MARTIAN HOLIDAY 44: Aster of Opportunity – Faith

On a well-settled Mars, the five major city Council regimes struggle to meld into a stable, working government. Embracing an official United Faith in Humanity, the Councils are teetering on the verge of pogrom directed against Christians, Molesters , Jews, Rapists, Buddhists, Murderers, Muslims, Thieves, Hindu, Embezzlers and Artificial Humans – anyone who threatens the official Faith and the consolidating power of the Councils. It makes good sense, right – get rid of religion and Human divisiveness on a societal level will disappear? An instrument of such a pogrom might just be a Roman holiday...To see the rest of the chapters  and I’m sorry, but a number of them got deleted from the blog – go to SCIENCE FICTION: Martian Holiday on the right and scroll to the bottom for the first story. If you’d like to read it from beginning to end (26,000 words as of now), drop me a line and I’ll send you the unedited version.

A woman stood doorway of Qalipu Qoffee in Opportunity City. The light from outside spilling around her, the woman wore a uniform surveyed the shop. Behind her, though outside, were shadows. She stepped into the light of the main seating area, spied Aster and father and broke into a wide grin, calling, “Ms. Thiel! We’ve been looking for you!” Hanam vo’Maddux stopped at the table, bending slightly at the waist, “I am Mayor Etaraxis’ personal assistant. You must be Aster’s father, Jerome Thiel.”

He stood up, offered his hand. She stepped forward, shook it as he said, “I am. Won’t you please join us, Honorable vo’Maddux?”

She grinned, and though Aster saw no joy in the eyes and certainly no peace, Hanam vo’Maddux said, “I’d be delighted to join you.”

Aster tried to send her father a message without using words; she widened her eyes and made twitching motions with her mouth. She didn’t think jerking her chin would be subtle enough to escape the security chief’s notice. Come to think of it, what she was doing already was probably being noted by vo’Maddux and catalogued by her team outside the shop. She settled down as her father and the chief of security for the entire of Opportunity chatted about a new species of fern in the park; growing flowers under artificial sunlight; and the price of a decent cup of coffee.

Aster sat, terror and hysteria building until she wasn’t sure she could stop herself from exploding into laughter or screaming.

Abruptly her father stood up, offering his hand to Hanam. She shook it, standing up as she did. The look on her face was decidedly friendlier and the coldness that had been there when she’d walked in was miraculously gone. Jerome Theil leaned over, kissed his daughter on the head, then tucking his T-comp under his arm, sauntered out of the shop.

Hanam watched him, slightly lifting her chin as one of the shadowy figures outside glanced at her in the shop. She turned back to Aster and said, “So. Mayor Etaraxis had a thought. He was wondering if you wanted to move into the penthouse with him.” The softness Aster had seen a moment ago was gone. The smile the security chief cast her was entirely predatory this time.

Aster abruptly knew exactly where this woman was trying to back her – into a corner. Aster also knew exactly what Dad would say if she simply moved in with the Mayor. She knew what the rest of the City would say as well. She would make a dangerous enemy of this woman as well – if vo’Maddux wasn’t already – if she simply moved in as well. There was a clear sense that the security chief considered Mayor Etaraxis her personal property.

 

On the other hand, Dad had said, “You can make faiths other than the official one legal again.” Could she? How could a Mayoral Escort possibly have that much power? The last one had disappeared suddenly after a rather public stink. Would trying to advocate for a looser definition of what was sanctioned by the IntraDome Congress something an Escort would even dare to try? She pursed her lips.

 

vo’Maddux was waiting for her answer. By the smug grin, she was certain she knew how Aster would respond. She was certain Aster would have to refuse.

 

All things being equal, Aster knew she would as well. She stood up and said, “Can I get you a refill?”

The other woman glared, her jaw clenched. She managed to say, “Please. Sugar and cream, if you don’t mind.”

Aster refused to wince. The tone was perfect – the one every boss from the Oort Cloud to the Capital of Earth used when sending his or her secretary for coffee. “Great. Don’t you just love this place?”

When she returned, vo’Maddux said, “This was my first time here. I guess I’ll have to make it a regular stopping place if the coffee is always this good.” The shark-toothed smile again.

Aster sat down, stared into her coffee cup then looked up at the chief of the Mayor’s security and said, “I have only one condition, if you’d be so kind as to pass it on to the Mayor.”

The other woman blinked in surprise and said, “Of course.”

Aster opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed her mouth, shrugging. She said, “Nah. I’ll go speak with Etaraxis alone. It’s something of a personal nature. Thanks for offering to act as a go-between, though.” She scooped up her coffee cup and fled the shop, aware that vo’Maddux was more than likely trying to kill her with the intensity of her glare. Aster smiled. It was a good thing she had put up her glare shield as soon as the security chief walked in. Besides, why let a jealous woman ruin the day you were going to ask a man to marry you?

Image: http://ucgwomen.files.wordpress.com/2011/10/face-off.jpg

IDEAS ON TUESDAYS 120

Each Tuesday, rather than a POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAY, I'd like to both challenge you and lend a helping hand. I generate more speculative and teen story ideas than I can ever use. My family rolls its collective eyes when I say, "Hang on a second! I just have to write down this idea..." Here, I'll include the initial inspiration (quote, website, podcast, etc) and then a thought or two that came to mind. These will simply be seeds -- plant, nurture, fertilize, chemically treat, irradiate, test or stress them as you see fit. I only ask if you let me know if anything comes of them.

