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.

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.”

NaNoWriMo revisited: Pan and Titan revisited

I've been thinking about NaNoWriMo again.

I was planning to focus on the story of the first colony on Titan, that I alluded to in Government Joe Must Die - the disastrous settlement which collapsed and resulted in the Howl which haunts the Saturn system in GJMD, and which gave rise to Government Joe itself. But I decided that there probably wasn't enough material there to let me reach the magic 50k word count. So I've been thinking about the other real character from my first NaNo novel: the Bantolith.

The Bantolith in GJMD doesn't talk. He manipulates people like automata, and anyone within the boundaries of his domain can never be sure if their actions are the result of free will or the Bantolith's machinations - so subtle are the AI's directives that it's impossible to tell the two apart. But why does it operate so obliquely? How did it come to be so silent, so unknown?

I'm thinking that the two stories - the birth of Government Joe and the creation of the Bantolith - are maybe not so far apart. Perhaps they were both created by similar events - failing colonies which demanded drastic action. And while Government Joe was created by a terrible act of treachery, the Bantolith's silence might have been some sort of self-sacrifice - a last-ditch attempt to save an ailing colony by assuming near-direct control of the people within it.

So what we have then is an interesting contrast. Two failing colonies, a few decades apart: one damned by the treachery of an out-and-out baddie, the other saved by an unselfish act of deliberate self-mutilation.

NanoWriMo revisited: About the Bantolith

Back in November, when I was writing Government Joe must Die,
one of the parts which caused me most frustration was the little
episode on the Bantolith. I wanted the Bantolith to not speak, yet
still run his little domain with perfect ease, using nonverbal cues to
communicate his orders and wishes to the people on the station. The
descriptions I used left me deeply unsatisfied - his communications, by
opening doors, shining lifts, discouragingly cold blasts of air, seemed
very crude. But I couldn't quite put my finger on why, or how I could
do it better. Tonight I was suddenly struck with why this was such a
difficult problem. I wanted the Bantolith to manoeuvre people by
non-verbal methods, by misdirection and subliminal cues, by appealing
to them at a basically subconscious level. That's a difficult thing to
write about in a book, especially when you favour dialogue over
description. Essentially what you're writing is, almost by definition,
of the conscious rather than the subconscious. I wanted the Bantolith
to use the sort of tricks that that guy Derren Brown used on TV, the
sort of pseudo-magic which we don't even notice, where cues are fed to
us in the background, only to impel us at some later point, in what
appears to be a free-willed action. That's a tricky thing to write
about - how do you talk about the was the Bantolith operates, when the
cues happen a long way back from the actions, and they're things you
probably - no, not probably, absolutely definitely - did not notice in the first place? They are fundamentally disjointed. That's really gonna screw up your narrative.



I guess the only way to cope is by post-hoc explanation, but I really, really hate doing that.



I'm starting to understand, too, how much potential richness there
could be in that little caricature of a universe I dreamt up. Titan in
particular could easily have a gothic richness to it - ancient,
powerful, immensely wealthy, the fat spider loitering at the edges of
the web of Saturnine moons. There's a lot of potential there for
digging into some rich seams of history, as well as money and power.
And the cold, closed asceticism of the Triumvirates, rich in their own
way but always overshadowed by the golden disc of Titan. The
Triumvirates could be very interesting, socially. Socio-politically.

NaNoWriMo: c'est tout c'est fini

http://www.bathyform.com/Uploads/Government_Joe_must_die.pdf

Presenting:
Government Joe Must Die


"Better than Dhalgren!" - Calum
"When I feel the urge to read a novel, I read this one" - Oscar Wilde
"I read this book, and satiated with emotion, I went to bed, and slept the sleep of the weary - and the saved." - Winston Churchill

Yes, I finished it. Half an hour ago, actually, so it's probably still full of spelling mistakes and all sorts (Word's spell checker crashed, which I thought was a rather rich bit of literary criticism coming from an application with a history of hanging out with giant animated paperclips).

