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Tag: creative writing

“What do you figures got them all riled up?”

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A tired Piotr asks over the top of the carbine he’s pulled apart at his work bench. Looking away from his view screen, turning the fine tuning knobs on his micrometer dial indicator Brian looks up through the haze over the dark blue mezzanine to the massive board room window thirty meters above them. There looks to be a lot of heated discussion going on, angry pointing, arms flung in the air, people throwing papers and a general sense of chaos. “Looks like a real shit show.” Quips Brian. Setting down his guage blocks next to his pin removal set, Brian swings his monitor out of his way and shouts over the general din of the bull pen. He steps away from his bench a few feet and waves emphatically. “Magdalene! Hey, Magda!” He catches her attention and shouts while pointing up towards the window. “What’s got them so fucking randy all of a sudden?” The other armorers in the bullpen take hardly any notice of Brian. The dull roar of conversation, drills and pneumatic tools dominate the space. Turning to look up at the window, her short red hair all a frizz in the dry air, she sets down her tools and scrambles over to Brian’s bench. Piotr takes notice of Magda’s approach, and fixes his hair, and leans against his bench to ‘put out the vibe’. Skittering across the hard floors in her clunky boots, her tool belt rattling with emphasis Magda pulls up sharply to Brian’s bench. Breathing hard she leans in conspiratorially. “Oh-ho! You haven’t heard? Seems we’ve got ourselves a mole. What’s worse, the pesky buggers done given our fire teams and tankers brain worms!” She almost burps out the information in one breathless gulp. “What da’ fuck?” Barks Piotr. “That’s bull shit – no one could get a mole in here. We’re on top of each other twenty four seven. We’d know. No, no. We’d know if we had a sneaky fucker around here doing dirty shit. The Company has us so closed in you can’t take a shit without HR going over the weight, colour and stink of it in your personnel files. No. No way!” Piotr is red faced and irritated. A little of his star crossed lover sheen rubs off his face. Where he was happy and eager to hear Magda, now he’s put off and irritable. “Yeah – I’m with Piotr here. No way anyone of us working hand in glove with the fire teams would intentionally fuck them.” Brian says. Glancing up over Magdelene’s shoulder to gaze at the large window to think out loud. Brian speaks again. “We have no real idea of what we’re up against. We’ve all heard the bat shit crazy disinformation our spies were made to report back. It’s all fucked. Wackado bologna. The only reason the admiral would never pull out our spies prior to the assault is if he felt they’d all been made. Which, with the nonsense they sent back has to be the case. Has to be.” Piotr lets out a deflated puff of breath. Magdalene retorts. “Suit yourselves boys, but it’s brain worms I’m fucking telling you!” With that she turns on her heel and marches back to her side of the bull pen. Piotr comes around from his side to stand within arms length of Brian. “Hey man. I’m sure Mimi’s ok. You know. That mountain of a woman can take this on. I’m sure it’s nothing.” He rests a hand on Brian’s shoulder for a brief moment. Then makes his way leisurely back to his work station. “Yeah. Yeah sure. Thanks Piotr.” Brian’s face is one big worried crease.

In the boardroom thirty meters above several high ranking officers look as though they are about to come to blows. Brian is left feeling like his whole future is resting upon his shoulders. With his relationship with Mimi on his mind Brian’s mind races to think of something constructive to do. Mimi’s whole life could potentially hang in the balance. She was always prepared. Mimi always had a plan.