F Trope: De-myth-tification (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/Demythtification)

Current Event: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/50_Greatest_Players_in_NBA_History, http://www.wnba.com/allstar/2011/top15_players_110723.html, http://www.investopedia.com/financial-edge/0410/top-wnba-salaries.aspx

Ticha Griffith pushed her way through the crowd of well-wishers, fans, crazies and other nutcases and tumbled into the limousine. Flashes went off as the door closed. She said, “Great, now my butt will be on the cover of Sports Illustrated.” The man in sunglasses, black suit and black tie was rail thin and taller than almost anyone she’d ever known. He was taller than was natural – though Rev Nguyen had nothing whatsoever to do with nature. He didn’t say a word, staring straight ahead at the divider between the spacious limo rear and the chauffer up front. She hated silence, so she said, “Where are we going?”

“I’ve got my goddess, now it’s off to pick up my god.”

Ticha hated when he called them his “god and goddess”. She’d been raised by a charismatic-Baptist mother and a tent evangelist papa – not that she believed any of the crazy mumbo jumbo, HOOOOOly SpiRIT crap they’d fed her as a kid anymore. But still...

He’d started calling her “goddess” when she’d first been voted into the WNBA Hall of Fame and elected the Best Women’s Basketball Player On Earth two years running and he’d negotiated the highest pay and options package of any WNBA player ever. Her endorsements with the cereal company, the chicken fast food, and sports equipment giant put her annual worth at just over five million. She said, “I hate it when you call us ‘god and goddess’.”

 Rev smirked. She hated that smirk. He said, “Do you deny that your fans worship you? That they burn incense in your name? That they repeat just about anything you say as if it were Holy Writ? That they would willingly sacrifice themselves to be in your very expensive tennis shoes? That more than one would try and kill you to be in those shoes – but know that to try and kill a goddess would get them…”

“Shut up!” Ticha turned away and pursed her lips, knowing he was right. The limo pulled up to the best hotel in the city. The chauffer popped the door and O’Neal Ferdinand turned, showing his butt to her, as he waved, signed autographs, shook hands and kissed babies before ducking into the car.

Rev said, “So, how’s the godhood going, O-man?”

O’Neal had no hesitation. Flashing his trademark pearly whites – he DID have a toothpaste endorsement to keep up looks for – he peeked over his sunglasses and said, “Hallelujah, Brother. Hallelujah.”

Rev’s eyebrow twitched down. His lips thinned. Ticha scrunched into the corner of the limo’s bench seat, as far from her agent as she could get. For a moment, she thought she felt the tiny hairs on her forearms stand up as the air seemed to charge with electricity.

O’Neal glanced at her, winked then took off the glasses, saying, “Sorry, my Lord. I can’t seem to stop myself from teasing people.”

Rev said, “I’m not people. I’m your agent and your handler – godhood notwithstanding, I made you and I can unmake you just as easily.”

O’Neal snorted and pulled off the glasses. He lifted a finger as Ticha said, “So where are you taking us, Master Nguyen?”

Their agent looked at her and she might have sworn that behind the dark lenses of his glasses, there was a sudden glow – as of red hot coals – but she knew that couldn’t be. He was an agent. He had movies stars, writers, and a few other athletes in his stables. He didn’t call any of them “god and goddess” though. She frowned as he replied, “A special meeting I’ve set up with a really big-name agent.”

O’Neal said, “You’re my agent – I didn’t never say I’d be anyone else’s meal ticket!”

The cheek under Rev’s left eye twitched. He opened his mouth…

Names: ♀ (short form of Letisha) Latin, Welsh ; ♂ Irish, German

Image: http://cloudfront-4.publicintegrity.org/files/styles/12col/public/img/AP111011128951.jpg?itok=3xAjzCIH

WRITING ADVICE: Bruce Bethke’s TWELVE STEP PROGRAM FOR WRITERS #12 (The Last Post of This Series)

Somewhere around thirty years ago, I met Bruce Bethke for the first time – when I responded to an ad in a newspaper for a science fiction writers group seeking new members. I called, then sent in an “audition story” and was invited to join the group at the ORIGINAL, original Loft Literary Center (before grant money started flowing) in Minneapolis. One of THEM reviews books now, the other published a few books and short stories but no longer does so. Bruce doesn’t write much lately except for non-fiction; he is currently executive editor of STUPEFYING STORIES, a magazine of new speculative fiction, though he mostly works for a super computer company as well as presiding over Rampant Loon Press. These nuggets of wisdom can be found here: http://www.sfwa.org/2009/06/a-12-step-program-for-writers/. They are used with the author’s permission. Below is the Final Post of the series. (My apologies that I cannot find a more recent picture of Bruce Bethke. The one to the left will just have to do…)

12. Having had a professional awakening as the result of these steps, we will guard our new knowledge jealously. Why give the up-and-coming competition a break?

I know the humor in this because I know Bruce Bethke somewhat. His BEHAVIOR is the antithesis of this statement – witness both STUPEFYING STORIES MAGAZINE (http://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/) and the new feature, STUPEFYING STORIES SHOWCASE (http://www.stupefyingstoriesshowcase.com/index.html).

 

As well, Bruce Bethke tries to impart his writing wisdom through the blog (as well as through this “12 Step Program” article) as he did here, in this short series of articles which he updated from a previous series of articles on how to escape the Slush Pile:  http://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2013/05/the-slush-pile-survival-guide_23.html.

 

The sole purpose of his old blog, The Friday Challenge, (Originally posted Friday, May 25, 2012): “After what was then 25 years of being a successful, published, professional writer and two-term member of the SFWA Board of Directors, I was getting a constant stream of email from a tremendous number of people who couldn't seem to find the answer to one very simple question: How do I become a writer? Because they couldn't find this answer, these people collectively were wasting a lot of time, money, and energy on self-help books, seminars and workshops, and college-level creative writing programs, all in a desperate search for that tightly held secret...”

