The End of a Year

On my birthday in 2011, I got an idea in my head – to write fiction every day for 365 days. It was based on the many 365 projects that I had seen around the web. Some people documented their meals or took pictures of their feet or whatever. I decided to use this idea to get back into something that I really knew I was good at and that I enjoyed doing – writing stories.

For a while, that worked out brilliantly. I think I got all the way to February of 2012 before everything collapsed, but more on that in a bit. During the year, I created worlds – hundreds of people, companies, small towns. I made new histories, societies, and hinted at things that even I wasn’t sure about. I saw the beginnings of new societies and the last throes of the universe, and it was really good fun.

Every night I would come home and start writing. The Boyfriend didn’t really get what I was trying to do – I would try to explain what I was writing, and usually after a few sentences he’d had enough and just wished me Good Luck. Sometimes he suggested I take a day off, or maybe even a weekend. I said no – if I took a day off then I’d take another, and then another. I didn’t want that to happen. In retrospect, all I can say is that I hate when I prove myself right.

I posted everything I came up with, even the ones that imploded halfway through. A few of them were long, multi-day epics and others were flashes of barely half a thousand words. I wrote things for #fridayflash and for the fine people at Worth1000 (who must think I’ve died or something). I blasted my way through NaNoWriMo, something I hadn’t even attempted since 2004 or so. All in all, I probably wrote about 250 entries over the course of the year.

And then the end of the school year approached, with the finely-tuned mental and organizational chaos that only comes in that time and that place. And I was dumb enough to start playing Skyrim, even though I knew – I knew – what it would do to my attention span. February 12th pretty much marks the last regular day of posting. 263 days. A few interruptions due to vacation or illness, but still.

263 days of fiction.

So in the end, how do I judge this experiment? Did I succeed or did I fail?

Well… Yes.

Believe me, when I started, I didn’t think I would last nearly as long as I did. I figured a few weeks, at best, before I either got distracted or disheartened. Making it as long as I did is a feat unto itself. It helped that kept meticulous records of my progress, filling up several spreadsheets with data. There was one that kept track of the dates and titles and word counts, another for the characters, and a third for world-building. I used mind-mapping software to see how my stories fit together, and even tried drawing some of the characters.

I showed that I could not only build a world, but I could build those connections within the world. I could make a place varied and interesting enough that characters could not only have their own stories, but they could have new and interesting stories with each other. I could examine their backstories and motivations and work out some sense of a future for these people and places. I wrote in a variety of genres and made conscious attempts to write outside my boundaries, both in terms of style, genre, and character.

I did more writing during this year than I have at any time in my life. So in that way, it was a success.

On the other hand, I didn’t make my goal of a full 365 days. The title of the blog proved to be highly inaccurate, and I let my weaknesses overcome me. I know that one of the biggest requirements of a writer is that doing this needs to be the most important thing in his or her life, and I dropped the ball there. I let life get in the way of writing, and even though I’m sure any writer will tell me that these things happen, I still feel a bit bad about it. I made a plan and I failed to follow through with it. That sucks no matter how it happens.

In addition, I gained a small following of readers, people who subscribed to the blog and left very kind comments and feedback, and I feel like I let them down. Not on a George R.R. Martin level of let-down, mind you, but still – I made a promise to these readers, and I did not fulfill it. For that, I sincerely apologize.

On balance, though, I’ll call this a success. I proved that I can dedicate myself to a goal, as long as I am realistic about both its limits and mine. I found where my strengths and weaknesses are as a writer, and worked to improve them. And, most importantly, I built up a body of work that will serve as a foundation for future writing. I think there’s a lot more gold in there than I ever planned on finding, and I’ll mine it as best I can.

If you’ve stuck with me through this year, you have my deepest appreciation. I’ll keep this blog here, and as I pick myself up and dust myself off [1] I’ll use it as a place to try out new stories and new ideas.

The project isn’t over. It has only changed.

And as any writer will tell you, without change there is no story.

Thanks, all.

– Chris

—-
[1] Perhaps after I’ve removed Skyrim from my computer. With a crowbar if necessary.

Advertisement
Categories: Reportage Tags: ,

Day Three Hundred and One: The Sweetest Sauce

March 17, 2012 Leave a comment

Iris had never understood why first dates were dreaded the way they were. Her friends talked about them like they were some kind of combat ritual, some horror show that had to be endured so that they might enter the realms of the mighty who had boyfriends and girlfriends. They traded stories about they guys who were too clingy, the ones who were too rough, the girls who were too shy or too loud, and each and every one of them just reinforced their ideas that the world was full of miserable, deranged sociopaths who wanted nothing more than to destroy a lovely evening out.

All she knew at this point was that she wouldn’t be able to tell stories about this date to her friends. “Yeah, he was really nice and we had a good time” would fall flat.

It was the truth, though. She’d met Lloyd at the post office, of all places, waiting in line behind an old woman who apparently wanted to send birthday cards to all of her grandchildren at once and with excruciating care. He and Iris had gotten to chatting about how this was such a first-world problem, and she told him about the time she had to wait a whole extra half hour at the DMV and he lamented about the cable company never coming when they promised, and they really hit it off. By the time they picked up their respective packages, he had her number, and called a couple of days later for a date.

They met at Javaville, because coffee shops were considered neutral ground, and talked about themselves over drinks. A few people waved at him when he came in, which was good. She got her coffee black, his was a soy milk latte, and she took a chance with some routine she’d heard from a comedian on TV a few years ago.

“You know that’s not soy milk, right?” she said.

He lifted an eyebrow. It looked good on him.

“Milk,” she went on, “has to come from a mammal, right? And last time I looked, soybeans didn’t lactate.”

He thought about this and nodded. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But then we’d have to call it ‘soy juice,’ and no one in their right mind would drink soy juice.” He winked and sipped at his latte. Iris suspected he had seen the same comedian, because that was pretty much the punchline to the joke. If he had, though, he didn’t call her on it.

They walked through the Hortus, the vast park in the center of the city. It was a lovely spring day and the water lilies were in bloom, making it almost tailor-made for a romantic first date. He walked close to her, but not too close, and talked about himself without seeming self-obsessed. In turn, Iris told stories about what she had done and where she had been, and didn’t try to crib from comedians anymore.

It wasn’t a date she could gripe about with her friends, but that was okay. She’d take this.

They ended the day at dinner, at a restaurant he promised was the best in the city. She stood in front of the chalkboard for a good minute and a half trying to work out the name of the place. Lloyd let her try it out a few times before he grinned and said, “It’s ‘Yggdrasillusions.'” He shrugged. “The owner has a thing for Norse mythology. Most of us just call it ‘Iggy’s’ to keep things simple.” He walked over and opened the door. “Ladies first?”

The restaurant was green. Really green. There were plants everywhere – hanging from the ceiling, growing in window boxes, and even vines crawling up the rough-hewn wooden walls. The restaurant smelled of heavy spices and loam, and light jazzy music piped in through speakers overhead. Young, pretty waitresses weaved through tables where couples and threesomes and foursomes were eating and chatting and laughing. Lloyd waved to a few people and patted some shoulders as they went to their table. Everyone seemed to know him, and they smiled when they saw him, all of which struck Iris as a good sign. Not how she was usually greeted when she walked into a place, but she’d take it.

