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Month: January 2022

Day 48, and it’s going to be a busy one.

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Lots to do, lots to do today. Also have to get my eye sight checked today. Fingers are crossed that I still don’t need real prescription glasses. Trying to hold off, as once I give in my eyes will deteriorate more rapidly in my middle age. Paid work is still rolling in, which is fantastic, so good there for now. Big – big job I’m working through now. If I can get a good chunk out of it today, like I did on Saturday and Sunday then I will be able to sleep better knowing I am making progress on it. Still have thirty odd pages to go of the raw data to assemble. My wrists will sing come Friday!

Might need to be a little less present in writing my connected short story series this week. But who knows. I have to take breaks to eat and move, so maybe I’ll get a sense of some story beats I just have to get down on paper.

All the best on this, the last day of January. Just think, you’ll never have to do this day again!

Sunday – Sunday, and other musical madness.

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You guessed correctly, today is Tuesday! But in all seriousness it is Sunday January 30th of the year 2022. This is day 47 of my writing every day campaign and I have thus far written seventeen new chapters this year. A fair few of them are under a thousand words, and on occasion I have written a little over that threshold. I have found that to be manageable. Writing some of the three thousand word or longer chapters in book one melted my brain for the day, so I’m trying not to do that. Or if I feel that’s how a scenario is going to play out I’ll break the writing up over two days to save my brain some trouble. Although if I’m in the groove and it all comes pouring out I might just have to go with it, and save my once over after review for the second day.

I’m currently reading the ninth and final book of a series and I am at once both eager to read it, and sad it’ll all be over once I’m done. I could go back and read it from the start, but I want to read new stuff, not constantly go back to my comfort materials. I’m starting to feel the same way about my painting and sculpting. I definitely feel the draw to recreate characters I’ve done before, but then I also really want to try other things out as well. Case in point; do I try yet another Ninja Turtle or give Killer Croc a go, because I’ve never tried sculpting him before. Do I upgrade my Hellboy bust or try a full figure space man instead. I lean towards static busts, but a dynamically posed full figure of a person would be really good practice. I haven’t tackled hands or feet in a long time.

I also have to wonder whether my use of silly titles plays into how widely seen these blog posts get some days. Now “widely seen” is doing some seriously back breaking lifting here. Widely in the sense of what I write is around twenty five people, so do with that information what you will.

Could be a busy week, but it should be a good one. Kids are off for a PA Day on Friday, short week! Enjoy your weekend!

“So I pull out both of my guns and I start blastin’…”

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Rumbles the wiry looking armorer named Piotr, as he makes finger guns and swings both his arms around in what he believes to be a cinematic manner. The huddle of onlookers rapt with attention. “No you fucking didn’t.” Barks Brian, the wispy armorer in his custom worn leather apron draped with tools and wiping off his hands on an oil soaked rag standing at his work bench opposite Piotr. “How the fuck would you know – Bri-Yen! You weren’t there.” Snarls Piotr defensively at having his epic story telling moment interrupted and questioned in front of the gathered crowd. “Two reasons Ole P. One, up until recently absolutely no one could get a gun, of any make or model. And two – we went through Torus Station academy together and you’re a terrible shot at anything that isn’t constrained directly within the palm of your hands. So give it a rest, would you.” Smirks Brian, as the gathered group of men and women surrounding Piotr break off from the scrum and slowly meander back to their work stations in clusters of two or three. The armorers work benches are gathered together in a bull pen at the back of the machine shop. Out of the way of the mechanics busily upgrading the drop ships, and retro fitting the newest gun ships with the new tech the armorers are building. The majority of the crew aboard the Righteous Chord are entombed in their stasis sleeves, or their personal walking tanks in preparation for the coming battle. With roughly nine weeks of travel time the gun Smiths and armorers have lots to do, and a finite amount of time to do it in. Only the mechanics and the armorers are up and awake so that they can utilize all of the available shop time, and dedicate themselves to the job at hand. Tasked with building and maintaining the weaponry for the first military offensive in centuries. There is a tension in the air for the as of yet untested fighting force. Slowly turning back to his bench Piotr picks up a syringe full of nanobots and a series of hex keys. “Hey man, we all know my stories are shit. I’m just trying to keep morale up, you know. We’re all pulled so taut right now. I just wanted a chance to get Magdalena close by, you get me bruv?” Exclaims Piotr. Looking across their adjoining work benches Brain gives him a half smile with a wave off. “Oh like Magda would ever have anything to do with you bud. Ha. No chance!” He laughs in a staccato burst. “You should talk there buddy boy. I know how sweet on Mimi you are. That mountain of a lady eh? Trying to die by Snu-Snu?” He barks in a raspy laugh. “Oh hey – shush, keep it down. I could get in real trouble if the lieutenant finds out about our fraternization.” Brian waves his hands in a hush it motion, palms pushing down towards the floor. The two go silent for a moment. They both readjust their data screens which hang on swing arms with tilting action. Readjust their magnification light rigs and reread their job sheets for the fiftieth time. Going down their respective checklists as they upgrade various pieces of weaponry with the neural link nanotech. The upgrade will give the fire teams several fractions of a second boost when aiming and choosing targets in a swarm. It’s a process heavy upgrade, but well worth it against the strangeness of what could be waiting for them at UB313.