 

Before THAT was The Ranting Room, whose purpose was to create a forum for “Practical discussions of the craft, trade, and business of writing. No politics. No gossip. No cute cat stories.”

 

So of all the 12 Steps, this is perhaps where Bruce Bethke buries his tongue most deeply in his cheek.

 

Truth? It’s been my experience that those who are funniest are deflecting attention from themselves to what they are saying – and for the most part, what they are saying has to do with the people to whom they are speaking. The funniest writers I know avoid the word “I” unless it’s grammatically necessary. Even then, they speak not only of us and me, but the focus of their career is on others.

 

I’ve observed this in several writers: David LaRochelle is one: I have worked with him both as a summer school teacher and as a presenter. His willingness to critique my daughter’s art and provide a recommendation for a scholarship had a profound impact on both her art and her college experience. Every interaction I’ve seen him involved with, his attention is focused on helping the individual.

 

Another one I’ve seen do this is Julie Czerneda: her blog is always positive, she regularly teaches workshops for writers and without my asking, she offered to read my novel when it was done.

 

Authors whose interest is in themselves, who regularly rebuff people who ask for help, and whose favorite word is “I”...well, the fact is that those authors are just as well known. They are the ones who appear to have taken Bruce Bethke’s 12 Steps to heart and are EXACTLY the kind of writer he represented in these steps.

 

My every effort should I ever become well-published and “famous”, will be to be like LaRochelle, Czerneda, and other speculative fiction writers whose efforts are clearly to “give the up-and-coming competition a break.”

 

And when I accept my first Nebula, I will make sure that the names Bruce Bethke, Julie Czerneda, David LaRochelle, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Lynn Veihl, Nathan Bransford, Jack McDevitt, Mike Duran, and Lin Oliver are all a big part of that speech.

 

Image: http://images.vg247.com/current//2012/05/CDPRED-new-RPG.jpg

(I couldn’t find a more recent picture of Bruce Bethke, so this will have to do.)

IDEAS ON TUESDAYS 119

Each Tuesday, rather than a POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAY, I'd like to both challenge you and lend a helping hand. I generate more speculative and teen story ideas than I can ever use. My family rolls its collective eyes when I say, "Hang on a second! I just have to write down this idea..." Here, I'll include the initial inspiration (quote, website, podcast, etc) and then a thought or two that came to mind. These will simply be seeds -- plant, nurture, fertilize, chemically treat, irradiate, test or stress them as you see fit. I only ask if you let me know if anything comes of them.

SF Trope: The Good Guys travel through time to stop a historical Bad Guy, usually Hitler

Current Event: “The Academy of Fine Arts Vienna rejected [Hitler] twice, in 1907 and 1908, because of his ‘unfitness for painting’.” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adolf_Hitler)

Johannes Klingle and Shoshanna Barbivai glared at each other across the room. She said, “Why do I have to go with him?”

The technician looked at both of them, then shrugged, “I just run the time machine. I don’t make policy.” He tweaked a control, then turned away to make adjustments to a touchscreen on the wall behind the console.

Johannes said, “Feeling’s mutual, lady.”

She snorted and said, “I’m surprised you’d even talk to me.”

Johannes – Joe – shook his head, “I’m a American Democrat. We’re trained to be inclusivist to the exclusion of all else.”

 “An American and a Jew...”

He cut in, “...walked into a bar…”

She cut him back, “I don’t drink, so the rest of the story would go, ‘and she watched as the stupid American teenager got sloshed and pissed away the opportunity to do whatever it was he was supposed to be doing.”

“I’m not a teenager.”

 “That only changed last night,” she said.

“Yeah? Well I read your dossier, too. You’re here as a last resort to save the military career of ‘Daddy’s little girl’ – oh, and I wouldn’t toss around the part about Americans getting sloshed. From what I read, apparently you didn’t need a bar to get wasted...”

They were standing face-t0-face when someone in a white lab coat walked into the room, took one look at them, pointed a wand and depressed a button.

Both Johannes and Shoshanna gasped and fell to the ground, writhing in pain. The woman in the lab coat released the button and said, “You’re a matched pair of fools. That’s why you’re here. This is the first in a series of time travel experiments and you’re both under arrest by the governments that shipped you here. Johannes – you’re here because not only did you do a DUI, you ran over a Republican Senator’s daughter. She’s still in ICU and the murder charges are pending. Shoshanna, your father said this will be the last time you embarrass him if you fail. I have in my possession papers that will remove you to,” she glanced down at a tablet computer she held in one hand, “Ravensbrück – if you don’t ‘get your act together’. You also both have a pain enhancing device clamped on to your brain stem. You’ve seen a demonstration of what it can do. While it may not work in the past, no one is entirely sure of that. So we’ll have to see.” She smiled a Reaper’s smile at both and said, “Your mission is to convince the Director of the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna to admit Adolf. The Director’s name is Gustav Wessely. You’ll be brother and sister visiting your great-grandfather on his deathbed. Adolf is your mother’s sister’s brother-in-law’s son. He’s been in trouble, but he’s a good kid. A little lazy, but he had problems with father.”

 Shoshanna stood up slowly, shook herself and glanced down at Johannes. “Who the hell are you and what am I supposed to do to make that happen? From what history says, Hitler was a mediocre artist. Even I could have painted circles around him.”

He nodded and said, “That is exactly what you are going to do. And Joe there on the floor is going to help you.”

“How’s that?”

“The future possible Führer of all of Germany is deathly afraid of beautiful women. He’d never talk to you. But he loves drinking – especially when other people are paying. Between the two of you, you’re not only going to give him watercolor lessons,” he said looking at Shoshanna. “You,” he pointed at Joe on the floor, “Get up. You look like a fool. You’re going to get him drunk and them teach him how to talk to women.”