Anyway, I need to walk away from it now for a bit, so I thought I'd post it now and let you all have a bit of fun. I'm pretty confident there aren't that many spelling mistakes in it. If there are any factual errors (moon sizes, Ring designations, etc.) then I couldn't care less, frankly - I wrote the thing in a MONTH, people. Get a grip. Likewise, if there are any gaping holes in the plot, then leave me at least a week to bask in the golden glow of my achievement before telling me, okay?

Brief summary: it's science fiction. It's set in the rings of Saturn. It's about a group of designers and architects who get caught up in... well, I'll let you find out for yourselves, shall I? It's heavily influenced by Bruce Sterling, and a book called 'Take Back Plenty' by Colin Greenland that made a big impression on me when I first read it, years ago.

I hope one or two of you will read it. I hope that same one or two of you enjoy it. Please give me lots of feedback of all sorts. The title is awful, I know, it's a working title, I couldn't think of anything better. The hero's name is Bernard, which I'm not at all sure about. Apart from that... well, see what you think...

And that's it, my contribution to NaNoWriMo: "NaNoWriMo is all about the magical power of deadlines. Give someone a goal and a goal-minded community and miracles are bound to happen. Pies will be eaten at amazing rates. Alfalfa will be harvested like never before. And novels will be written in a month." Big thanks to Calum for introducing me to the idea - I know you probably aren't checking your computer at the moment, buddy, but cheers. Hope you made it over that 50,000 word Finish line too.

Oh, it's going to be close.

44,200 words. Two days, ten hours to go. Oooh, bugger. I never thought I'd be worried about which time zone the deadline was in.

"Hi, thanks for watching CT9, rolling news for the Saturn system. Top stories
today: the Hyperion anomaly continues to mystify amateur astronomers across the
system. So far, no statements have been forthcoming from any of the major
settlements on the subject of why Hyperion's density appears to have
dramatically dropped. Although no link has been confirmed, we're also receiving
reports that for the first time in one hundred and fifty years, Titan station is
refusing entry to all incoming vessels. In a statement, Government Joe said,
'this two-week closure has been necessitated by some indications of increased
biological contamination in Titan Station's systems. The results of our
continuous monitoring program are freely available, and show that at no time has
anyone been in any danger from these contaminants; this closure is a preventive
measure to stop the problem in its tracks.' However, experts have pointed out
that the closure is expected to end soon after Hyperion will have passed its
closest point to Titan, and are claiming there is a link between the two
occurrences.

"In other news, a
group of miners are trapped in Tibur Chasma on Dione,
after-"

The captain gestured
at the screen, and it went silent, leaving the vacuously pretty android mouthing
happily as scenes of disaster played out behind her.

"So Government Joe
has already started." Bernard commented.

"I'm
sorry?"

"On Miguel's plans
for Hyperion. Sounds like the first part of the plan is already afoot - all that
stuff about Hyperion's density sounds very much like Miguel's TMP idea." He
realized the man opposite him was giving him a patient look.

"I'm sorry?
Plan?"

"Oh." Briefly, he
sketched out Miguel's plan for Hyperion. "So the first part of it would seem
well under way. Maybe government Joe is going to use Titan station as a
marshalling yard for the construction crews on the second phase. Bit early for
that, though. I very much doubt they'll be ready to begin building properly for
another few weeks at least."

The Captain's brow
furrowed. "Hmmm... it sounds plausible, I'll grant you. But I don't know... it
still doesn't stack up right, somehow. Between you and me, scuttlebutt around
the mining fleets has it that Government Joe is screaming blue
murder, and beefing up Titan station's anti-collision
defences."

Bernard considered
this. "That's not so surprising," he said slowly. "I mean, any mistakes
with the earthmoving phase and it's quite likely that some loose stuff is going
to spiral inwards, down towards Saturn. It's inevitable that some of that may go
through Titan airspace. I'll bet the Inner moon governments are pretty
disgusted. Any pieces hit them, and Titan will be in for some serious lawsuits.
Miguel-" still just saying the name made his gut twist "- didn't budget for
that. Oops."

The captain tapped
his teeth thoughtfully with a biro. "Well," he said eventually, "it leaves me
with a problem."

"Yes, I can see
that."