The waitress was at their table as soon as they sat down. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Emili, and our specials tonight are a raw Mediterranean pesto torta, portabello burgers, and the chef’s special kale and spinach lasagna.” She beamed. “It’s really good, I had some for lunch today.”

“Thanks, Emili,” Lloyd said. “Give us a minute?”

Emili nodded and handed them menus before gliding off to help someone else. As Iris leafed through the menu, she felt her stomach grow cold. A sneaking suspicion was winding its way though her mind, and each dish she read off the menu seemed to confirm it. After a few minutes she looked up at Lloyd. “Is this a vegan restaurant?” she asked.

Lloyd smiled. “Best in the city,” he said. His smile wavered. “Is… that is okay, isn’t it?”

She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t remotely okay. She wanted to tell him that an otherwise lovely first date had suddenly turned into the inevitable horrible endurance trial her friends talked about, where she could see if she could get through the next hour and a half without being sick. Or going mad.

But she didn’t. “No,” she said. “No, it’s fine.” She smiled back at him, but she suspected Lloyd knew something was wrong.

They started off with a mountain vegetable tempura, accompanied by two different dipping sauces – one a spicy chili and the other a sweet plum sauce. Lloyd raved about them and told her about the time he tried to get the recipe off the chef, and how that had led him to a whole weird series of bets and bargains. To Iris, they tasted like chalk. Bland, flavorless bits that vanished from her memory as soon as she swallowed them.

The main course was a spicy chana masala, one of several Indian dishes that were on the menu. Emili told them about how the restaurant owner had gotten that recipe from a man he met while backpacking in India and how they were the only restaurant in the city to serve it. Lloyd clearly loved it, barely stopping to talk as he ate. Emili brought over some lychee-soy milk drinks and said they were on the house.

Iris picked at her food until she realized she was picking at it. She didn’t want to be That Date, the one he told stories about to his friends – Yeah, I brought her to my favorite place and she just nibbled at the food – so she scooped up spoonfuls and tried her best to look like she was enjoying herself. It went down like the flavorless pap they gave to babies and old people. There was no substance to it, no energy, and she wasn’t even sure it reached her stomach. The only thing even remotely good was the wine, but she suspected it was made from organic grapes by the thinness and emptiness of its flavor.

After a dessert of non-dairy ice cream and some coffee, Lloyd sat back, looking full and happy. “This really is a great place,” he said. “I’d come here every night if I could.”

Iris forced herself to smile and hoped her stomach wouldn’t growl. “Thanks for sharing it with me,” she said. There was a moment of awkward silence. “I do need to know, though – do you come here because the food is good, or because you’re vegan?”

He shrugged. “Any reason it can’t be both?” he asked. “The food’s great, and no animals died to get it to us. Win-win.” He sipped at his coffee. “Thanks for having an open mind about this, by the way,” he said. “I think you’ll find that vegan food is better than anything else you’ve eaten, and you’ll have a clean conscience in the end to boot.”

Iris nodded, and knew that there would be no second date.

He paid for dinner, although she tried to go in for half. He walked with her to the subway station and took her hand as they waited for his train. He’d had a really good time, and he’d definitely call her again. Soon. He promised. Iris tried not to let the mask slip and just said, “That would be nice.”

He waved to her as the subway pulled out. She waved back, once.

When the train was out of sight, she went back up aboveground and headed to the nearest SmackyBurger just a few blocks away.

The kid at the counter welcomed her to SmackyBurger, but she cut him off.

“Gimme a super-double burger with bacon.” She took a twenty out of her wallet. “Throw a couple of extra patties on there and this is yours.” The young man didn’t even hesitate to take the money.

Three minutes and forty-five seconds later, Iris was sitting in a booth and took a great, jaw-cracking bite of her burger.

The cows that had been slaughtered to make this burger had lived short and uneventful lives. Memories of packed bodies and chemical-laden feed flooded over her tongue and almost made her moan. The darkness of the slaughterhouse, the smell of blood and that last moment of realization before oblivion all washed over her, and within moments, she was licking her fingers. She went back up and ordered a chicken filet sandwich. This one was better than the first. The birds had been raised in a battery farm, kept in cages only slightly bigger than they were. They knew only suffering until the last moment of their lives, and that suffering, that knowledge of horror was what filled Iris’ stomach. The energy of fear and hopelessness and pain rushed through her. The world became vivid, alive.

No block of tofu had ever watched a farmer come at it with an axe. No carrot had ever smelled the blood of its brothers on the killing floor and been unable to run. No bean sprout had ever struggled for life, caged in with hundreds of competitors who wanted it dead.

Iris needed that suffering, that pain. She didn’t know why, but she knew what she liked. And she was pretty sure Lloyd wouldn’t understand.

She finished the chicken sandwich, wiped her hands on a napkin, and left the restaurant. She wasn’t sure how she would spin this into a first date horror story, but she was sure it would be better than the truth.

I used to be a writer like you, but then I got Skyrim in my brain

March 17, 2012 Leave a comment

Seriously, don’t start playing this game.

I feel like it’s just planted itself in my brain and taken over. Don’t get me wrong – it’s a lot of fun, and definitely a lot of game for your money. There’s a ton of stuff to do and see, and no two games will be alike. I’ve made two characters so far – a high-elf battle-mage and a Khajiit sneak-thief/assassin/werewolf – and I’ve had a lot of fun playing. Sitting in the shadows and picking people off with a blazing arrows will NEVER get old, especially when they step over the bodies of their friends and say, “Huh. I guess it was my imagination.”

But it will take you over. I was so happy today when a story idea unfolded in my head that was good enough that I actually wanted to write it more than I wanted to go back to Skyrim and kill dragons. So it looks like I may be close to burning myself out on that game.

Thank. God.

I’m not sure exactly what it is the game is tapping into, other than the dopamine reward system of the brain. That is, of course, an intensely powerful neurochemical system – the same one responsible for many serious addictions as well as everyday feelings of accomplishment and self-worth. Where Skyrim wins out over, say, writing a short story is that Skyrim never ends. So you’re always expecting that next level-up, or a new dungeon to crawl through, or to see how many Forsworn you can hit in the head with arrows before one of those damned Briarhearts realizes you’re there. That anticipation is powerful, and it’s hard to ignore.

Fortunately, I’ve played through most of the major quest lines by now, which means there isn’t a lot more to do other than random side quests and fetch-quests. Soon, I hope to be able to let the game go for a long while before whipping up a new character and doing it again.

But you never know…

Anyway, thanks for not sending me death threats.

– C.

Categories: Reportage Tags: ,

A Very Quick Update…

February 15, 2012 Leave a comment

In case you were wondering – no, I’m not dead. Nor have I been abducted by circus hoboes, aliens, or a highly secretive government agency that has threatened to destroy everything I love if I tell you exactly where they are in Northern Virginia and how much I would appreciate an A-Team intervention right now.