“Him?” Shoshanna exclaimed.

 “Me?” Johannes exclaimed.

“Yep. The dynamic duo.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Johannes shouted.

The man in the lab coat smiled and said, “My name is Frank Adolph Hitler.”

“Who the hell would name their kid that?” said Shoshanna.

“Famous artists often name their children after themselves. Often times the next generation passes the name of an important ancestor on as well.” He bowed, sweeping on hand dramatically backward then stood up, adding, “I am one such descendant of one such ancestor – in a very, very different timeline than the one you two came from.”

Names: ♀ (Modern) Israeli ; ♂ German/Austrian

Image: https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7WoCwrL7nfFYG5NQDwdYy__vom5fGxug2THxTE6tNG3CR57gF5wB7ZqI2Nld1qX7WwSgbBY_YwT2_-osqpjFbT9rLNm_sMG1uEk_u0Te9XO4jUYCgDYT2tFG0CwOx_7QTV6HW6SF3kU0s/s400/Hitler+watercolor+top.jpg

(A VERY Long) Slice of PIE: The Niña, the Pinta and the Grand Duchess Dinner Cruiser

On a Friday, not-quite a week after the arrival of my daughter’s visitor/classmate from Auckland, New Zealand; we heard that full-scale replicas of Columbus’ ships, the Niña, the Pinta would be docked and open for public viewing at a port on a nearby river.

Me, my wife, my daughter, her friend, joined at the last possible moment by my foster-daughter went to see this unusual display.

Now let me say right off that I harbor neither unrealistic images of Columbus’ grand voyage; nor do I seek to hold a 15^th Century, visionary (or delusional) businessman to a 21^st Century morality. What I DO is marvel that anyone could have taken to the oceans, not knowing where they were going in ships as small as the Niña and the Pinta!

The irony in this adventure was to see that replicas of two ships that supposedly introduced Spanish Europeans to the western continent they named The Americas are collectively SMALLER and can hold fewer people than the dinner cruise ship whose sole purpose is to feed people while moving on water for the entertainment of its passengers. The Grand Duchess was docked VERY nearby the two replicas of ships that were considered the absolute pinnacle of maritime engineering – and had actually made the 6000 or so mile trip in a month.

Two questions: What does this say about the values of early 21^st Century Americans (I do NOT exclude myself!)? I’m NOT going to tackle this one. I’ll leave it as a personal philosophical exercise.)

The second questions interests me MORE.

If we equate the Niña, Pinta, and the Santa Maria of Christopher Columbus’ voyage from Spain to the Americas in 1492 –to the International Space Station in 2013…what might we be able to say about our view of space in 2534?

If we postulate that there is little to no change in how Humans will think in half a millennia (and the differences between how Columbus and your average entrepreneur today think seem to be more or less identical – Bill Gates would have more in common with Columbus than he would with me), then we might be able to make some predictions. This assumes that The Singularity – predicted and prepared for by a small number of technophillic writers and scientists – doesn’t happen in 2045. That might indicate that space will be become an entrepreneurial business venture more than a scientific, for-the-love-of fulfilled dream.

So let me just noodle around in that future a bit.

Using the Apollo spacecraft, the Space Shuttle, the Russian “Roskosmos…expedition crew launches by Soyuz-TMA spacecraft and resupplies the space station with Progress space transporters…” as a baseline equal to Columbus’ use of the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, we might expect the following in the year 2534:

1) Lunch aboard a nice, trendy restaurant where we can look out the window at the historically accurate ISS floating nearby. We took a tour of the thing and can’t believe that Humans actually lived aboard it! We’d have loved to see the “real” crew quarters, but that’s where the volunteers who work on the ISS stay when they’re up here.

2) The ISS, the Space Shuttle and the other standard ships of the early days of space exploration have been replaced by a mode of transportation hinted at by so 21^st Century Leonardo da Vinci (who drew some of the first flying machines) – artist/inventor. Maybe like the computer illustration of Chris Badilley or even more radically using the “springer” imaginary technology of SF writer John Barnes (and others with other kinds of FTL technology), make the travel in boats like Columbus’ look ridiculous.

3) People will be BIGGER than they were then a long time ago. While there have always been giants, the males in the 15^th Century were about half-a-head shorter than males today. So probably the average male of the 24^th Century will be half-a-head taller than me – so six feet five inches (1.9 m) will be average, ten feet (3 m) tall will be a giant…

4) Columbus didn’t have GPS – in fact, Columbus didn’t even have a sextant yet, navigating with the “instruments of the day such as the mariner's astrolabe, the quadrant and the cross-staff.” Our future diners will likely be able to mention a destination, their communication device will connect with a skipgate and once they pat their mouths after a delicious repast, they will vanish (at least they will appear to vanish) and arrive instantaneously at their casually mentioned destination. Possibly somewhere on the opposite side of the Milky Way Galaxy.

5) If people continue as they have, in 2534, one of the activities they will perform is the “shopping spree”. Perhaps there will be a Mall of Andromeda to visit.

6) Like today, there will be “primitive peoples”; there will likely be “the poor” – certainly Jesus the Messiah mentioned the poor to his disciples around 2000 years ago (“For you always have the poor with you...” Matthew 26:11) – but as I padded around the replicas after paying my $8 for the privilege of doing so, I didn’t think of the poor. Perhaps our skipgating jaunters will consider visiting the poor; maybe serving meals at an interstellar soup kitchen...

7) Humans have been snoozing since the dawn of time, so I assume our 24^th Century folks will do the same, perhaps skipgating home to Earth to take a nap before a night on the town.

