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."

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.

A blue-sky thought (warning: requires socio-political criticism)

It was stupidly early in the morning, and I was on my way to Phil's
Bankruptcy Party. And I was in a filthy mood. Why I should get
out of bed at this godforsaken time, just so that the Asian half of
Phil's network could join us in a celebration that (judging
from their replies) they still didn't completely understand... well.
Idiotic. I smacked my lips together, blearily. Yuk. No prospect of
being allowed to stay on orange juice at this do, unfortunately, but
the last thing I needed was more alcohol. I swayed wearily, and let the
clatter of the tube train shake its way through my bones.



There's a definite clientele on the tube trains at five-thirty in the
morning. A few shattered clubbers, their faces leaving glitter imprints
on the windows; but mostly small men in leather jackets or industrial
high-vis tops, their chins ducked inside their collars, trying to get
to work before the world wakes up and notices them. I couldn't care
less, frankly. I hunched down and gloomily contemplated the ordeal
ahead of me.



I've been to five Bankruptcy Parties in the last month alone, and every
single time I go the bankruptee is a little more smug than the last
one. Phil would be intolerable - and I knew from bitter experience that
Phil's 'intolerable' left everyone else's far, far behind. He's a
relentless queen, a relentless, intolerable, screeching fucking pain in
the... Well. I disapprove, that's all. I'm a solvent, young, straight,
single guy, and I seriously disapprove. Call me old fashioned, but if
you can't handle money then you shouldn't be allowed any. I have had
this argument with Phil before - I think it was at his second or third
Bankruptcy Party.

"Paul, how can you be so square?" I remember him asking, wrinkling his
nose in distress and making cow eyes at me. "It's the death of the
system, that's all. How can the economy keep going if I'm not allowed
to spend money?"

"How can it operate when you don't pay your bills?" I shot back.

He looked shocked. "I do pay! I pay until I can't pay any more."

"And then some poor schmuck's business goes under."

"If I didn't pay, if I " his nose wrinkled in distaste,
"saved, then even more businesses would go under!
That's what the government says, isn't it?"

I had to concede this. That's what they were saying. They were making
it easier to declare personal bankruptcy, too. And at the same time,
they were wringing their clammy hands about the vast amount of personal
debt we were all carrying around, and trying to clamp down on the
non-money netsuke networks, where the whole thing operated on favours
and no money changed hands at all, so nobody paid tax.

I resented this. "Look, someday your debts are going to be called in, and you'll be in serious trouble."

"No I won't. I'll be bankrupt." he giggled. "Again!"

"Someday," I said darkly, "that won't be an excuse."

Phil pouted again. "You're wrong, my hirsute friend." (I had a
moustache then.) "Nations have been doing it for decades. The personal
debt market is just catching up! And goods are all made in robot
factories, so they cost next to nothing! The rest of it is money
chasing money in a panicky spiral. Well, I just stepped off the spiral
for a bit, that's all. I can get back on. Not like you, my economic
neanderthal. 'someday they'll be called in'... listen to yourself!
Someday there won't be any money at all, and I'll bet you my entire net
worth that that day will come before the day they decide to call in the
debts."

I leaned back, smiled. "And what is your entire net worth, worth?"

Phil threw back his head and squealed with drunken laughter.





Regular bankruptcy as a stepping-stone to a non-monetary economy? Any thoughts, anyone?