“Have you heard the news? The admiral won’t pull any of our moles out of UB313 prior to the offensive. He’s just going to hang them out to dry. Poor fuckers” whistles Piotr barely above a whisper. Looking up from his bench Brian says. “Did you hear their last reports? It’s loopy, abso-fucken-lutely ape shit. Seems the good doctor has been cooking up some kind of engineered super soldiers from extra body parts or some shit. Sounds like a fun guy to work for.” He snorts, his face flushed. “Well he’s most likely responsible for a lot of the missing passenger ships, and long haulers that disappear out at the far reaches. Wouldn’t put it past him to have sewn a few folks together and brain washed or tortured them into wanting to die while fighting. Yeesh. Makes my skin crawl just thinking about that Dr. Mengele bull shit. Fucking Psycho nutter.” Brian stops short, turns his eyes to his bench for a moment, as a small group of mechanics walk into view pushing wheeled carts and passing along soundlessly behind them. The squeal of a squeaky wheel a dead give away that they were approaching. The noise now slowly receding into the distance. The two bench mates are fairly well attuned to hiding their illicit conversations behind hammer blows and other machine shop sounds. Never can be too sure who in The Company might be listening in. Not that two mid tier armorers would warrant too deep an investigation, it’s best to not poke the bear as it were. Taking a few breaths inbetween bursts of conversation the two men’s hands glide over their work. Updating algorithmic packets to rifle scopes and targeting nodes on the triple action short burst carbines. Wiping away squeeze out from oil and grease spigots the two work tirelessly on the nanotech upgrades. Over the PA system garbled messages pass back and forth between departments, and the six shifters get notifications for a call to rest. Brian and Piotr are not ghost crew, and are instead working triples daily until they arrive into Charon’s orbit in a few more weeks. Hammer blows and welding spatter are followed intermittently by a smattering of discussion.

The bull pen where the armorers work is a bustling u shaped congregation of work benches, magnetically levitating tool boxes, and portable metal work stations and racks. Though the mechanics are all dressed in red, the armorers are not so uniform in their dress. A fairly recent addition to both the Torus Station academy as a viable path of study, and to the duty roster on any sizable vessel in The Company’s employ. They hadn’t had the chance yet to vote on a specific colour coded jumpsuit, so they wore whatever colour they used prior to switching into the valet come squire roles they occupied now. Not all of them wore aprons or tool belts. Even the oil stained hands wouldn’t set them apart from the mill wrights or the mechanics onboard. If they felt the need for legitimacy as a singular entity rather than an offshoot of some other department then they’d have to press HR for a chance to gather a vote or undergo some heavy negotiations with the higher ups. In a time of impending strife, nobody had time for that.

Much like the mechanics and most of the other trades people the armorers lived in pods within five hundred meters of where they worked, and were a tightly knit family, as far as working together was concerned.

After the third shift change bell finished tolling the bulk of the armorers broke away from their benches and made their way back to the dormitories. Another day down, with six hours to rest, and then another forty nine days left to go. The lull of a steady stream of work kept many of them too tired to think all that hard about the impending carnage. They knew for certain that they had a technological advantage, but unlike the frozen in stasis sleep soldiers, the fear of the unknown was eating at them around the edges of their subconscious.

Entering through the environmental control doors into the cool air of the common room, some went straight to the showers to clean off, while others sat in their couches and keyed in their meal options for dinner. The large red clock was slowly counting down the six hours they had inbetween triples, so it’ll be another fast meal and quiet night aboard the Righteous Chord for both Brian and Piotr.

Part Seventeen: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

The last frigid Saturday of January 2022.

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We are all nearly one full month into the year now. Heading into an equally cold February, but with paid work on the docket, and a healthy family – thus far.  Had a morning with cartoons and helping to dress the kids dolls in new clothes. Attempting to trouble shoot a doll whose eyes no longer open when it sits up, and making everyone scrambled eggs for breakfast.