"Really?"

"Yes, of course.
Titan was your next destination after Dione, wasn't it? So..." The captain was
shaking his head. "That's not your problem."

"No. That's not my
problem." He leaned forward. "You're right, I don't want to go to Titan. I
was under instructions to deliver that mystery ship to Titan, but that
was okay. I could leave it in orbit anywhere I liked. I could even park it next
to Titan Station, as long as I didn't try to dock with the Station itself.
Actually, I was planning to insert the ship into a generously wide orbit and
leave it there for Government Joe to pick up. But apparently that's no longer
acceptable."

"No?"

"No. It was fine
when there was no time pressure, but I've just received instructions from Titan
that change the original deal significantly."

Bernard considered
this. "You could ignore them."

He grimaced. "The
collective's legal system says not. I'm contractually obliged to follow these
new instructions, unless they endanger my ship or crew. Frankly, though, the
course of action proposed is not to my liking."

Bernard sat
patiently.

"Here's the problem:
Government Joe now wants this mystery ship delivered to Titan-Haut asap. Our ETA
now would be a few days before Hyperion's closest approach, which doesn't fill
me with confidence given all the stuff we've been hearing. Also, he doesn't just
want the ship any more."

Bernard's heart
sank. "He wants me."

The captain nodded
solemnly.

NaNoWriMo fragment #3

"We have a policy
with Big Red Ship Security. They're already looking for the Little Black Pig
system-wide. From the few shots we got, we reckon it's heading in-system,
possibly Janus or Pan."

Bernard shook his
head in disbelief. "It doesn't sound like Miguel. He really isn't smart when it
comes to people. He wouldn't have the first clue what to
do."

Bernie eyed him with
hostility. "Your pal has my girl hostage. I'm going to fucking kill him. Our Big
Red policy covers temporary weaponization of assets. Big Red finds him, tells us
where he is, and then I'm going to take the Tabitha and go and kill
him."

"Look, Bernie, I
understand, I know what it looks like. I was there, remember? I want to get
Annie back just as m- well, look, I want to get her back, too. I want to
help."

Bernie shook her
head at him in wonder. "I just don't believe I'm hearing this. Don't you think
you've caused enough trouble? You did your part just bringing him on
board."

He could see the
paranoia starting to spread behind her eyes. Wearily, he levered himself away
from the table. "Okay. Okay. But just listen for a second. I've been wracking my
brains thinking of places Miguel might go. I know he's visited Janus before; I
don't think he's ever been to Pan, or Enceladus. He-"

But she'd turned her
head away. Swinging her legs out, she batted herself away across the room.
Bernard was left, helpless, suddenly aware of the curious stares of the lunching
crewmembers all around him.

 

When he got back to
their quarters, Xin and David and the others were loafing around the cabin,
bored. Cold-shouldered by the Clown's crew, they'd ended up drifting back to
their bunks. Marcus had some specs on, and his hands poked listlessly at the
air, picking options in some menu only he could see. The others were reading, or
playing cards. Xin got up and gave him a brief hug as he slid the door
shut. 

"You
okay?"

He looked up,
surprised at her concern. "I tried to talk to Bernie."

She shook her head.
"Bernard..."

"She wouldn't
listen. I just can't believe that Miguel would do this. It's not like him to go
and do something so lunatic." He looked round at the raised eyebrows. "Well,
okay, it is," he conceded, "but not quite this crazy. And anyway, that ship was
way beyond him." He paused. Nobody would meet his eye. "What is
it?"

"Sit down." Xin
said gently. He sat.

"What's going
on?"

"Bernard," she said,
"The report Miguel heard? The one about the guy he stabbed being
dead?"

"Yes?"

She sighed. "It was
just some amateur murderwatch newsgroup. It was completely wrong. The guy's
recovering well - it was someone else that died, an eighty four year old who
happened to have the same surname. Some idiot was scrolling down the list and
got the two confused. We checked with the hospital. The newgroup moderators have
issued a retraction. Miguel's not a murderer at all, Bernard. He just
panicked, that's all."

Bernard stared at
her, caught between relief and horror. "I... no. Oh, no."