The truth is that the end of the school year is fast approaching, and we’re all scrambling to get done the things we need to do to make sure the students are ready for finals and to move on up to the next grad – or, Gods forbid, graduate. This involves a prolonged stripping of mental gears, which leaves me with about enough energy when I come home to eat dinner, play with my cat and kill zombies, not necessarily in that order.

So, I’ll put up new things when I can find the extra nugget of mental energy, and I expect things will go back to normal after we’re done with finals in the beginning of March.

Thanks for hanging in there…

– Chris

Categories: Reportage

Day Two Hundred and Sixty-three: An Easy Mark

February 12, 2012 1 comment

Ennelrion had been circling this little adventurer for a while now. The poor thing – tracking through the mountains, dragging gods know what in that sack behind it and looking for… what was it these two-legged monkey things wanted. Adventure? Gold? The brief ecstasy of notoriety? It’s like they don’t even know, the dragon thought to itself.

Two huge black wolves leaped from behind a boulder to ravage the adventurer, and Ennelrion was sure that he would end up a bloody stain on the snow. But much to its surprise, the bundled-up creature extended a hand and a great bolt of lightning blossomed forth, striking one of the wolves dead instantly. The other got in a good bite, and then it too was killed. The wind whipped at the mountainside, but Ennelrion was fairly sure it could smell burnt wolf hair even up as high as it was.

So. The two-legged mayfly knew a trick. Probably more than one, given how these things worked. The dragon twitched the tips of its wings and started the long circle down to the snow. At least it would be an entertaining way to pass a few minutes. Sooner or later, someone would have to give him a fight, and it wasn’t impossible that this little guy could do it.

Then again, Ennelrion had thought the same about the other dozen or some adventurers it had devoured over the years.

As it dove, it screamed, a harsh, wordless howl that pushed the snow out in front of it along an expanding shockwave. The adventurer looked up, and suddenly had a sword in its hand, one that dripped a fine mist from its edge. Ennelrion lifted its wings and dropped to the snow right in front of the two-legs. It thought about introducing itself, but really – why bother? It would no sooner introduce itself to any other brief and crunchy snack it was about to devour.

Instead, Ennelrion coughed forth a great gout of flame at the adventurer, who held up its arms as if the heavy armor it was wearing would do more than just cook it from the inside. The wave of fire rolled over the figure and then continued down the hillside, flashing snow into steam instantly and charring the winter grass beneath it. Odds are, there would be nothing left.

When the flame died down, the figure was still standing. Now the hand that had called forth lightning was glowing a pale white-blue, like the sword. The figure – Ennelrion was pretty sure it was male, unless females had started growing fur on their faces for some reason – looked up at the dragon, lifted a hand and shouted.

Oh, hell, the dragon thought as it felt the ice crackle on its wings and the cold seep into its bones. One of those.

A hero.

Ennelrion raked at the hero with its claws and then launched itself up into the sky. A bolt of incredible cold flew by the dragon’s head, missing thanks only to quick reflexes. This is insane, the dragon thought. There’s plenty of other humans to eat, to terrify – I should just leave this one alone. It looked down, and the human was digging through the pack it had been carrying on its back. Somehow, it managed to pull a staff that was nearly as tall as it was out of a backpack. The hell? the dragon thought. Another blast of searing cold flew by it, worse than the first.

Ennelrion started making for the great double peak where it rested, but then thought again. Was it really going to let an insect like that drive it away? A creature that needed to arm itself with magic and metal, cover itself in fur and leather because it was too weak to survive on its own? Was Ennelrion the great, the immortal, the terrifying, going to fly away from one little “hero” with some tricks?

Like hell it was.

The dragon circled around again, blasting fire as it did. Snow was blasted away, and the hero staggered, but held firm. The dragon thumped to the ground right in front of him and snapped at him with his teeth, somehow managing not to bite him in half completely.

Ennelrion reared back and felt the complex chemical reactions build up in its stomach for a gout of fire that would melt steel, when the hero held up a hand and said, “WAIT! Wait!”

The dragon, somehow, waited. It held back the fire with some effort, and didn’t really know why, but it waited.

“Thanks,” the hero said. He was smiling. Smiling!

The little ape-thing turned its back on Ennelrion and started digging through the sack again, pulling tiny red bottles out one at a time. Once he had about ten of them, he uncorked one and chugged it down. “Whoo!” he said to the dragon. “You got me close there!” He tossed the bottle over his shoulder and popped open the second. “How’re you holding up?” he said.

The dragon could feel the fire churning in its belly, and wanted nothing more than to reduce this creature to a stain on the hillside. But it… it couldn’t. Ennelrion opened its mouth and said, “I’ve been better.”

The human nodded. “Yeah, I can tell.” He was on bottle number four now, and the burns and cuts were fading from his skin. “Let me say, I’m glad to see you.”

“Really?” Ennelrion started drumming its claws against the frozen ground. “You’d be surprised how few people say that to me.”

“I can imagine,” the human said. It had two more bottles to go. “But they aren’t tricked out the way I am. And they don’t need you as much as I do.”

Of all the odd things that were going on at this very moment, that one got Ennelrion’s attention. “Need me?” it asked. “Need me for what?”

The human finished off another bottle and dropped it to the snow. “Your soul,” he said. “I got that, and I’ll be able to charge myself right up.” He uncorked the last little red bottle and winked.

“And if I kill you instead?” the dragon said. It wasn’t going to eat this one. Oh no. Ennelrion envisioned strewn body parts all over the hillside.

The human shrugged. “I’ll try again.” He lifted the bottle and drained it. When he threw this one away, all traces of injury were gone. It was like Ennelrion hadn’t done anything at all. “Sooner or later, I’ll get you.”

The human was clearly insane. The flames inside Ennelrion’s belly were aching to escape, but it couldn’t bring itself to do it. The adventurer ran a crystal along the edge of his blade, and the sword was a deeper, colder blue. He pulled a small medallion from his pocket and put that on, then a new steel helmet to replace the iron one he had been wearing. The human shook out his limbs, hefted the sword a couple of times, and looked up at the dragon. “We ready?” he said.

Flames were already beginning to curl out from Ennelrion’s mouth. It cracked its jaws to respond, but a searing bar of flame erupted first. It enveloped the adventurer in a great cloud of fire and steam. The rocks below his feet were already glowing red and softening, and trees nearby burst into flame.

When the dragon closed its mouth again, the adventurer was still there. He held up a hand and that long staff, and Ennelrion felt a shock of cold run through its body, from nose to tail. The cold kept coming and kept coming, and no matter how the dragon tried to get up and fly away, it couldn’t. The ice was on its wings, cracking through its scales, eating its way through to the warm, infernal core of its being.

Ennelrion collapsed to the ground, trying to inhale with frozen lungs.

It was over. The dragon felt the fire within go out, and knew that there was no victory to be had here.

No victory for the dragon, anyway.

The cold stopped, and the adventurer took a few steps away.

“Human,” Ennelrion whispered. The cold was being replaced by a burning – not in its belly, but everywhere.