Doing a lots of nothing, looking at memes and thinking about how to approach some new work that came in yesterday afternoon. I have all the ground work laid out, templates, tables and colour palette, and a new design based off of their supplied brand style guide. It’s going to be a real looker when done. I just need to give it a good think so that I reads properly and I don’t have to adjust it a tonne later on. Think it through now, will save a lot on revisions later. Is my thinking anyway. Doesn’t always play out as planned, but I think I can do a little extra on this one.

As a freelancer I work as the projects come in, so my days vary wildly in regards to how busy I am. When it rains it pours, and then I get streaks of quiet time in between. Allows me to do alot with my kids that I wouldn’t have been able to do in prior roles. All the better for me!

Come on springtime sunshine, green grass, warmth, and flowers.

So now the drum beats for all out war.

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I’m kind of dreading this part, as the scope could potentially be enormous, and I don’t know how to juggle something that large. I have a feeling – (“I’ve got a feelin’ woo-ooh, that tonights gonna be a go…) that I will introduce a massive scenario, pointing out some broad strokes, and then dive in, tight close up, on some unsuspecting persons face and have the world carry about them with nary a care for the finer points. It’s terrible, I know, but I just can’t seem to care enough to attempt to explore naval battle tactics in space when my current grasp of both the navy and zero gravity physics are tenuous at best, mostly zero at worst. So no – we set the scene, jump cut around it, and get to the point of my over arching story. Stop in for a few with some nice people, see how they are making out in the battle, and then carry on as you were.

For these next few pivotal chapters I’m going to have to revisit my point form outlines, as I have a number of threads to collect and tie together. I try not to get convoluted, even with my run on sentences, I know, I know. Trying to say too much in too short a space. But i think i can get this all tied up, and loop back to the earliest chapters, and some other threads that seem like they’ve been dropped, but i promise they haven’t. I’m trying to build to a big crescendo, and then maybe I’ll have a history professor teaching a class give some clarifying exposition at the end, so that it all makes more sense. Plus leave me some wiggle room to come back later to flesh out other parts of the whole thing that i skimped on, because i didn’t know how to tell that part at this time. Get me? You got me.

A word of warning though, some parts of this may turn into a blood bath. We are talking war stories, horror elements, body horror (potentially) although that feels icky to me. But could prove useful. Maybe a love story portion. All out despiration. Some courageous moments, and then some funny dialogue moments, and some far flung science fiction to wrangle the pieces all together. Sound like fun? Yeah – come on. Stick with me now. Book two has just finished chapter sixteen, you’ve got four to six chapters left in you right!?! I hope so. For my sake as well.

In other news, going to be a big football weekend again. So that will be fun. I wonder if these games will have the same caliber of excitement as last weekends games did. Whoo-boy right up to the closing seconds with the will they, won’t they story arc.

Also – as an aside. I’m finally getting around to painting last years two finished sculpts. The old man of the see, who has a passing resemblance to Christopher Plummer, was done as a faux bronze, and the Ogre is very blue. Maybe he needs a grey wash over top, not sure. Needs something to tie him together and be more than layered blue dry brushing. Keep on putting pens to paper!

This 45 doesn’t have an army of red hats. Thankfully.

“Are you really that dense, or are you joking?”