He pulls his keyboard out from under his dirty bench top and starts to pull up some of the spec sheets saved locally aboard the Righteous Chord on the new nanotech incorporated programs they were to install. Screen after screen of blue code on a black field scrolls by, as Brian’s eyes cut across the data in a mad search for a clue. Sweat begins to bead upon his brow. The noise and muffled chatter of the bull pen fades away to nothing. Clicking through the entire series of programs and check lists is going to take some doing by himself. “Piotr, can you do me a favour?” Asks Brian in a raspy whispered yell. “Sure, but what?” Replies Piotr almost immediately. “Well, you’re a better programmer than I am, do you have any scripts you can run to find anything dodgy in the set up files for these Nanotech protocols and procedures?” Reaching to turn his monitor around so that he can tap on his screen while he talks to Piotr. “I mean, I can… but the QA for all this stuff was strenuously vetted before it got to us. Not sure what you’re looking for?” Piotr exclaims. “I don’t know. Like a trap door, a trojan horse, some deviation that we have locally that’s different from the originals. Something like that.” Says Brian. “Well now, that is something that I can do – easily. If I make an image of the code, page by page, and run a visual check against the original we can see if everything lines up or not. Look here. I’ll make ours blue, the originals yellow, and anything not green could be our fucky little friend. Yeah? See. Look fields of green here man. Not this program.” Piotr is at once elated, and deflated. “Ok, but that’s just the one program, we have like thirty of these things in the directory. Can you do all of them and let me know if you get any discrepancies?” Replies Brian in hushed tones. “I’m on it.” Says Piotr.

Part Nineteen: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

“Ma’am, we have a serious problem…”

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Says the tall solid woman dressed in blue medical scrubs. Her hair pulled taut in a messy ponytail. Wisps of her dark Auburn hair stuck to her face where she had obviously been sweating. “What seems to be the issue Dr?”  Replies the very short and severe looking commanding officer of the Righteous Chord. “It’s the fire teams ma’am, their stasis is being constantly interrupted by something, we don’t know what though.” The doctor responds in a dry rasp. “Are the sleeved soldiers affected aswell, or just the walking tank crews and fire teams?” The CO asks after a brief pause to wipe her nose with a handkerchief. “It’s isolated to just the fire teams and tankers ma’am. At least our last seventeen diagnostic scans tell us so.” The doctor is quite weary, trying to stand at attention, but also leaning heavily against the bulk head of the vessels main thoroughfare. She is wrestling with fatigue and slowly succumbing to it. “Have a seat Ms?” Replies the CO. “It’s doctor Tam, ma’am. We are stumped. And it’s only getting worse the longer we leave it.” She is really frazzled now, fingers cradling her temples, and knees about to buckle. From out of sight a folding chair is offered by one of the CO’s retinue. CO Austenmire looks down and taps a few commands into her wrist communicator and glances toward the free standing chair to the seated dr Tam. “Can you be ready for a debrief with the weapons teams and the other attending medical personnel? Let’s say ninety minutes from now. Go eat, shower and prep for a grilling from command.” Barks commanding officer Austenmire.

Her retinue break away suddenly to start talking into ear pieces and wall mounted comm’s terminals setting up the meeting among the higher ranking members onboard. The usually bustling ship is vacant with the large fighting force locked away in their stasis sleeves for the months long journey out to UB313. The echoing of the retinues chatter is freely bouncing down the central corridor of the vessel. No other noise is present to cancel it out. The majority of the ship is unused, and only the bare minimum of running lights are turned on. In the dimness of the hall the exterior field of stars is easy to see.

After a few deep breaths dr Tam pulls her hands from her face and notices she is alone in the halls, the CO and her entourage left soundlessly. The only hint she didn’t hallucinate the whole encounter is a flashing meeting notification from CO Austenmire and a quickly counting down timer which reads eighty one minutes and forty two seconds until she needs to report to the engineering sector on decks eight through twelve. Not being mechanically inclined the good doctor has never ventured down that far into the belly of the ship before.

The doors whirl open with a soft swishing noise and a slight jingle as dr Tam passes over the threshold. No guards are stationed out front by the doors, and inside is a bustling hive of activity. The temperature inside the debriefing room is about fifteen degrees warmer than the hallway. Inside the large room is a faux wooden table about thirty paces long and about ten wide. The back of the room is a floor to ceiling window that over looks the ship yard dry docks, and the storage mezzanine where the walking tanks are usually stored and repaired. Twenty meters below the mechanics are pushing their maglev tool boxes around the hull of the drop ships and scout vessels, while there are clusters of apron clad armorers working diligently at their work benches. The vision is soundless through the two foot thick concrete glass window pane. Built to take explosive decompression from a failed hanger door in the dry docks, or various types of explosions from all the artillery stored in the caches. Inside the room is a constant stream of buzzing, pings, printers and muffled intermingled conversations.

