge and riches, beyond the imaginings of the Capitalist Roaders and their oppressive dogma! Titan can be so much more than merely another world to be exploited and oppressed by the megacorporations! Titan can be red! Titan is red! Titan is red! Titan is red! Message ends. Message begins: All those in Titan space, it is imperative that we make all efforts in our mission to create a scientific paradise on Titan, a world as yet-”
“Okay, that’s enough Chris. Turn it off.”
“-of human capitalistic exploitation, by the murderous cancer of humanity’s bourgeois demands for lebensraum! We must strive to preserve, and-“
There was an audible click, then silence. Finally, Phil sighed.
“Oh man,” he muttered wearily, ”it would just have to be, wouldn’t it?”
Panab looked over in surprise. It was the first time he’d ever heard Phil sound disgusted, or angry.
“It would just have to be the fucking Martians.”

If it's good enough for Telly Savalas, it's good enough for me

http://www.baimfilms.com/clips/
Birmingham - that's my kinda town.

(Tragically, Mr Savalas recorded the script in the US and never went to Birmingham - but I'm sure he would've loved it anyway).

Stuff like this always exposes the seamier underbelly of the internet - where else would one seek delights but in bus-spotting?