“Elf, actually,” the adventurer said. He took down his hood, revealing pale green skin and pointed ears.

The dragon wanted to sneer, but that would be wasting time. “There are more of us. Stronger. More terrible. More ruthless.” It tried to move, but its skin was sloughing off in great burning sheets. “We will hunt you to the end of your days.”

In the darkening tunnel of its vision, the dragon saw the adventurer smile.

Through the white noise of its own body burning and charring around it, the dragon heard the adventurer say, “I’m counting on it.”

Day Two Hundred and Sixty-two: Mutual Understanding

February 10, 2012 Leave a comment

“Go ahead,” the genie said to Jack. “Put on the ring and complete the circuit. And when you do, you and April will know everything about each other.” The genie took a long drag off his cigarette, and smiled when he exhaled smoke that was pink and shimmered slightly in the light from the kitchen lamp.

Jack turned the ring over in his hand. It was small, made of silver, with a pale blue gem set into it. His wife had the other one, identical except that her gem was pale pink. She had already put it on, and was staring at him while he hemmed and hawed. He could feel her urging him on. The genie just watched.

It had been a simple wish, though Jack hadn’t really been expecting it when he came home. After a long day trying to develop new things that could be done with processed food, he came hope in the hopes of having something to eat with his wife, maybe a beer while he went through his web-surfing, and then bed.

Instead, he found this strange man standing in the living room, next to his wife. The man was dressed in an immaculate white suit, with a few gold rings and a bracelet that gleamed against his olive skin. He had longish hair, so black that it was almost blue, and just the right amount of stubble on his face to bring him over from “too lazy to shave” to “incredibly sexy.”

At first, he thought his wife was admitting to an affair. If that had been true, it would have been a relief. Though Jack had never had any real reason to suspect she would sleep with someone else, he couldn’t think of a good reason why she wouldn’t. If the opportunity arose.

He didn’t understand her, and that was the real problem, wasn’t it? They’d been to couples counseling, but hadn’t had much luck with it. Neither of them was the type to pour out their innermost wants and needs to anyone, so they got along with each other and set up a life together that worked reasonably well. Or at least, well enough.

But there were times when he looked over at her, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine what was going on in her head. He was pretty sure she felt the same.

So when he came home and saw the strange, very handsome man, he thought, Well, here it is at last. One of us has done something, so I suppose the hard work is done.

No such luck. “Honey!” she yelled when he came in. She ran up to him and hugged him for a lot longer than usual. His hug was safe. Non-committal. Three pats and a squeeze. He never took his eyes off the man.

When April pulled away, her face was practically glowing. “You won’t believe what happened,” she said. “I was out shopping and I went over to the thrift store.” Jack bit his tongue. Their house was already cluttered from her thrift store adventures. “And there was this oil lamp,” she went on. “So I thought it might look nice on the mantle.”

“Is there room?”

She laughed and slapped his arm. “Of course there is – I was going to move the ducks to the bedroom. Anyway.” She walked over to the strange man and grasped his arm. “I was polishing it, and this man – no, not a man. This genie just appeared out of nowhere!”

The genie tipped his hat. It took Jack a moment to realize that the genie hadn’t been wearing a hat before.

Or had he?

“A genie, huh?” Jack said. He sighed and took off his jacket. “Honey, I’m really too tired for this. If this is your new boyfriend or something, I wish you would just -”

April’s gasp was enough to stop him cold. “Boyfriend?” she whispered. She stood there, hand to her heart, just blinking at him for a moment. “Jack, what on Earth would make you think I want a boyfriend?”

There was no good answer to that question. Of that much, Jack was sure. “Sorry,” he said. “It was a joke, honey.” He leaned over to kiss her, but she pulled back.

The man – the genie – stepped between them. “I understand your confusion, Mister Logan,” he said. He extended a hand and gave a bright smile. Jack noticed that the man’s eyes were a strange blue-green. “I am Nawfal,” the genie said. He took Jack’s hand and give it a single squeeze.

A wave of warmth rushed through Jack’s body, and he gasped and shuddered. He nearly fell to the floor, but Nawfal caught him. When Jack stood again, he knew something had changed. He wasn’t sure what, but something… April was staring at him with wide eyes. Jack looked from one to the other. “What?” he said, running a hand through his hair.

His hair.

Whatever was on his head, it wasn’t the thinning crop of hair that he tried every morning to make as inconspicuous as possible. He hurried into the bathroom and flicked on the light.

Not only did he now have a full head of thick, auburn hair – hair he hadn’t had since high school, for god’s sake – but he had the body that he always imagined he should have. His waist was narrow, his shoulders broad, and his back was straight and strong. No twinge at the base of his spine, no dull ache in his hip that was a signal of things to come. The man in the mirror wasn’t young again, but he was the man he would have been if he’d taken care of himself.

Nawfal came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Not bad, eh?” he said. “That one’s for free. Just to cut short the ‘You cannot possibly be a genie’ conversation.” He lit another cigarette, and the smoke smelled of freshly-baking cookies. “I hate that conversation.”

He guided Jack out of the bathroom with some effort. “Your wife has a wish,” the genie said. “And it involves you.” He parked Jack in front of April, who kept looking him over. He was tempted to tell her that his face was up here, but it seemed in poor taste.

The genie nudged April. “Your wish?” he said.

She started. “Oh,” she said. “Right. Well.” She laid a hand on Jack’s chest and nearly lost her train of thought again. “I… I thought a lot about what to wish for,” she said. “I know we still have a lot of money on the house to pay off and there’s the credit cards, but…”

Jack’s stomach dropped. Those would have been really good wishes. The house was never going to get paid off, and the credit cards would probably go right before they died of extreme old age. Wishing for permanent financial security was probably a really good idea. “But what I wanted was…” She took a deep breath, and Jack waited for the shoe to drop.

“What I wanted was for us to understand each other, honey,” she said. “I know sometimes we have trouble communicating. I don’t know what you want, you don’t know what I want.” She gestured towards the genie. “But he said he could help. He could change that.”

“And I can,” the genie said. “But you have to choose to do it.” He held out a hand, and then opened it. There were two silver rings on his palm. One with a pink stone, one with blue. Nawfal told them that the rings would link them together permanently, and that they would perfectly understand each other from now on.

April had put the ring on right away.

Jack wasn’t so sure.

Which was weird, because he wanted to. He really did. He and April had been together for a long while, and he’d thought that they would know each other inside and out by now. That’s what everyone else seemed to do, anyway. Finish each other’s sentences, know where everything was, remember all their commitments and problems and hang-ups. And every time he had to drop hints about a Christmas present, or forgot what kind of flowers her mother liked, or what book she was reading, he felt like a failure. This would almost certainly fix all that. She would be happy, he wouldn’t have to scramble to avoid making an ass of himself. Everyone wins.

And yet…

“I don’t think I can do this,” he said.

April’s face fell and then pulled itself back together. “What?” she said. “Why not?”

He shook his head and held the ring out for the genie to take. “I don’t think it’ll end well,” he said. “I mean, there are parts of me…” He stepped forward and took her hands. “There are parts of me that I’m not proud of,” he said. “Parts that I wish I didn’t have. And while I love you and I think you’re a wonderful woman, I’m pretty sure you have things like that too.”