8) Standard transportation in the 15^th Century was by horseback, walking and some sort of boat. Standard transportation in the 21^st Century is by car, jet, train, boat (from kayak (1 passenger and crew) to the MS Allure of the Seas (8700 passengers and crew)). Standard transportation in the 24^th Century? Skipgate, single-multiple passenger vehicles NOT powered by fossil fuels; public forms of air, ground and water travel – possibly based on antigravity but NOT generally used. Skipgate technology allows passengers and freight to traverse short or intergalactic distances and is used for all practical transportation with people noticing it as much as we notice cars, planes, ships, trains, and semitrailers. The limiter will be power (as always) and the distance limited by resources.
 

9) Beings we would consider “not Human” – whether they are aliens or artificially altered Humans – will be as noticeable as individuals who deal with some sort of physical or mental handicap are noticed today. We see them, but don’t remark on them publically.

10) Columbus’ crew communicated via cannon, shooting off rounds to let each other know what to do; possibly shouting from ship-to-ship when they were close enough. When they reached what they called the New World, they captured enough natives so at least a couple of them would survive the return trip, and brought them back to Spain to teach them Spanish. 21^st Century Humans take out their cell phones to chat with virtually anyone, anywhere on Earth in real time with little or no delay – though differences in language present a sometimes insurmountable barrier. 24^th Century Humans will not have to “take out” anything. The technology will be integrated into their bodies, they will not only be able to communicate with anyone, language will no longer be a barrier. In fact it will like be unnoticeable as their devices will instantly translate from one native language to another – whether they are Human or alien. They will be able to place an order for Klingon qagh and pick it up hot/cold/live shortly thereafter.

References: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Columbus,
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bill_Gates, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Technological_singularity, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russian_Federal_Space_Agency, http://www.baddileysuniverse.net/Universe4D.aspx, http://www.voxeu.org/article/reaching-new-heights-how-have-europeans-grown-so-tall, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Faster-than-light
Image: http://www.baddileysuniverse.net/Images/Space-Travel.jpg

A PINE IN THE CITY, ALONE WITH A BOY 3

From where I sit on the back yard steps, I can see a pine tree we left behind after we first bought our house. There were four others, but they’d grown so close together, we had to have them cut down as they were killing each other as they competed for soil space, water and sunlight.

 

Where we live, at the intersection of Great Plains, Deciduous Forest, and Coniferous Forest, there’s a wild mix of trees and grassland. But what would happen if you went further south? What would happen if a migrating bird dropped a seed of, say, a Jack Pine in Oklahoma City? What if a little boy, from a near-destitute white family, discovered it, found out about it, nurtured it…and that’s what this is about.

The pine was the only one of its kind.

 

Where its family lived, it didn’t know.

 

But the place it lived now felt wrong.

 

It should have been colder; it should have been hotter.

 

Image: http://www.treetopics.com/pinus_banksiana/jack_pine_1240171.png

IDEAS ON TUESDAYS 118

Each Tuesday, rather than a POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAY, I'd like to both challenge you and lend a helping hand. I generate more speculative and teen story ideas than I can ever use. My family rolls its collective eyes when I say, "Hang on a second! I just have to write down this idea..." Here, I'll include the initial inspiration (quote, website, podcast, etc) and then a thought or two that came to mind. These will simply be seeds -- plant, nurture, fertilize, chemically treat, irradiate, test or stress them as you see fit. I only ask if you let me know if anything comes of them.

H Trope: Ghost Towns

Current Event: http://www.ghosttowns.com/states/mn/taconiteharbor.html

Mary Croft may have been the only certified dredge operator on the North Shore of Lake Superior – but she hadn’t expected to be the ONLY operator in the abandoned town of Taconite Harbor.

The dredge she captained was mostly operated by an “artificial intelligence idiot”, which was why she was required by Great Lakes Dredge and Dock Company to actually direct the floating suction dredge boat. The harbor was a small one, the taconite loads mostly taken out by rail, and the robots inside did most of the work in the town.

Her job would take a week and the company wanted her to work as much time as possible, so they’d given her one of the floating suction dredgers with an actual bed, galley and deck. “Henry?” she said.

“Please call me Hal,” said the idiot.

She shook her head. “I’d rather not. I have an original DVD of the old movie 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY.”

“You can’t,” said Henry.

“I can’t what?”

“Have an original DVD. The movie 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY was filmed in 1967 and premiered in 1968. The first true DVD was not manufactured for movies until 1995.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do not.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Let’s call it a day and shut down operations,” she said, tapping the shutdown key on the flat screen.

“Very good, ma’am.”

Mary rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and stepped out on the deck. Henry would take it from here until the actual docking procedure which she would do in the gloaming. She loved that word, she thought, unfolding and dropping into the lawn chair she kept carefully stored until the end of the day. No one would have said anything if she’d lounged about all day, issuing orders to Henry via her cellphone, but that had never worked for her. When she did a job, she wanted to actually DO something. For the time being, however, Henry was working hard pulling in and storing the collapsible pipe they used to siphon sediment from the floor of the harbor. It was pumped to a barge where it was dried and shipped down to Duluth for further processing or shipment to central North American markets.

The sun had fallen behind the steep shoreline to her left. It was a calm evening, a choice night on the cool waters of Superior. Such a night was rare enough to make her sigh.

Farther out across the water, to her right on the lake, waves rippled like a thin band of diamonds reflecting sunset light.

What was left of the town was now invisible as was the power plant. It had once operated on coal and had had a solar conversion during the third term of America’s first black president. There was no one left living there.

When the three remaining streetlights farther up the shore, intermittently lining the stretch of road that had once been the main street of the long-abandoned town, abruptly lit, she frowned.

 

When lights on either side of the abandoned basketball court at the near end of the street, close to Taconite Harbor itself, suddenly lit, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She went into the boathouse and grabbed a pair of digital binoculars, took them out and scanned the shoreline.