Xin caught his hand.
"Look, it's good news, okay? We just have to get the news to Miguel, talk him
down."

He was shaking his
head absently. "No, no, no. What a fuck up. I don't believe it. I just don't
believe it."

"Look, Bernie, it's
in the past, okay? Miguel's in trouble, sure, but he's not a murderer. We just
have to find him and talk him down. It'll be fine."

Pause. "Who else
knows?"

"Mikhail, a few
others. I don't think anyone from the Tabitha's crew have been told
yet."

He levered himself
up. "I have to go tell Bernie."

Xin caught his
jacket and pulled him back into his seat, shaking her head. "That's not for you.
That's a bad idea, you know that. Let Mikhail tell her. It'll be better coming
from him."

One for you stargazers: Celestia

http://www.shatters.net/celestia/
In the course of my NaNoWriMo research, I came across this free package, and I've been having a lot of fun with it. There are several similar things, I believe, but basically it allows you to take a guided tour of the universe, zooming in and out, watching eclipses and daybreaks on any planet or body you care to mention. It's open source, so there's stuff being added to it all the time - I downloaded an add-on to give me more of the moons of Saturn, for obvious reasons.

NaNoWriMo fragment

Strangely, I'm finding it difficult to write truly obnoxious characters. And I don't think there's really a lot of variety in my characters anyway - I'm too afraid of stereotyping to go overboard with the characterisation. In the meantime, I've only written 5,000 words in 7 days. Shit.


Landed and docked, she was a fat cylinder laid gently on top of an intricate jeweller’s scrapheap, one that sparkled with standby LEDs and semi-intelligent IR chatter. And the icing on the cake was the stumpy, single-piece pitched roof plonked on top. At least, that’s what she looked like from outside when Bernard called up the view. From the inside, she was a warm, fuggy chaos with alternating smells of play-doh, solder, and the acrid tang which always accompanied any sort of liquefied hydrogen system. Access panels of all shapes and sizes had been removed and haphazardly piled. It only took one clumsy knock to send the whole pile skittering and scraping across the gantry, as they discovered.
“Sorry ‘bout the mess,” Annie called over her shoulder. “We’re trying to track down a fault in the Inerts backbone. Faulty bus somewhere, I reckon. Minor problem, anyway, nothing life-threatening,” she added absently.
They ducked down a narrow corridor, with sealable doors on either side. “Boys on the left, girls on the right!” Annie called cheerfully. “That works, doesn’t it, numberswise?” she added. Bernard nodded as he squeezed past her. There wasn’t room for his shoulders and the bag, so he had to judo-throw his bag over his head into the narrow cabin. Miguel and David had already claimed the two top bunks, and had climbed onto them. Bernard tossed his bag onto one of the bottom ones. There was a muted series of clangs from somewhere off to their right, and a distant “Bugger!” It was another female voice.
“Annie,” Bernard poked his head out, to see her grin. “how many crew does the Tabitha Jute hold?”
“Our complement at this time is eight crew, six passengers, and a few tonnes of stuff.” Annie pronounced. “The good ship Tabitha Jute also runs a semi-autonomous AI, nine maintenance drones and fourteen von Neumann TMPs, of various types. Tabs?”
A mellifluous female voice came out of the air. “Annie?”
“These are our guests. You know who they are, don’tcha?”
“I do, Annie. Mr Sawyer, welcome to the SV Tabitha Jute. If you need anything, or have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you.” Bernard replied formally.
“Same goes for me, too, of course,” Annie added. “Any questions, give me a shout. I’d appreciate it, though,” she said, raising her voice slightly so everyone could hear, “if you wouldn’t bother crew members while they’re discharging their duties. They’re sure to be polite, but a distracted man is sleepwalking to the Deep Freeze, as the saying goes. Okay?”
There was a scuffling noise at the end of the corridor, and high-pitched giggling. Annie yelped, dived across Bernard and dodged round the corner in an awkward, bent-over scuttle. “You two rascals!” she cried. “I told you to stay in the mess! What are you doing down here?”
There was more gigging, and she re-emerged with a tousled child under each arm. One shared Annie’s cloud of blonde curls; the other’s blonde hair was straight, with a fringe that bounced up and down stopped only just above his (her?) eyes. They struggled happily, giggling as Annie growled, and plonked them on the floor. “Mr Sawyer, I’d like to introduce our two youngest crew members; Pieter and Nabuko. Pieter, ‘Buko, this is Mr Sawyer. Say hello.”
Suddenly confronted with a big group of strangers, the two children managed to mumble “’lo, Mr Sawyer.” Pieter surreptitiously reached out to grip Annie’s trouser leg. She rolled her eyes, gave them both a gentle slap on the rump.
“Now git! Back to the mess with you. Where are Alan and Orestes? Pieter, where’s your brother? Honestly, those two. And you two! Go on, back to the mess with you. Ask Tabitha to put on Wonderland for you.”
The two kids ran, giggling. Bernard noticed that they both ran with their arms making rapid swimming motions, grabbing and hauling wherever they could. They were nimble and fast. It was a rapid, efficient, and curiously inhuman motion.
“Woo hoo!” Miguel whooped. “Fantastic. What a beautiful machine. I can’t wait. This is going to be a lot of fun. Annie, wasn’t it? Annie, what’s the langest trip you’ve done on the Tabitha Jute?”
Annie regarded him with amused toleration. “Well, we went right out to Kiviuq once, taking a shipment of Helenic champagne out there for a Border Raid party.”
Miguel looked suitably impressed. “Bet they didn’t let you stay for the party, huh. Too bad, I bet you’d have put them all to shame.”
Annie gave him a motherly smile, and patted his shoulder. “You’re a sweet man. I can see we’re going to get along famously. It’s gonna be a very pleasant sixteen days, I reckon.”