“What,” she said. “You think I’m keeping secrets from you?” Her anger, usually very slow to come out, was showing all over her face.

“No, no,” he said. “Nothing like that. Just… things.” He tried to get close to the idea without giving it away. “Thoughts, maybe. Thoughts you wish you didn’t have. Things you want that you know you shouldn’t. Things you did that you wish you hadn’t.” He reached out to hug her, and at first she was stiff and still. “I want you to think the best of me,” he said. “And I don’t think you would anymore.”

It took a moment, but April relaxed into his embrace, putting her arms around him as well. “I understand,” she said. Her voice sounded thick, but she laughed. “Guess it’s back to couples counseling?”

Jack looked over at Nawfal, who was busy flipping through something on a cell phone. “They’d never believe us,” he said.

The genie looked up when April handed him the ring. “You sure?” he asked.

They nodded together. “We’re sure,” April said.

The genie shrugged. “Suit yourselves,” he said. He squeezed his hand into a fist, and when he opened it the rings were gone. “You still have a wish, though.”

After the genie and his lamp were gone, vanished in a shimmering veil of light, Jack and April were on their computers, checking their bank balances and booking spots on a cruise. Jack input the numbers that April read from a small card that seemed to be made of solid silver, and they both grinned like children as they made their plans.

Day Two Hundred and Sixty-one: Seduction

February 7, 2012 Leave a comment

When Bethany Higgins opened the door, her first thought was, Wow. Looks like someone knows how to use Photoshop.

The man in front of her didn’t have as much hair as he did in his picture. His jawline was a little softer, he looked puffier, and the benefits of taking a profile photo from above were clear. He was thicker around the middle than she’d thought he was. All told, they were tiny changes that added up to a big difference. He looked like his picture, only not quite so much.

Oh well, she thought. Beggars, choosers, all that. She had already put her wedding band into her pocket, so she was halfway committed already. She hoped that she hadn’t let her disappointment show, so she smiled broadly. “Hey there,” she said. “You must be Matt.”

He grinned back, and pulled a small bouquet of flowers from behind his back. “And you’re Beth, of course.” He handed the flowers over. They were a little scraggly, but nice in their own way. “Gosh, your picture didn’t half do you justice.”

“You, sir, are a flatterer.” Beth felt the blush rise. “And that means you get to come in.” She stepped aside and let him into the apartment.

It wasn’t a terribly big place, and she wished she’d done a better job of cleaning up. There were still dishes in the sink from breakfast, and she noticed too late that there was a pair of her fuzzy socks hanging over the back of the sofa. She put her arm around his waist and maneuvered him into the dining room. “You make yourself comfortable,” she said. “I’ll make us some coffee.” She winked, and his grin grew broader.

“So you manage a bookstore?” she called out from the kitchen.

“I do,” he said. “And I have to say, you have a nice collection in the living room out there.” Beth winced, but the damage was done. At this point, fuzzy socks probably weren’t going to be a deal-breaker.

“Glad you approve,” she said. “I love to read whenever I have free time.” She turned on the coffeemaker and stood in the doorway to the dining room. It was a good place to stand – arms up, hip cocked just so… she could practically see his mouth go dry. Beth had no illusions about her body – she’d never make it as a model or a cover girl, but she knew how to use what she had. And what she had seemed to be what Matt wanted, because it took him a few moments to speak.

“Um. Yeah,” he said. She counted to four before his eyes jumped up to meet hers, and he blushed a little. “Wow,” he said. “You really are something.”

“Why thank you,” she said with a smile. “You know just what to say, don’t you?” She could smell the coffee already. “Managing a bookstore must keep you busy,” she said. “Cataloging and shelving and all that.”

“Well,” he said, “that’s why I have employees. They do the heavy lifting, and I make sure we all get paid at the end of the week.” He glanced over at her bookshelves again. “You know, we have the new Paula Grant in. Maybe I can -”

He stopped when he turned around, because Beth had taken the opportunity to get in closer to him. Much closer. He was wearing a light cologne she hadn’t noticed before, and it did smell nice. Kind of a leather and citrus blend that reminded her of… school, for some reason. Matt found his face nearly buried in her chest, and had to back up a little to look her in the eye again. “Um,” he started.

“Matt,” she said. “I really hope you didn’t come here just to scope out my book collection.”

“Um.”

“Because if you did, then I may have to… correct you.” She ran a nail down the side of his face, from temple to jaw, and he shuddered almost imperceptibly. Beth wanted to glance down, but she was pretty sure she knew what was happening down there.

He squeaked slightly. “I don’t… I don’t think I need the coffee all that much,” he said.

“Me neither,” Beth said. She stepped back, and he started to stand. “Just one thing, Matt,” she said. He looked worried all of a sudden, and she tried to smile sweetly. “I did tell you that I’m married, right?”

Matt seemed to take those words into his mind and chew them around for a moment. The look of hunger on his face changed, almost perfectly reflecting the horrible argument that was going on between his sense of right and his need to get laid. Finally, he said, “Yeah. Yeah, you might have.”

“Good,” she said. “I’d hate for you to be surprised. My husband would be…” She grabbed his belt and pulled him close. “Awfully angry if he knew.” Their lips were just a breath apart.

“You’re right. I would.” They both looked over towards the living room. The man standing there was tall and heavy, and his dark face was set in a scowl. He wore what looked like medical scrubs under a winter topcoat, and it looked like there was a spot of blood on the front.

Matt backed away from Beth so fast that he fell over, repeating curses over and over again. Beth was able to call out, “Tim!” before he was on top of the other man. Tim yanked a stun gun out of his pocket and jammed it into Matt’s side. The other man yelled and jerked on the floor. Tim hit him again and again, until the man lay passed out on the floor, the whites of his eyes showing under half-closed lids.

Tim looked up at his wife, and then stood, pocketing the stun gun. “Bethany,” he said. His fingers were flexing into and out of a fist, and the scowl seemed to deepen as they stared at each other.

They stood there, staring at one another for a long time. Bethany was the first to break, with a long sigh that was halfway to being a laugh. “I didn’t think you were going to wait that long,” she said.

“I didn’t think you were going to play the part that well,” he muttered. He looked down at the unconscious man. “Whatever. We’ve got someone I can use, finally.” Beth went into the kitchen, which smelled of coffee, and took a capped hypodermic needle from the refrigerator. She handed it to Tim, who used it on Matt. “That ought to keep him out until I can get him to the lab.”

Beth grinned. “I love that. ‘The lab.’ It sounds so official.”

Tim shrugged and handed the needle back to her. “Would you rather I called it the rental box? Besides, I do experiments there.” He looked at Matt again. “Therefore it’s a lab.”

She pulled him close and kissed Tim hard on the lips. He wrapped his arms around her and relaxed for the first time since they’d put this plan together. “It’ll work,” she said when they pulled apart. “This time it’ll work.” She looked over at Matt and shook her head. “Pity,” she said. “He seemed like a nice guy.”