A side door opens a few moments later and the room goes silent. In walks commanding officer Austenmire followed by Admiral Mark Garneau. The wiry gray admiral looks like he used to be a very imposing man in his younger says. He carries himself with the bearing of a man who knows his own importance. A large man with a charcoal gray moustache is the last to enter the room. He sits down to the right of the admiral, and opposite CO Austenmire. The three look drawn and unhappy. The tension in the room is palpable. With a flick of her wrist CO Austenmire dims the lights with a wave and calls the debriefing to order. “We’ve been given to understand that their are several serious issues with our tankers and fire teams stasis in transport. I call on the good doctor Tam to lead us through what we know, and what we are going to do about it.” With a snap of collars and heads turned in unison the room full of superior officers and unit commanders all look directly at doctor Tam. With her palms pressed against the table top, she forces herself to stand. The warmth of the room and the glare from those present bring her thoughts into focus. Stepping away from her chair she walks to the side of the room with the view screen on it, and picks up a clicker and laser pointer. “Ok, so do we need a primer on the logistics surrounding stasis, or can I dive right in?” She says while looking around the room. CO Austenmire interjects ” We’re all as clear as we need to be on the standard stasis sleeves doctor Tam. Our issue, and yours concerns the specialized fire teams that are a key component of our upcoming mission. Without them we will be at a serious disadvantage. So – if you will, proceed.” Her remarks are sharp and concise. Dr Tam clicks through her deck to the suitable page. “Right. So – the issue is, our tankers are having their stasis interrupted for longer and longer intervals, and at an increasing number of instances. They are essentially experiencing waking paralyzed nightmares and migraines of increasing strength. At the current rate they will likely not be able to fight, nor maintain any kind of grip on reality to be of any use. As they are being driven mad by a long and pervasive bout of straight out torture. And there’s little we can do about it at the moment. I’ll take questions in a moment. Please. Yes – we have tried to decant four members from each task force, both the fire team and the walking tank crew, to no avail. We can’t seem to wake them up. At all. Not with chemicals, not with stimulation, not even with the electrodes buried in their brains. We’ve attempted a reprogrammed Morning Rays Protocol and nothing is working. So – Now I’ll open the floor to suggestion.” The room erupts into chaos.

Part Eighteen: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

How do you solve a problem like 51?

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But not centimeters of snow! Thankfully. We did not get the one foot of snow that was potentially forecasted, although more snow is coming later on today. My back thanks you! Four inches is manageable every couple of hours.

Speaking of puns, I added at least one visual pun into my latest report. Made me laugh, I wonder if anyone else will clue in to it. Fun tip, having worked so hard Monday through Wednesday, plus some light work this previous weekend I now get to enjoy a lighter day – Go Me! Much appreciated by my brain, wrists and sense of musical whimsy. I did bust out some music yesterday as I was nearing the end of laying out my first draft.

It’s funny as a kid, youth, teen, early twenties I could not work in silence, I had to have music on, but after working for many years in open office spaces, I’ve come to love working quietly. I can on occasion, if I don’t have to pay attention to critical elements, listen to loud music and sing along as I work. Mainly doing pie charts, and bar graphs, and scatter graphs though. Not the table portion. A mixture of Motorhead, The Beatles and The Blue Stones, followed up by Wolfmother and Status Quo. That’s my go to musical line up these days. Hood and loud too. Which is fine because I work from home, and don’t live on top of my neighbours. I guess I’d have to invest in some seriously high quality head phones if I ever go back to working on site when Freelancing, or go back to an in-house design position. I like the zero commute time too much though. Chasing dollar bills has always ended badly for me. I guess if the work/industry is amazing I could potentially do it again. But coming from large market alcoholic beverages with massive start of the year marketing meetings with air travel, fancy hotels, meetings in swanky spaces, free drinks, great food, famous guest speakers and late night parties for days on end, you’d be hard pressed to improve on the type of perks I’ve known over 16 years affiliated with that industry. Work hard and play even harder was a common refrain amongst the C-Suite types.