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Asks the burly woman sitting in her security forces issued combat uniform. Tucked tightly into her dressing alcove on the mezzanine over looking the main flight deck. An enormous dry dock packed with mechanics doing repairs to all of the vessels stationed inside the sector. The young man is currently helping to bolt her into her multi part suit. “I just didn’t know what all the hub-bub was about. That’s all.” Pouts the small man, with large brown puppy dog eyes and a well worn cracked leather apron loaded with tools on it. “You silly prick. The drums are beating.” She barks in anger. “Huh? I don’t hear any drums, that warning klaxon and the alarms I hear, but no fucking drums!” He replies, earnestly without a hint of sarcasm, though he is pulling her chain, hard. “I’m speaking metaphorically – dip shit. Someone’s gone and pissed off an admiral, and now we’re heading off to war.” She is shouting over the loud peal of the intermittently sounding alarms, and the deep booming klaxon horns. As they approach the time to depart the warnings get closer and closer together. Like the contractions of birth, except it’ll involve the gushing of newly retrofitted attack vessels out of the dry docks all across the refurbished Torus Station. “But, I don’t get it. We’ve done nothing but science and exploration for centuries, why go to war now? What could be so bad as to warrant that.” Asks the diminutive armorer stuffing his hands inside the chest of his leather apron. Feeling the warm rough edges scrape across the skin of his exposed hands. It’s his default position, as he waits for his security personnel to run their internal diagnostics before he can bolt their helmets into place, and fully load out their projectile weapons canisters. “I have heard, via the grape vine, that the insurgencies mole capabilities has affected the admirals personally. Which means it now affects us all. Hey, gimme some of those exploding tip fifty caliber rounds for the shoulder cannons yeah? I like the added punch. Makes door breaching easier than just the shotguns, and I don’t have to get as close to the doors.” The woman remarks, with a wink. Though they bicker back and forth the woman from the security force rather likes her armorer slash valet. “If that’s what madam Mimi wants, that’s what she’ll have. I’ll make a note of that on your requisition forms. No doubt you’ll get them. I’ll flag you down if you don’t, before you get stowed away onboard the Gallant Mistress.” No longer looking at Mimi, but toggling through screens to order up the additional weaponry for her fifty caliber shoulder cannons. “Not with the Gallant Mistress this run, I’m bumped over to the Righteous Chord. Sounds as though we’re taking just about everybody who can fight with us.” Mimi exclaims. “Us too madam. Us too. No good having you out there fighting if you have no one around to repair your gear, or suit you lot up properly.” Their happy banter is slowly fading as the full weight of what the next few months of stasis transit, and then fighting may bring. Brian the valet & armorer will not go under. He’ll be awake for the two month trip making final adjustments and calibrations to the fighting gear. Though the advancements of the nanotech have jumped forward in leaps and bounds, he will still have to administer them individually to each fighter in the battalion that fall under his care. In all he has to repair and dress, undress fifteen members of the elite security fighting force. He somehow always manages to linger when it comes to Mimi. He laughs, but Mimi doesn’t hear him while she is engaged in her comm’s check, and HUD systems calibration. Mimi, not the name he would have guessed for the six foot eight behemoth of a woman infront of him. What kind of mother would think to name this giantess Mimi? The woman needs to give her head a shake. Though, in all honesty, she’s most likely dead. As for Mimi, she’s intimidating out of her weapons suit, and positively monolithic inside it.

The alcove where her suit hangs is like a two car garage, except with chains, hoists and pneumatic Jack’s to lift and lower her armor onto her. He is a modern day Squire to the black clad knight before him. He has still not untethered her from the external life support, as he himself is running triple checks on her aiming reticule, and GPS beacons. He has to climb a ladder to bolt the helmet down from the top, and attach her instrumentation cables in. It’ll be another hour or two yet before she gets loaded into the ships storage like a rifle magazine loaded with all the other walking tank like suits of her combat group.

Reaching over the lower rungs of the ladder to begin to climb up the racking that Mimi is held up against as the suit is still in idle mode, Brian catches Mimi’s eye, and gives her his biggest puppy dog eye wink and nod combo that he can manage. She laughs and looks away. The clicking of the winch lowering her helmet lets her know it’ll be lights out for her momentarily. When next she wakes, she will be deployed for all out war. The air quality inside the helmet is cool and fresh. The smell of oils and lubricants, and welding gases disappears as the helmet clunks into place over her head. Brian can be heard, muffled through the thick concrete glass, using an impact wrench to torque down the bolts to her helmet. Through the five inch thick dome she can see him bang on it three times with his open palm. The wet smack let’s her know she got all the weaponry she’s asked for. Inside the helmet she smiles broadly. Looking up she still smiles though she knows he can’t see her through the golden mirrored outer finish of her helmet. On the HUD a thirty second count down appears in green text across her entire field of vision. With an audible ping the numbers begin to count down with a slight click, as though it were an analog flip clock from centuries ago. As expected a shockingly cold pinch can he felt in the base of her neck. Her blood stream fills with the cool liquid, she doesn’t see the end of the countdown. Soon a pink viscous fluid will fill her lungs and other open cavities so that she can withstand the brutal forces associated with a crushingly hard thrust burn and the bone breaking deceleration to reach the outer edges of the solar system where UB313 awaits.

Part Sixteen: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

You want me to do WHAT? In this gig-economy!

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You’re off your tits mate. And other such fun snippets of dialogue I either overhear at the school drop off, or television, movies and think. Ha. That gives me an idea. But not so much today.

It’s Thursday, my dudes. Not quite the weekend but it can be seen and felt from here. Although with working from home, and for myself, it all rather feels the same. Well, maybe now that my wife and kids are back to school (for however long that manages to last) the weekends will feel a slight twinge of otherness to them, with the house full from sun up to sun down.