 

The lights were gone.

 

Frowning, she lowered the binoculars and rubbed her  eyes. When she looked again, the lights were on and in the distance was the slow, faint thup-thup-thup of a basketball bouncing...

 

Names: ♀ Hebrew, English; ♂ ,

Image: http://i01.i.aliimg.com/img/pb/854/581/453/453581854_293.jpg More: http://www.flickr.com/photos/capwell/2805175118/in/photostream/; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dredging; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Lakes_Dredge_and_Dock_Company; http://www.panoramio.com/photo/84736305, PS – While I didn’t take these pictures, I was HERE three weeks ago…

POSSIBLY IRITATING ESSAY: “Patience Is A Virtue”*

Now that summer is here in the Northern Hemisphere and I no longer have the grind of a “regular” job (though I am still teaching – just under a different paradigm), my wife, daughter and I have been watching movies.

 

Not the summer blockbusters, but rewatching movies from our family collection. That includes RUNAWAY BRIDE. (I should note here that my wife and daughter are also writers – my son is more of a DOer, but that’s a different story.) You’ve probably seen it at some point, but in it Richard Gere plays a columnist for USA TODAY whose purpose is to “push the envelope” but who has recently mostly directed bitter diatribes at the opposite sex. One diatribe is directed at a hardware store clerk played my Julia Roberts – and Gere loses his job when Roberts threatens to sue for libel.

 

Among other things, we typically note that we own an awful lot of movies that center on writers: ALEX AND EMMA, NORTHANGER ABBEY, STRANGER THAN FICTION, SOMETHING’S GOTTA GIVE, BACK TO THE FUTURE, FINDING FORRESTER, ANNE OF GREEN GABLES,  THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA, 27 DRESSES, YOU’VE GOT MAIL, LETTERS TO JULIET, and THE PROPOSAL (to name some of them). I’ve also noticed that persistence is typically one of the messages that accompany the writer’s life. While that isn’t usually the main point of the movie, it always finds its way in there.

 

Despite being hammered with that message – and hammering it home to the children I teach at summer school in my Writing To Get Published class – I’ve forgotten it. In fact, the whole idea of persistence is one that’s drifted entirely off my radar lately.

 

It’s not that “life” hasn’t demonstrated time and again that what I NEED to do is the best job that I can while still pursuing the things I want. The job I’ve had for the past three years is a case to point: I’d wanted to be a school counselor since I decided to get my teaching license so that I could get into the counselor program. That was in 1978 and 33 years later, I finally sat my butt in my own office chair, a full-time high school counselor. *whew*

 

From my writing life: I started writing (in cursive with a pencil) in 1969, moving eventually to learning to use a manual typewriter, then an old electric, then an electronic typewriter, an Apple II, and from there to my current Toshiba laptop. I seriously started submitting in 1990 and in 1993, saw the publication of my first “professional sale” in a magazine named HiCall. Since then, I’ve fired off 820 submissions with 45 manuscripts seeing publication or production. A year ago, I finally got an agent.

 

Even in high school and college God (or “life” if you prefer) was busy teaching me this lesson: after getting my teaching degree in 1981, I didn’t get a permanent teaching job until 1987 (not for lack of trying!). In high school, I didn’t make the top choir my junior year (even though boys were supposedly badly needed) and had to wait until my senior year. I was passed over for promotion to “stocking” by a friend of mine – who I helped get the job as a bagboy and didn’t move up to stock until I moved stores. I applied for countless jobs as youth director – even in my own church – and was repeatedly thanked for my time and sent packing. After a year-long substitute teaching job at the high school I graduated from, I was told that “it’s too bad you’re not a woman” and let go at the end of the year.

 

Again in my writing life: my agent has been shopping a manuscript that won me a spot on Red Fox’s roster a year ago with nothing to show for it but polite rejections. Another manuscript resides in the “we’d like to look at it more closely” pile at BAEN BOOKS.

 

Persistence. Patience.

 

Even the Bible advises me with verses I KNOW I’ve read…but have forgotten:

 

“Rest in the Lord and wait patiently for Him; Do not fret because of him who prospers in his way.” Psalm 37:7

 

“The end of a matter is better than its beginning; Patience of spirit is better than haughtiness of spirit.” Ecclesiastes 7:8

 

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness…” Galatians 5:22

 

“We urge you, brethren, admonish the unruly, encourage the fainthearted, help the weak, be patient with everyone.” 1 Thessalonians 5:14

 

“And so, having patiently waited, he obtained the promise.” Hebrews 6:15

 

And finally:

 

“Therefore be patient, brethren, until the coming of the Lord. The farmer waits for the precious produce of the soil, being patient about it, until it gets the early and late rains.” James 5:7

 

So Hollywood, Folksy Aphorisms, Life, and God teach patience.

 

In the play, LIFE OF GALILEO by Bertolt Brecht (it was  made into a movie I saw and showed hundreds of times as a science teacher) that centers on writing, the scientist Galileo challenges not only the Church, but ALL current science when he discovers that the Sun is the center of the Solar System, not Earth. He is arrested, endures, recants, then (according to Scientism), recants his recantation, but regrets his decision at the end of his life:

 

“As a scientist, I had a unique opportunity. In my time astronomy reached the market

place. Under these very special circumstances, one man's steadfastness might

have had tremendous repercussions. If I had held out, scientists might have

developed something like the physicians' Hippocratic oath, the vow to use

their knowledge only for the good of mankind. As things stand now, the best

we can hope for is a generation of inventive dwarfs who can be hired for any

purpose.”

Patience then is not only a virtue -- it's part of science, it's taught in Scripture, and hundreds of writers urge it and practice it.