“So, you think we’ll be okay on board the Tabitha Jute for three weeks?”
Xin groaned. “Two and a half. And I will probably kill someone.”
Benard swirled his drink idly. “Miguel…”
“Bernie, don’t even mention it. He’s going to be intolerable. My only consolation is going to be watching him trying to score with a lesbian collective. How long do you think it’ll take before he learns to stay out of spanner range?”
“I think Annie’s clocked him already.”
Xin snorted gently. “Yeah, I noticed that too. Well, good. And bad. Hopefully Lizabet will be enough of a distraction for him.”
Bernard wrinkled his nose, and looked away. Eventually he said, “I’m sorry to drag you into this, Xin.”
She leaned over. “Don’t be daft, Bernie. For a start, there’s good work to be had out of this. And hey, it’s further out than most people get to go! I’m looking forward to it, actually. I want to see the gas habitats. You know, the Floating World? I’ve always loved the idea of that. Actual flight, using pressure differentials to provide lift… fascinating.”
Bernie nodded. “It would be pretty special to take a flight in atmosphere. Titan’s coming along, now. I’ve seen some pretty impressive pictures of the outgassing from the South Pole.”
Xin snorted. “As long as we make it that far. Spaceships always seem so… insubstantial to me. It seems to me amazing that something so flimsy can travel such great distances on its own.”
Bernard raised his glass. “Well, then, to impossible journeys.”

The Tabitha Jute wasn’t actually going to Titan on her own. The little group of crew were actually part of a much larger collective, heading out on a seasonal migration to pick up some of the excess hydrocarbons mined during the Titanic winter to ferry back in to the inner planets. So they were to travel out to a rendezvous three days out, and join up with the collective’s heavy lifters, which would use their bigger, more efficient engines to boost the whole community out into an intersecting orbit with Titan.
“Those three days will be the worst.” David predicted. “After that, some of the crew will transfer to other ships, and there’ll be a lot more space to breathe in this shoebox.”
He was only half right. But it didn’t really matter by then, because by day three Miguel had already gotten into a fight with Annie’s long-term partner Bernie and landed himself in the ship’s brig.
“This is going to cost you extra,” Annie told Bernard sorrowfully. Bernie glowered from the far side of the cabin, a big bruise across one eye. “We had to make a brig, and that takes material and time. That means we’re one cabin down, and he’s made a pretty mess of that now, too. We’re not a rich collective, we’ve gotta make ends meet.”
“I’ll talk to him.” Bernard promised. “I’ll calm him down.”