In other news Valentine’s Day is just around the corner, followed closely by a week or so is Family Day, then we have March break, and the slow drag into springtime! Yay! Which is a lovely thought, but we have six weeks of horrible sub zero temperatures, snow, ice, freezing rain and slush to wade through first. Can 8 just say this though. I’ve enjoyed all of the blue sky sunnies days we’ve been having. It’s really something wonderful to be cold and yet have that gorgeous open blue sky overhead. What little heat we can feel on our faces directly from the sun is welcomed with open arms.

Rather than doing a grocery pick up like usual, or a delivery; I actually went inside a store yesterday. For the first time in a number of weeks. Good and empty, given our current pickle (pandemic obvs’) to grab a bunch of ready made meals for my wife to have at work. When it’s quiet, and no one else is around and you forget you have a mask on, it can almost feel normal-ish. I can’t recall the last time I took my kids to wander around a mall to just look at what’s new, visit a play place, or have lunch out together. I think we’d have still been using a stroller and rear facing car seat for my youngest the last time I did that.

That’s what stings right now. I was looking forward to taking my kids out of school surreptitiously to go to the mall and have an afternoon together and do something fun. But I don’t want to add even a scintilla of additional exposure over and above what they all ready face. In the years to come, I hope to be able to resurrect that mental health day time together. I miss that time doing something fun one on one with either of my kids. Lego land, Square One, The Bass Pro Shop, a Massive Disney Store, or Toys R Us. I used to love just going for a walk around, while the weather outside was horrendously cold. Get some excercise, mock youth fashion trends, because I’m older now, and I’m keen on my late nineties/early two thousands fashion choices that I made that suited my body type and wallet.

Trust in me – just in me… where’s my copy of The Jungle Book!

Also – the gig economy sucks balls. I don’t want to HAVE to turn every hobby into cash flow, that’s just part time work, on top of your day job. That’s no way to live. I get the Type A’s who are physically incapable of resting might be drawn to that option, but you have to have down time to recharge. You’ll burn yourself out. For what an extra couple of bucks, but no time to read, draw, paint, sew, play an instrument or relax. I get that wages sort of suck, and have done for ages, but that type of self deprivation isn’t sustainable in the long term. I hope you can find a happy medium. Or strike it rich! Or discover a wealthy patron who will fund you in the event of their death.

“This is the strangest feeling.”

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She thought to herself. All around her there is a calming warmth, like a snug blanket wrapped around her. But not quite, almost akin to floating in a very warm pool of water, where you know you are wet, but you don’t feel wet. There is a hum about her too, comforting, like a soft electrical tingle in her finger tips and toes. Even though it is pitch black and she can not see she is not scared. No, she thinks, at the edges of her consciousness she is terrified, but she feels compelled, externally, to not panic. Like someone is whispering sweet nothings in her ears just below what she can make out, but the warmth of breath on her neck, and the sense of someone caring is tangible. The oddness of it all envelops her. She is oddly disquieted by the lack of her heart beating in her chest. Surely at peace as she is, the constant thrum of the lub-dub of her heart, and the sound of blood rushing in her ears should be present. What had happened? Why couldn’t she remember where she was or what she was doing. The warmth and floating sensation persists. The blackness around her could stretch for miles. Or it could be a mask. Either way her eyes are unseeing. Is she waking up in a med pod? Did she fail her mission to obtain the asset? Questions are tumbling around in her mind. A brief pinch in her head, like the beginnings of a head ache, but now its gone. What was she just thinking of? The float is warm. She could just drift away, off to sleep. “YES” – the warmth speaks, like honey in her ear. Oozing around her, the suggestion to slip away, go to sleep, just rest – relax. Feeling herself giving in to the sensation of gently rocking, somewhere in the blackness she can hear her mother singing a lullaby. A gentle finger moving a lock of hair from her face. The warm embrace, the touch of warm soft skin on skin. The slight hum of electric static from an off turned radio. The clicking of the rocking chair upon the orange sun lit floors of her bedroom. Oh!, she thinks, I don’t know if I’ve ever had that memory before. So nice. She’s a teenager, rolling over in bed, away from her opened blinds, snuggling against her comforter, “I don’t want to go to school” she moans. The warmth begins to ebb away slowly, a cold chill nips at her fingers and toes. She shivers, nakedly from the cold.