How is it then that I forget it so easily?
 

References: *Said to have originated in the PSYCHOMACHIA, a poem by the Roman poet Prudentius  (aka Aurelius Prudentius Clemens) around 392 AD; http://buehnenkunst.ohost.de/auditions_coming_up_files/Life%20of%20Galileo%20by%20Brecht.pdf

Image:  https://www.islandcowgirl.com/products/patience-brace1.jpg

LOVE IN A TIME OF ALIEN INVASION 4

            The Cold War between the Kiiote and the Yown’Hoo has become a shooting war. The only way to stop it is to lock Kiiote, Yown’Hoo and Human into a matrix of need – to create “super beings” capable of not only living together, but combining three different technologies into one.

The Triads are made up of the smallest primate tribe of Humans –two.

The Triads are made up of the smallest canine pack of Kiiote – six.

The Triads are made up of the smallest camelid herd of Yown’Hoo – eleven, a prime number.

On Earth, there are three Triads – one in the US, one in India and one in China.

Protected by the Triad Corporation, they intend to integrate not only the three peoples and stop the war that slaughters Humans and devastates their world, but to stop the war that consumes Kiiote economy and Yown’Hoo moral fiber (literal in their case) – and eventually confront the extra-Universe aliens who created the Interstice.

According to the best and wisest of the Triad Societies, the Merger of Human-Kiiote-Yown’Hoo into a Congenic will produce a stable construct capable of incredible expansion, creativity, longevity...and wealth – for it seems that it is the Three alone who inhabit the Milky Way, though unknown to them, there is another called the Hive which must complete the Triad – hold it if you will.

Earth-Free Activists plan to blow up one of the Nurseries – places where the Yown’Hoo and Kiiote can actually breed and the young survive far from their homeworlds. One such is south of Winnipeg on the Canadian Prairies. It falls to the North American Triad to move to stop them without letting them know that they have been betrayed...or discover that Humans know that the entire Milky Way has been betrayed.

 ‘Shayla, the only other Human in the Triad and who is sometimes my girlfriend, stared at me.

“What do you mean by that? Why would the Kiiote and Yown’Hoo shoot up Earth? They birth and raise their kids here!”

I shook my head. “That doesn’t matter! They’ve been fighting each other since Cortes committed La Noche Triste on the Aztecs – they aren’t likely to stop just because we made the Triads.”

“But they signed the treaties not to fight on Earth!”

“Humans have broken enough treaties in their civilized life to know perfectly well how easy they are to smash and bash – and exactly how sincere they were when they first made them.” I let the implication hang. “Why would they be any different than us?” The bus traveling along a programmed route. Especially because we were in it. We were important and it was supposed to avoid the worst parts of the city. If the program messed up, the Human driver was supposed to take over.

Something smacked against the wide window of the bus. Suddenly we were surrounded by a silvery bubble. The driver screamed as she was automatically stunned. The rest of us were grabbed by robotic arms in the seats we’d been sitting in, dragged into them and locked down. The bus sped up, turning abruptly and throwing us into the belts. Seconds later, it slowed down and came to a stop. The bubble flickered then the doors snapped open, slammed shut then snapped open again.

Qil and Fax, the beta female and male of our Kiiote pack, leaped from their seats, one going to the front door, the other to the middle door, but not exiting.

Standing in the center of the bus, Dao-hi, the Herd mother – even though she was barely older than me but had five kids who were immatures – swung her llama head back and forth. The Middles – males Zei-go, Seg-go and Ai-gol and the female fighters Lan-mai and Ked-sah boxed Dao-hi and the immatures in with their butts.

After worming my way around her, I headed for the front while ‘Shayla headed for the back.

“We’re probably in front of the Dome,” ‘Shayla said.

“We hope you’re right,” Dao-hi said.

I went down the steps. It was dark and starry. Fax followed me. Qilthebitch followed ‘Shayla. Humans always went first. We use to think it was because the Kiiote and the Yown’Hoo thought they were better than us. One night they told us that Human physical flexibility and a mythic penchant for attracting individual luck – good or bad. Humans were in always led the Triads – or the few other places Herd, Pack and Tribe attempted to cooperate.

We weren’t the only interspecies attempt at working together – we were just the most successful.

Nothing happened except the bus abruptly powered down. ‘Shayla was standing at the far end of the but with Qil. The rest of the Pack followed a moment later, then the fighting Herd. Lan-mai said, “She-neh.”

Fax said, “Yoo-yeh *tail twitch*.”

I said, “What smells wrong, though? What kind of wrong?” The Human sense of smell was pitiful next to that of Herd and Pack – so we deferred to them in that.

“Food,” said Fax.

“Death,” said Lan-mai.

“Crap,” I said. We were in a bad part of the city. It had been bad before the Annexation of Humanity and the Birthing Treaties – both of them made in secret with different Human governments.

My mom had warned me about North Minneapolis.

The sound of lots of Human voices – ‘Shayla and I looked at each other. Some of the voices were angry and they drifted to us on the warm night air.

Image: http://stmedia.startribune.com/images/ows_13722223547416.jpg

A REVIEW OF THE JULY/AUGUST 2013 ISSUE OF FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

 

I started reading F&SF late in the 1970s and I’ve had a subscription on-and-off since then. When I haven’t had a subscription, I buy the occasional issue to catch up on the style of fiction I’ve come to expect from the magazine – what the genre calls “literary speculative fiction”. Practitioners of this (who just happen to have been published in this magazine) are people like James Morrow, Thomas Disch, Daniel Keyes, Kate Wilhelm, Eleanor Arnason, Gene Wolfe and many others. For the most part, their fiction has sought to explore issues using the genre with the tools of social commentary.