Yeah – so. Still writing a bit every single day, and haven’t forgotten about my short story series. I’m working through some character moments in my head before I write out anything. I am trying to get these last six or so chapters to land properly. Going to require some footwork on my end. I’ll keep you posted.

50! – We Reached 50 Days and all you got was tinnitus.

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EÈEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE – isn’t that delightful. Is your inner ear issue accented or other? Muah- muah. Now that’s cleared up.

Big fifty day milestone. I feel like this is a sort of AA meeting. Hello my name is… and I have been writing for fifty days – small smattering of applause. Not that big a deal, but I’m kind of happy I’ve stuck with it.

In happy news, I will have the first polished draft of my report done today, just shy of 100 pages. It’s a hefty document, looks lovely. Three days of real work, plus a Sat/Sun combo of a couple hours of front end work. Not to mention I did a fair amount of leg work well before I had any of the data sets. Things like building out my templates, and setting up colour palettes in various programs, and gathering the specified font families. Not hard work, but time consuming. I’d much rather have that tucked away so i can start the heavy lifting, than wait until the raw data comes in and then have to do all that stuff before i can really begin. I’m lazy, i want as few obstacles in the way so that i can complete a task. Set my foundation, then come in like a nutter and tear through the work as quickly as i am able. I also proof my pages as i go, since there are so many colour coded tables.

So big 50! Wow – what can I say, glad to be here. Happy some of you have chosen to follow along. Today’s big to-do is about three movies i recently watched. Some good, some moderate, and some heavy cheese (a.k.a Fromage) if you’re of the Much Music & Ed The Sock era like I am.

First up was “Nobody”, an action packed mix of John Wick & The Equalizer, with some snappy banter and blood soaked fighting. I liked it a lot. Big fan of John Wick franchise too. This was my favourite of the three films I saw over the Christmas holidays, which I had never seen before. I should also mention, these were all watched at home, not in a proper theater, with candy, drinks and massive screen and sound. Could have played a part in why movies two and three didn’t land so well. They were far more spectacle based. If you like watching men in their fifties fight, shoot and drink their way through trouble then Nobody is great.

Second up was Venom: Let there be Carnage. Followed in the first ones footsteps, fun, goofy and kind of silly. I liked it, but if I’m going to rewatch a Spider-man adjacent film, I’d watch into the spider verse for a fifteenth time. That was great, in 3d imax and on my home screen. Tom Hardy is great, Venom is funny. Carnage has a size issue, he’s a touch too big for my recollection. But I like Woody Harrelson, so I can see past that. It does show as a $70 million movie and not a Marvel tent pole at $150 million dollar movie. But the small focus is kinda nice. Not world saving, but a select few people. Lower stakes to deal with.

Third, and what I found to be disappointing was Suicide Squad 2. Lots of body horror, which I wasn’t expecting. Plus I kind of hate Peace Keeper. Maybe he’s funnier and more congenial in the prequel tv show he’s now got, but he didn’t do it for me. Harley felt like an afterthought, and most people weren’t compelling. However, Polka Dot man was unexpectedly great. You get a sense of the guy, and feel for him and his interdimensional polka dot disease. King shark was a lazy groot knock off. Didn’t add much to the plot. And why are so many DC characters essentially just a rebrand dead shot, or whomever Will Smith was in the first one. Idris Elba felt wasted. I think the issue was I heard so much hype around it I had unreasonable expectations for it. It only landed at my feet with a damp thud. Sploot.

The first ground hogs say early spring! But you never can tell. Have some more snow on the way today. Another foot to the pile. I’ll have to rest up as it’ll really give my back a once over if it’s wet and heavy!

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!

“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.

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.

“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.