The darkness begins to recede, in its place a swirling mass of shadows and smoke. She coughs deeply, and begins to choke. Hard wracking coughs that assault her lungs. She can feel her eyes begin to bulge, her neck straining, her finger bones pop with the strain. She isn’t choking but suffocating in the grey white cloud. “She might need the atmosphere we detected K”. Garbles a voice echoing from every which direction. “Yes – Yes! We did notice that too.” Replies the same voice. “Best be quick about it then K.” It answers in reply. “Too right K.” It says, still having done nothing but remark upon her strangled state. “Oh thank you K.” The woman lay on the ground asphyxiating. With an audible whistle the room begins to fill with a mixture of oxygen and nitrogen and various other gases. The same as the tiny yellow morsel they had consumed, in which they found her. Gasping for her life she lies upon the ground heaving and floundering. Trying to catch her breath and get her bearings. “Your friends are dead.” The room vibrates with the words, but no one is inside the room. With a cracked and dry throat she croaks. “I know.” The room itself begins to shrink, and reorganize. No longer a cube of three meters to a side, but an elongated hall, all illuminated in the same silver grey and off white. The hall ends at her back but stretches out into a pin point of light in front of her. Without getting up she is pushed forward, gently. “The man inside with you had significant trauma to his brain. Tell us, did you have anything to do that?” Asks the echoing voice quietly. “No! – no, I was trying to fix the sabotaged cockpit flight controls. Richard’s was murdered by our pilot Zeke.” The walls shimmy in response. The forward pull of the hallway speeds up. The woman has the distinct sensation of traveling without moving. It is disconcerting. “Tell us, what of the man partially welded to your hull?” Enquires the echoing voice. “I don’t know? I assumed Zeke was trying to sabotage us so that he could obtain the asset by himself. Keep the glory for his own.” She responds with a dry bark. “Wait – did you say welded? What welded? How is that possible?” She exclaims. The hallway starts to expand, a large yellow and black ship begins to uncover itself from the wall. The hall disappeared behind her, a large rectangular room containing her ship The Mangelo has arranged itself around her. She approaches the rear of the ship where, near the top side, the propellant storage tanks are located. Too physically weak to climb, she realizes she can’t recall when she last ate or drank anything. The ship before her appears to sink into the floor, raising her up to see the top of the vessels hull. There, frozen in place is the body of the pilot. “Can you tell if the power is still on with the ship?” She asks aloud. “We have rendered the core inert.” Responds the echo. Crawling over the pipes and exposed cabling on the hull she can see that the pilot, Zeke, had unfortunately braced himself to work by putting one boot under a secured conduit and then leaned over another cable bundle to switch the engines over to the reserve tanks, causing the current to arc, welding himself in place. Dying of electrocution painfully, in the process causing the overload of the capacitors and resistors blowing out the control panels in the cockpit. It wasn’t sabotage, at least on Zeke’s part. Just an unfortunate accident stemming from their second hand pilfered vessel, and shoddy rushed schedule to assemble it all. “So how did Richards get a pipe in the head?” She mumbled. The deep echo voice rumbles.”The analysis of the data from the biometric recorder seems to suggest he was trying to pull a stuck valve open on a holding tank, when is grip failed, slipped off the wrench and impaled himself. His gps tracker shows him flopping around.” Responds the voice dryly. “Which caused the machinists lubricant to dribble into the cistern.” She says, flatly. A little numbed by the revelation. Suddenly there is a violent rocking motion to the room, as the woman tumbles over sideways falling to her hands and knees with a violent thud, the room shrinks down into a cramped sphere, only slightly larger than the woman if she were to crouch. The light within the grey white room begins to shimmer into a dazzling brilliance. “Would you like to know what your wrist biometric unit says – Racquelle?”

Part Fifteen: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

What does forty three (43) days mean to you.

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I’ll tell you what it means to me. A flat plateau, and a bit of a slog. Feeling as though I’m treading water and gaining no new ground. However, on the upside, if there is one and I can call it that. There is a certain satisfaction in following along with the process and maintaining discipline. It’s not much, but it’s honest work. There was never any guarantee that a spark would ignite everyday. Just the knowledge that making the time, sitting down and doing the thing, eventually, something would come of it. Could be that I’m passed the creative hump, and I just need to wrap it up in another six chapters or so. Could be I’ll find myself thirty five hundred words into a chapter and think, oh this needs more context, this needs to be explored. Or I’ll wrap it all up an a bow, spring will arrive and I can work outdoors again. It could be that I have a fantastic supply of paid work and I am devoting more brain power to my business than I did at the tail end of December, and I’m not at peak, rested, creative writing performance. Could be I’ll hear a funny comment and that’ll take me off on a tangent. Maybe I just wanted to bitch and whine, then carry on as before. I can be fickle, so that’s why pushing along with the process is so important. Without it, I can flounder and then spend hours following YouTube rabbit holes. Life is weird that way.