Day Two Hundred and Sixty: Derelict 3

February 6, 2012 2 comments

Read Part 1
Read Part 2

————————

The hub of the ship was the social space. It was a kitchen, a dining room, a conference room, and an entertainment center. The bridge was one short corridor away, and the crew quarters branched off in four directions – four above, four below. Right now they were well understaffed, which seemed to suit everyone fine, since the group they’d put together was already well-versed in getting on each other’s nerves.

Mara sat next to Arlen, who was tapping through pages he’d stored in his tablet. Knowing him, it was probably news, as up to date as he could get it. She never quite understood his constant need to know what was going on all the time. Marco had to, he was the captain, but everyone else could just hang out and collect and let the system sort itself out on its own.

Leane had joined them from the cargo hold. She was filthy and looked exhausted, but her eyes jumped from person to person as Mara laid out what she had seen on the Osiris, and she knew that Leane wouldn’t miss a thing.

Ken kept looking from Marco to his computer and back again, and every time he looked at his files, his brow furrowed. The fact that he was nervous was bad enough, but he seemed to be making Marco nervous, and that wouldn’t do at all. You didn’t captain a crew like theirs for as long as he had by being nervous, and it seemed an alien look on him.

“The problem we have,” Marco said when she’d finished her story, “is that one of the passengers on the ship is – or most likely was – the daughter of none other than Donovan Starling.”

That got Arlen’s attention. “Are you kidding me?” he said. “She’s been missing for months!”

Marco nodded. “And there’s a reward for her return, alive or dead. But it seems like there’s going to be a hitch. Ken?”

He spun the computer around to face the group. Mara instantly recognized the face on the screen – Carter Artega, captain of the Osiris The dead man, and probably the one who’d murdered every other living soul on the ship. “This is one of the files that was on the chip Mara bought over,” he said. “Among the others was a cute little executable that probably would have set off the Osiris‘ self-destruct, so good call there.”

Mara tipped the hat she wasn’t wearing, and then let him continue.

“There’s also a copy of the manifests – crew, cargo, and passengers. Starling’s daughter is listed there by name, and she’s tied to those crates of miscellany they have in their hold.”

“Which contain what?” Leane asked.

Ken held up a hand. “Don’t get ahead of me,” he said. “Terra Starling boarded about a week before this video was recorded.” He gestured at the screen. “The video itself was recorded about three months ago.” He reached over, clicked play, and they watched Captain Artega speak.

It… is vital that I say this, he said from the screen. His face looked drawn and haggard, unshaven. His eyes kept moving from one place to another. Even if no one ever hears it, I have to say it. I think that if I say it out loud, then maybe… maybe it’ll sound as crazy out loud as it does in my head. And if I can just get a second opinion, then I can put all this behind me. He looked down at something below the camera’s field of view. But probably not.

He took a deep breath. There are ghosts on my ship. He let the breath out and looked from left to right and back again. His shoulders slumped, but he went on. They’re not… It’s not like I’m seeing my grandfather or my dead wife or anything, you understand. It’s just… He leaned in a little closer. I know they’re there. Things. Spirits. Entities, something. They started about a week ago, right after we left Laraea colony. Mara looked over at Ken, and he nodded.

I have no idea what they are, but I know where they are. The captain’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. They’re always just out of sight. Shadows. Malingerers in the corners, hiding in that spot right where your eyes don’t go and doing… He ran a hand down his face, and the hand was blood red. It left streaks across his skin. Around the table, Mara and the crew didn’t look at each other, or say anything. They kept their eyes on the screen, but Mara knew. Even veterans of the spaceways would look at this and get a little uneasy.

On-screen, Artega looked at his hand as though he hadn’t seen it before. Then he looked up at the camera and grinned. A skewed grin that made him look like he used to be a troublemaking teenager. I think I may have gone a little off the rails, he said. He blinked his eyes clear and tried to compose himself. There are things on this ship, and I don’t know who or what they are. He held up a bloodied hand. I’ve already begun my investigations, but so far – no luck. And I suspect that if there’s no one on the ship anymore, the ghosts won’t have anyone to haunt. So there’s a few more people to take care of, and then I’ve got a full bottle of painkillers from the infirmary waiting for me.

His expression shifted a bit, a flash of guilt. If you’re watching this, then I’m sorry. I can’t let you go, or the ghosts will just follow you, and I will have done… I will have done all this for nothing. As soon as this message ends, the Osiris will self-destruct. He looked like he was about to cry. I’m so sorry. He reached out, and the screen went blank.

Arlen stood up slowly. “Um,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” Ken said. “I’ve got the video unhooked from the executable, and even if I didn’t, the ess-dee codes from the Osiris wouldn’t work here.” He glanced over at Marco. “Right?”

Marco nodded. “Right. Goqui doesn’t even have it set up.”

“Okay,” Arlen said. He sat back down. Leane smirked at him, and he returned the favor.

“Assuming the captain’s got his timeline right,” Marco began.

“A big assumption,” Mara said. “The guy was nuts.”

Marco nodded. “True, he was, but if he had his time right, then we know that the ‘ghosts’ started to show up right after he picked up Terra Starling and her miscellany.” He took the computer from Ken and tabbed over to the manifest. “No idea what’s in these crates,” he said, “but they should at least be treated as suspicious.”

“What?” Leane said. “What could be in those boxes that’d make him murder everyone on the ship?”

“Magnetic pulse generators,” Arlen said. Everyone looked over at him, and he seemed surprised that they were waiting for him to finish his thought. “What?” he said. “It’s well known that a focused magnetic pulse can create hallucinations. Maybe she brought a bunch over, switched them on and…”

“And they only affected the captain?” Mara said. “How would that even work?”

Arlen shrugged. “Maybe there’s something in his genetics…”

“And where would a girl like Terra Starling even get magnetic pulse generators?” Ken asked. “You’ve seen her in the news, Arlen, she’s an idiot. She wouldn’t know how to get off a planet unless you strapped a pair of shoes to a rocket.” That got a chuckle.

“Maybe she didn’t know what was in them either,” Arlen said. “Maybe someone gave them to her? Told her they were vintage handbags?”

Leane snorted. “Very nice,” she said. “Shoes and handbags. Original, Arlen.”

“What, haven’t you seen her?” He grabbed his tabled and started poking at the screen. “The girl is a complete flake, look at this…”

They were cut off when Marco slapped the tabletop. The silence was complete. Leana sat back down. Arlen put his tablet on the table carefully.

“We blow it up,” Marco said.

Everybody looked at him, and it was a full ten seconds before Ken said, “What?”

“We blow it up,” Marco said again. “I don’t know what happened on that ship, and I don’t think I want to know. We go in, copy over all the logs and computer files, and then we scatter Osiris to the stars.” He looked over at Leane. “Cargo and all.” She took a quick breath that hissed through her teeth. But she didn’t disagree with him.

After a few moments, Mara said, “We can use the file on the chip to set off the self-destruct.” She looked across at Ken. “Can you re-jigger it to give us time to get out?” He nodded. “Okay then,” she said. “Let me know what you want off that ship. Me and Leane can go get it.”