Miguel’s cabin wasn’t exactly remote; it was next door to the one that Bernard was now sharing with just David and Marcus. The newly-spare bunk made the cabin considerably more comfortable. Miguel now had an entire cabin of the same size to himself, but nobody was complaining about that. Except Miguel, who couldn’t leave it. He regarded Bernard balefully. “Come in, please. Welcome to my humble abode.” He bowed sarcastically.
“’Gel, don’t be an arse.”
“Fuck off, Bernie. You’re not stuck in here twenty four seven. That AI has a sexy voice, but not a lot of conversation.”
Bernard sighed. “I talked to Thanet yesterday. He was asking for your input on a couple of things. That might take your mind off it.”
But Mguel’s mind wasn’t about to let go of the topic so easily. He grunted. “That bitch.” He mused. “Do you not think there’s something unnatural about this whole setup, Bernie? Four girls, four kids, no guys? That’s not normal. They need a man about the place.”
“Miguel…”
“Do you not think, Bernie? It’s only natural. They’ve just forgotten what it’s like.”

NaNoWriMo - first blood

Okay. Well, it's bad, but the whole point is that it should simply be written, fast, without the time for worry over editing, or quality, or any of those pesky details... so here's the first thousand words or so:

Alignment Days tended to focus on the industrial, so it was no surprise to Bernard that the Hall of Mirrors was almost deserted. Stepping out of the lift into the muddy, mustardy light streaming through the windows, there was only one figure in the half-distance, a gaunt shadow contemplating the view and ignoring the cleaners who gave it – her – a respectfully wide berth.

Her reflection faced away from him in each mirror as he passed.

“Factor.”
She turned at his voice, and her face broke into a warm smile. “Bernard. Thank you.”
“What for?”
She smiled mischievously. “For coming. For humouring an old lady.” The humour was meant for him to share, although he found it difficult – when the person who controls how much air there is to breathe issues an invitation, acceptance would seem the only course.
Bernard bowed. “I’m always pleased to hear from you, Geneva.”
She harrumphed. “Quite.” Turning away, she walked slowly down the hall, her black cloak a ripple of mustard-yellow and black. Bernard tagged along, catching a glimpse of their reflection in one enormous mirror as they passed. The Factor was tall, thin - spindly, even. In the low gravity she moved elegantly, her black cloak billowing as she waltzed down the Hall like some gothic whisp from a New Romantic painting. But the muddy light of Saturn made her look old, and the black looked dirty. Bouncing along lumpenly beside her, Igor to her Bride, it simply made him look unwell.
She half-turned. “Bernard, let us sit here for a moment.” She gestured towards a bench. They settled themselves gently into it, and contemplated the view for a while.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The Factor asked, matter-of-factly.
Bernard nodded. Of course it was; Dione’s Hall of Mirrors was famed for having the best view anywhere inside Ring F. Even now, when Saturn’s attitude meant that the light was dirty yellow rather than (Bernard’s preferred) royal blue, he could see three storms starting up in the upper atmosphere, each twisting streamers of white and green into massive, slowly dancing spirals. And beyond the horizon, he could pick out Helene against the spangled curtain of night, gibbous and jewelled with the distant sparkle of polished domes. And the Rings themselves…

“You built this.” She said.
He shook his head. “My group, built this.”
She frowned elegantly. “Bernard, are you not head of Selene Aversis?”
Bernard sighed. “Technically.”
“Were Selene Aversis not the primary contractors for this Hall?”
“Yes, okay, you’ve made your p-“
“Bernard, your design krewe designed this Hall. And most of Dione’s Eye, when you get right down to it.”
He said nothing. He wanted to say, no, this is Miguel’s work, purely and solely Miguel’s. It’s his best work. He was inspired. God knows we’ve carried him since, but this was all his.

Already behind schedule

Oh crap.

National Novel Writing Month started yesterday, and already I'm behinds chedule, having written precisely nothing.

So go away. I'm busy.