On a typical day, I need to get my kids sorted for school: breakfast, lunches made, hair & teeth. Set out clothes for the youngest. Get their outdoor gear ready by the door. Drop them off and run errands. Then once I’m home I can check emails for priority clients, work, or sit down to my own breakfast and have a think. That would be when I bust out the trusty phone and clickety clack my way through a blog post, thought, joke or retelling of something that’s happened, or ruminate on what’s to come for my short story series. Then I’ll take some time for laundry, cleaning up, dishes and vacuuming, or scrubbing bathrooms and sinks. Then check emails again, if I’ve missed any notifications, and carry on.

I’m not writing an epic fantasy novel, so setting aside ten to fifteen minutes to publish something isn’t that big a deal. I try not to judge my work against others, but that’s really fucking hard to do. But I write for me, even if I do chase those view statistics some days.

Do any of you have a process you’d feel comfortable sharing? I should also note – as I have said previously; I write on my phone because sitting at my office chair is where I do my paid day job, and I want to be able to walk around, talk aloud, act things out as I go (if need be) rather than be perched at my desk longer than I have to be. Trying very hard not to get an RSI on my right wrist ever again. It sounded like twisting a leather glove when my tendons got inflamed. Oh that hurts, just thinking about it. Couldn’t rotate my right wrist & radius it hurt so bad. But I digress.

“We’re all just gristle for the mill…”

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Mutters the older statesman sitting reclined at his massive desk. He’s thumbing through the most recent accident reports from The Dirty Starling. One particular case was flagged to his attention, marked urgent, and highly confidential. “What’s that?” Asks the statesman’s valet, seated at a small alcove just around the side of the desk. A minuscule cut out of the massive structure that fits his small computer keyboard, a side board to fix his boss’s drinks, and a large black box full of encrypted data records. “Hmm. Just talking to myself, my dear boy.” Harrumphs the older man, his chin fixed against his round barrel chest. A look of consternation rests upon his wrinkled face, and precise chiseled features. No less handsome even with his recent weight gain in these later decades of his tenure aboard The Dirty Starling. The man, Gerald, is an advisor to the positively ancient Admiral currently entombed in the captain’s quarters of The Dirty Starling. “I’ve got to carve out some time to wake the admiral.” States Gerald flatly. The accident report clutched tightly in his left hand. “The admiral? Jesus what’s happened now?” Chirps the valet. “An absolute disaster. That’s what. Seems our vanished ghost is, or rather, was, the admiral’s great great grandson. He is not going to take this news well. How long will it take to wake the man?” Asks the large, gruff adviser Gerald. The slim valet types on his keyboard quickly, with a few clicks and some guttural noises he replies. “According to medical the admiral is due out of stasis when we reach port on Errebus Four in two weeks time sir. Do you want to wait for his regularly scheduled reanimation?” The valet asks. “Is that what I asked you young Timmons? Hmmm… did I ask you to tell me when he was scheduled to awaken? I know he’s due out in two weeks, his primary dinner guest, besides myself, my retinue and the other first officers was the dead man – his progeny. So No! In fact, I do not wish to wait. Key in the request, I’ll approve it physically. Any further delay may endanger our lives further. The Admiral is not known for leniency onboard this ship. Am I clear Timmons?” Barks the adviser in a raspy cutting whisper. “Yes sir. If we trigger the Morning Rays Protocols now, he will awaken in six hours – sir.” Responds the slim valet Timmons firmly. “Good man. Key it to my biometrics wrist communicator and I’ll DNA scan in the override. Good god I hope he takes this well.” Mutters the thick necked adviser, straightening his shoulders, and fussing with his moustache in a small pocket mirror.