Leane raised an eyebrow. “Me?” she said. “Why me?”

“Because you’re organized and efficient,” Mara said. “And I think the guys’ll probably pass out when they see the blood.” There was another chuckle around the table. Leane reached out for a fist bump.

“Okay,” Marco said. “We’ll start putting together what we need. Then we sleep.” He looked at the blank screen of Ken’s computer. “Tomorrow we bid farewell to the Osiris.”

To Be Continued… but I need to do some planning first. Hang in there.

Day Two Hundred and Fifty-nine: Derelict, part 2

February 5, 2012 2 comments

Read Part 1

————–

Mara wasn’t an expert on communications or computers, at least not beyond what everybody had to know to operate the ship. Her job was security and threat assessment, a job that seemed a little ridiculous on a salvage ship with a crew of five. The biggest threat she had to deal with on any given day was Ken trying to cheat Arlen at cards, which he did with such regularity that no one really knew why Arlen kept playing. She wanted to ask, but the mystery seemed more interesting. As long as they didn’t kill each other, it wasn’t really her business.

The only time she was really called upon to act in her official capacity was moments like this – dealing with derelict ships, investigating distress calls and emergency beacons. What with all the illegal mining ships, passenger scows, and homebrew space tubs out there, they did surprisingly brisk business. Marco had brought them together to make some money and enjoy the wide-open, and that’s what they did.

This ship, however, was a whole other story.

She didn’t have the leverage to pull the axe out of the comm console, so she just left it there. “Marco, are you seeing?”

“I’m seeing,” he said. “Ken’s here too. Ken?”

A moment’s pause, and then Ken’s familiar reedy tones. “Hey Mara,” he said. “What’ve you gone and done now?”

“Not in the mood, Ken. This place is creeping me out.” She brought herself closer to the console and the axe. “What do you make of this? And tell me quick – there’s a dead guy floating behind me, and if the fics are any indication he should be grabbing my ankle any moment now.”

Ken chuckled into the mic. “C’mon, Mara. Space zombies almost never happen. Now let’s see…”

There was a brief silence. What she’d told Ken was no lie – she could feel the dead man behind her. He was floating, he was naked, and he was covered in blood. She wanted to turn around, to look at him and make sure he was still there, still unmoving. But she had to keep the helmet-cam centered on the console. She wondered where he could grab her – leg? Shoulder? And when she spun around to scream, what would she see? The bloody maw of a mouth, ravaged by some terrible exovirus? The dead black eyes of a predator that would devour her whole? Something utterly unfathomable and alien that entranced her while it unmade her? Every moment that she stared at that stupid console with that stupid axe was a moment that he could take to reach over from where he was –

“Looks like the axe missed the best parts,” Ken said, and Mara jumped. She wasn’t sure if she made noise in that tiny white space of terror, but if she did, Ken didn’t mention it. “Say again?” she said.

Ken cleared his throat. “That console looks like government standard, and the axe pretty much just went through the monitor and the speaker. The actual processing equipment is about two feet down in the cabinet, so it should probably be fine.”

“So… it’s nothing?” Mara asked.

“Well, it’s an axe where an axe shouldn’t be,” Ken said, and she could hear his smirk. “I’d say that’s something.”

“Fine,” Mara said. “We’ll add that to the mystery board. I’m gonna check out the dead man.”

She wasn’t sure if it would be better to turn around with her eyes open and have that bloody monster lurch into her field of vision – or worse, to turn and see that it had disappeared – or to close her eyes and find out that way. But when she turned around, and let out the breath she’d been holding, the dead man was still there. Still floating. Still, as far as she could tell, dead.

“Wow,” Ken said. “That’s a mess.”

“You didn’t see the rest of it,” she said. “I’m going to take a closer look.” A light tap on the floor and she drifted upwards and forward towards the dead man. When she got close, she touched the low ceiling of the bridge and stopped herself.

There was no sign of injury on him, but lots of blood. “I’m gonna guess that he did it,” she said.

“Good guess.” Marco was back online.

She looked him over, head to toe. There was a tattoo on his shoulder – an eagle with a dagger in its mouth – and she made sure to get a good picture of it. Around his wrist was a thin blue band, from which dangled a small memory chip in a plastic case. She reached out, bringing her gloved fingers within inches of him.

Did his hand twitch?

She took his wrist gently, and it moved as she moved it. A thin utility blade popped out of the other glove’s thumb-tip and she sliced through the plastic band with ease. The chip floated free. She snatched it out of the air. “This might tell us something,” she said.

“Bring it aboard,” Marco said. “Ken can take a look and make sure there’s nothing malicious on it.”

“Good idea,” Mara said. “I’m still waiting for the horror movie to start, and a booby-trapped chip would be a good way to start it.” She pushed away towards the other door leading off the bridge. The schematic map said that it should be the captain’s office.

It was small and narrow, but neat. There were glass-fronted cabinets with small knickknacks in them, all of which were floating in disarray. The desk was bolted to the floor. Inside one of the drawers was the ship’s commission papers and a printed-out crew manifest. “Got it,” she said. She thumbed through the commission papers. “The ship is the Osiris, captained by Carter Artega. You know him, Marco?”

“Never heard of him,” Marco said. “But space is big. I’m sure we can find something.”

The manifest listed only twenty-five passengers and crew, which was something of a relief. It was still a bloodbath, but not quite the bloodbath it could have been. And there was cargo in the hold. Food and water, of course. Passengers’ personal goods, crates of replacement machine parts, computer consoles, some clothing… And four crates of “miscellaneous.”

“Huh,” she said.

“You know,” Marco said, “it’s never good when you say that.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” she said. “There’s some mystery cargo in the hold. I want to take a look.”

“Umm…” That got her attention. Marco wasn’t a man known for indecision. “Come on in first,” he said. “I want a look at whatever was on that chip. If there’s a message from the captain that says, ‘For the love of god, don’t look in those crates,’ I’d really like to see it first.”

Mara shrugged. “You’re the boss,” she said. And it did make sense. Clearly something horrible had happened, and while there was no guarantee those crates of miscellaneous had anything good, there was also no guarantee they were dangerous. Besides, the Osiris wasn’t going anywhere. “On my way,” Mara said. She’d have to go through those blood-soaked corridors again. Maybe if she went faster, it would’t be so bad.

It wasn’t, though she nearly broke her arm trying to go too fast in zero-g. When she got back on the ship, back in the familiar embrace of artificial gravity, Arlen was at the airlock to receive her. “What the hell’s going on?” he asked, taking parts of the spacesuit as she shed them. “Ken and Marco are gossiping like girls up there and won’t let us know what’s going on.”

“Like girls?” Mara said, arching an eyebrow. “Better not let Leane hear you say that.”

Arlen smirked. “Like you two have anything to gossip about.”

She took the chip from the pocket of her glove and handed the glove to Arlen, who turned it over in his hands. “What’s all this brown dust?” he asked. “Something rusting in there?”