With a loud woosh the lid of the medical pod opens up and a humanoid shape within can be seen through the escaping rush of steam and moisture. Over head fans kick on gobbling up the various gases. Their mechanical hum interwoven with loud clicks and a low grade grinding of metal on metal. Blue dressed medical technicians scatter as the body within begins to stir. A tall female technician approaches Gerald with the intent to scold him for rushing the older admirals awakening. But seeing the ashen look, and the puffy bags under the admiral’s most trusted advisers eyes, she yields, and backs away with a softly spoken. “Be kind Gerald, the admiral is… not in as good a state as he once was. Be gentle – please.” Turning his eyes from the man entombed in the medical pod Gerald looks at the doctor with mournful eyes and says “I do not wish to hurt him any more than absolutely necessary. He’d be furious if we waited to break the news to him. Better a sharp shock than a delayed festering wound.” He grumbles. “As you see fit Gerald.” Remarks the doctor as she disappears into her office across the medical bay. In a flutter of lab coats and orderlies with wheel chairs, the Morning Rays Protocol team rushes in to collect the admiral, checking his vitals again, attaching leads, and wiping him damp body down. Removing the remnants of the stasis fluids used to keep the elderly man alive. The clock is ticking, and Gerald expects to be summoned by the admiral within the hour from his ready room aboard the bridge.

“Well, speak man! Why did you awaken me so soon, and as harshly. A Morning Rays Protocol Gerald? Are you trying to kill me? I should have been brought back gradually over a period of days. Well? Speak damn it!” Roars the tall elderly man in a medical unitard. Not yet dressed in his full admiralty uniform. Unadorned as he was, deminuitive compared to his former self, the admiral still bellows loud enough to shake the walls of any given room. The pens on his desk rattle with the raucous boom of his voice. “I bare ill tidings sir.” States Gerald. His hands interlinked before him a manilla folder nestled under his arm, as he stands just inside the ready room doors. “Jesus Herald – don’t act like a dcolded child waiting for punishment, out with it man, out!” The admiral is pacing behind his desk, furious to be awakened so suddenly, and is such a harsh manner. He is not one so used to being man handled. Given attention to his every whim yes, but not a man used to being denied. “It concerns your great great grandson – sir.” Bleats Gerald in obvious distress. “Ah yes! Yes, yes, yes. I have not forgotten! I am so very pleased I was able to procure my progeny for this ship. I’ve watched over him you know. I have the time and inclination to follow his progress. Most impressive. An admirable specimen to the family – and name. He bares my name sake you know!” Speaks the red faced admiral, his eyes twinkling with the fondness of his memories. “He’s dead sir.” The swiftness of the admiral’s fury is frightening. Both hands slamming down on his desk. The look of betrayal upon his face. It’s as though the air has been sucked out of the small room. A dark red flush cascades over the old man’s face, as though thick blood were erupting from the top most portion of his scalp. “Bring. Me. His. Body.” Shouts the admiral in a staccato. “I want his biometrics unit brought to me. I want an autopsy, I want all relevant reports on my desk within the hour. Well? MOVE GERALD. Don’t look at me like a stuck fucking pig!” He rants. “I can’t. Sir.” “Oh yes you fucking well can, my son! You fucking well better! My boy. Or I will rend you limb from limb!” He raves. “I’m sorry sir, the Ghost protocol required his body and communicator, the whole of his biometric data be purged.” States Gerald flatly. “What the fuck are you talking about Gerald. He’s mine. I assigned him here. There was no Ghost Protocol for his personnel file. I know that because I would never grant him one. Nothing so ignoble should befall progeny of mine – Gerald.” Shouts the angry admiral. “If you check the records sir – Mark has a Ghost Protocol registered. Signed off on too.” Gerald speaks quietly as he approaches the desk, a file folder clutched in his hand. He opens the folder and lays it down upon the desk. A single photo of the puddle of remains is attached via a paper clip. Poking out underneath are the details of his subsequent bagging, being crated into a polyethylene barrel, and ejected into the backwash of the engines. There are several first person accounts from the witnesses, and the day and time stamps.

Admiral Mark stands still behind his ready room desk starring down at the Manila folder and the contents of the report. Displayed vividly in red ink is the stamp for the Ghost Protocol with a name written in black ink, with a message underneath it.

“Dr Jang you have a new message from the encrypted line waiting for you. At your leisure sir.” Without waiting for acknowledgement the intern scurries from the partially opened office door. Doctor Jang looks up at the clock on his desk, a broad grin spreading across his unshaven face. Slowly he gets up from his desk to cross the room to the door, stopping only to put on his white lab coat. A hop in his step as he saunters down the halls of UB313 to the bridge compartment, and the quiet out of the way alcove where the encrypted line awaits.

The signature is scrawled but clear as day. The Ghost Protocol was ordered by a Doctor Douglas Jang. Underneath that are a few words scribbled followed by a smiley face. “My eyes betray me Gerald. What pray tell, does that say?” Bending at the waist Gerald leans down to read the note under the signature. “It says – Fuck you old man.” With a clatter the admiral collapses into his chair with a thud.

Part Fourteen: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.