“Something like that,” she said. “Excuse me.” She shouldered past him and pulled herself up the ladder to the bridge deck The crew area of the ship was small, with the much larger part being given over to cargo and storage. Anything they could haul away from a salvage claim was theirs to profit from, and if Mara knew him as well as she thought she did, Marco already had his claim registered. He was right – the Osiris was theirs, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

When she reached the bridge, Marco and Ken were waiting for her. The two men could have looked more different, but they’d have to try. Marco’s deep olive complexion and short black hair contrasted with Ken’s paleness in hair and skin. Marco was whip-thin, and if she hadn’t seen him eat she would have sworn he was starving. Ken looked like he’d been a boxer before he got deep into computers and spacefaring technology. They sat easily next to each other, as if they were each a part of some greater person that hadn’t shown up yet.

“Welcome back, Mara,” Marco said. Ken nodded at her by way of greeting.

Mara dropped into the copilot’s chair and held the chip out to Ken. “Here you are,” she said, draping a leg over the armrest. “Do your magic.”

Ken looked at it carefully, then reached behind him for his ever-present black bag. No one knew what he really had in there – he carried it with him at all times, and never let anyone look inside. The most anyone could figure was that it was full of black-market tech that he thought they would disapprove of. No one knew why.

He pulled out a small computer and a card reader. Once everything was attached, he slid the chip into the reader and began tapping keys. His face had that blank look that he got when he was totally absorbed in something, and he didn’t blink for what seemed like way too long.

A few moments later, he looked up, from Marco to Mara and back again. “I think we’re in trouble,” he said.

To Be Continued! (Seriously? Really? Okay…)

Day Two Hundred and Fifty-eight: Derelict, part 1

February 4, 2012 3 comments

Mara hated how her breathing sounded inside the spacesuit. Her helmet amplified everything – the slow draw of the inhale, with that ever-so-faint squeak at the end. A leftover from the asthma she’d had as a child. The exhale that whooshed out and echoed in her ears, a hollow, close sound that made her feel like she’d been buried alive. It would have been worse if the visor had fogged up, but the thermal plastic kept that from happening. A small blessing. With her own hollow breath in her ears, she turned on her helmet camera and keyed in the override for the airlock.

The interior of the derelict ship wasn’t what she’d expected. Darkness, dust, broken things – that was what every fiction she’d seen since childhood had prepared her for. It was a well-worn plot, after all: distress call, motionless ship, no answer. Followed by a throwaway character going in to explore and being devoured by something the filmmakers could barely afford to pay for.

Of course, no one had ever run into a horrible, carnivorous Monster from Beyond the Stars before, so Mara assured herself that she was perfectly safe. Right on the heels of that thought was the quiet whisper in the back of her mind that said, “But there’s always a first time.”

She wasn’t sure what bothered her more, that she might get eaten alive or that she might be a throwaway character. Neither was very appealing to think about.

The helmet radio crackled in her ear. “Mara, we’re seeing the airlock open. How does everything look?”

She gave herself a light push off the wall and drifted through the hatch. “All looks good, Marco,” she said. “The lights are on.” She checked the readout on her helmet display. “Atmosphere seems intact.” She reached out to the wall and let the ridged fingertips of her gloves drag her to a halt. “Gravity’s off, but otherwise…”

Otherwise it looked like someone should come around the corner any minute and ask her what the hell she thinks she’s doing there. “Marco, what’s the stats on this ship?”

“Hold,” he said. A few loud breaths later, he was back. “Huh,” he said. “Looks like a Hermes-class, small diplomatic vessel. Uploading schematics now.” An orange icon blinked into life on her helmet screen, in the lower left. Mara held her gaze on it, and a detailed 3-D map of the ship blossomed before her eyes.

“Did the S.O.S. say anything about it being a diplomatic mission?” she asked.

“Not a thing,” Marco said. “And you’d think that might be the kind of information that’d be useful. But it was just a distress call, and nothing else. Automated, sent out to Any and All.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nope. If I can get the ship’s ID code, Ken might able to dig something up. He said he did a database backup at our last station visit. Try the bridge, see what you can find.”

“Gotcha.” She glanced around the schematic until she found the bridge – three decks up and at the farthest point from where she was now. “Marco. Grab my helmet feed. Tell me if I’m missing anything.”

“Already done,” he said. “Off with you.” The persistent hiss of the open channel clicked off.

There was a lift about ten meters down the corridor. She thought about it, and then called up the schematics again to look for an access vent. Someplace where she would be slightly less trapped. She pulled a vent cover off and stuck her head inside. It would be close, but she could fit.

The trip along the vent was short and uneventful. She braced her back against the wall and pushed with her feet, popping the vent cover off and sending it bouncing off the opposite wall. When she looked out into the corridor, the first thing she did was curse. Loudly and well.

“Mara?” Marco’s voice cut through the mix of rage and fear that she found herself overwhelmed by. “Mara, is everything okay?”

Everything was most certainly not okay. The walls were covered with old, dried blood. There were splashes on the floor and ceiling alike, bloody handprints, and long, smeared drag marks. It was all a dark, iron brown, and there were tiny flecks of dried blood floating in the air like motes of dust in an abandoned house.

“Holy shit,” Marco said.

Mara swallowed hard. “My thoughts exactly.”

“What do you think happened?”

Mara was pretty sure she knew what happened. She figured Marco knew too, but the question still had to be asked. “Looks like we’re gonna have to find out,” she said. The blood trail led off to her right, which the schematics said was in the direction of the bridge. “I’ll follow this,” she said. She pulled herself out of the access vent and started floating along the corridor, following the blood.

There was more blood as she went along, and the bloody dust in the air seemed to be getting thicker. When she turned the first corner, it just got worse.

There was a head resting where the floor and wall met, and it was facing away from her. It was a small blessing, but the rest of the corridor looked like a slaughterhouse. The blood was now mixed with what was unmistakably flesh, and it caked the walls where it wasn’t floating through the air. “Marco,” she said. “How many people does a Hermes usually carry?”

There as a pause. When he spoke, Marco’s voice was quiet and hoarse. “Around fifty,” he said. “Maybe more, depending on the mission.”

“Jesus,” she said.

“Yeah.”

She checked the map. The bridge was just up the corridor, but she really, really didn’t want to find it. Whoever – and she couldn’t stop amending that to Whatever – had either come from or gone to the bridge. In a ship this size, there were plenty of places to hide, but everything pointed to Mara walking into a horror house.

The bridge door was covered with bloody handprints. Mara took a deep breath and thought about how lucky she was that she couldn’t smell anything. Her stomach lurched anyway, and she gritted her teeth and closed her eyes. The suit had ways of handling puke in the helmet, but it was still horrible, and she’d never live it down.

The door opened at her approach.

Except for the floating naked corpse in the middle of the bridge, it all looked perfectly normal. the man was thin and very clearly dead. His throat had been cut, and he was hovering in a thick cloud of dried blood. The main screen was dark, as we’re most of the other consoles on the bridge. Mara moved from point to point, trying to get an idea of who this ship was.

There was an axe buried in the communications console.

To Be Continued… (I keep using that phrase… I do not think it means what I think it means…)