It’s what I expect of the magazine.

I responded to a Face Book offer of a free magazine if I promised to post a review. I quickly received the July/August 2013 issue. Below you’ll find my review...

First of all, I was thrilled to discover that nothing has changed at F&SF! The magazine is still packed with fascinating stories and features – and it is those features I’ll start with.

The book reviews were well written overall, but Charles de Lint did something unexpected – he used his review as a teaching opportunity. As a writer and sometime submitter to F&SF, I appreciate the easy grace with which he both reviewed the books and passed on some of the wisdom he’s gleaned. In this age of multi-volume, endless series (a half dozen LEAP to mind), he points out, “…instead of being able to follow the further adventures of whatever sort of character tickles your fancy, the writers are giving us complicated story arcs that play out over a number of books...which makes it daunting to the newcomer who isn’t a part of ‘the club’.” This set his review above the others. Paul Di Filippo’s “Plumage from Pegasus” was a delightful romp as well.

Movies are reviewed competently, Curiosities are entertained, and the Science column was grossly fascinating – and provided me with a story idea! I should point out right now that I am extremely choosy in what fantasy I read. It must come with a powerful recommendation in order for me to crack the cover of your average fantasy novel. As a junior high and high school science teacher for the past 32 years, my heart and interest lean strongly toward the sciences and science fiction.

 

That being said, I’ll dive into the stories in this issue starting with the ones that didn’t strike home in the target of my particular heart and ending with the ones that I will likely keep in mind for some time to come.

 

I found that the weakest story in the issue was also the longest. “In the Mountains of Frozen Fire” by Rus Wornom, takes a trip into the past and tries to put a new spin on an old genre – perhaps best illustrated by the fourth Indiana Jones movie, “Kingdom of the Crystal Skull”. This story had the same effect on me that the fourth Indie movie did: while it tried very hard to recreate the sense and rhythm of “Raiders of the Lost Ark”, it ended up being derivative and tedious and I found myself wishing a couple more short stories occupied the forty-four pages this story took up.

 

Next was “Half a Conversation...” by Oliver Buckram. It left me scratching my head and trying to figure out if the other half would have made the story better or worse.

 

In “Kormak the Lucky”, by Eleanor Arnason (an author local to me), I found a quiet tale – like an instructive fairytale – well told but not as exceptional as other stories she’s written. It’s nice – but not memorable – except for the enchanted train connecting the world of the fey and the real world. That was a nice touch.

 

Harvey Jacobs’ “The Miracle Cure” was too cute for my usually broad taste. The introduction of Dr. American Gothic while interesting seemed arbitrary, at least as far as the story went. I expected it to be a metaphor, but if it was, I am not sharp enough to catch what it was representing…

 

“The Nambu Egg” was competent and almost cute, but was extremely talky – in a bad way. While I was never drawn into author Tim Sullivan’s imagination and I had trouble suspending my disbelief, what I found to be the biggest barrier to entering the story was that the character Adam Narya never really faced an obstacle to his mission. The denoument was too easy.

 

“Oh Give Me a Home” had the feel of an O. Henry, not so much in length as in setting. William Sydney Porter loved the old west and that kind of love brought this story by Adam Rakunas to life. Where I was unable to “be in” the Mountains of Frozen Fire, here I had no trouble being in some undefined place on the Great Plains and living this story. Science fiction in methodology, it serves its literary master by being about family, relationships, and frustrated hope. The title – as I’ve come to expect in litspecfic – had multiple meanings and contributed to my delight in this tale.

 

Ken Altabef evoked a deep sense of sadness in me while introducing me to a world I knew nothing about – Inuit mythology. I loved that part and while I never really found myself carried away by “The Woman Who Married the Snow”, it left me with a melancholy that says it tweaked me and left behind a bittersweet memory.

 

The cover story by KJ Kabza, “The Color of Sand” rose to the top of my list and had to do battle with my first and second favorite stories. The concept is fascinating, the world it creates real, and the conundrum that faces Fairday, her son Catch and the sandcat Bone reaches from fantasy into reality, asking “How far is a parent willing to go to change the future of a child who makes a mistake?” When her son makes a terrible mistake, his mother goes – literally in this fantasy – to the end of the world to rectify it. Guided by their personal counselor, Bone, mother and son do what is necessary to “fix” the mistake. When all seems set and done the mistake is undone far beyond Fairday’s simple wish – and something else entirely new and unexpected comes out of the affair bringing about unforeseen changes. This is exactly what the very best fantasy should do – and what is DOES do here.

 

I do not often stumble across writing that spears its way into my heart – no pun intended – but “The Heartsmith’s Daughters” does exactly that. I have a daughter, a foster daughter, a daughter-in-law, and a granddaughter and I could not help but see each of them in Harry R. Campion’s story. I refuse to tell you who I saw where, suffice it to say that these daughters of mine are strong-willed women who never flinch from what the world brings them. In this story, Ironheart, Brassheart, and Goldheart do not flinch, either. Their only flaw is naiveté and that is sadly rectified when Goldheart must become Stoneheart. From that point on, the daughters grow in their humanity, the narrative deftly and cleanly drawing me into a sad reflection on the necessity of such a transformation in order for women to survive in today’s world. I loved this story and it will, sad to say, haunt me for some time to come.

 

My favorite piece in this issue was “Year of the Rat”. Chen Qiufan clearly knows the setting as with the same spare strokes an artisan uses to craft Chinese logographs, he creates a living, breathing world. This is far, far more than a simple science fiction story of a dystopian future dominated by a technologically advanced China. It is, at its heart, a story of friendship sacrificed for personal advance; it is a cautionary tale that warns gently that if we focus our vision too narrowly, we will miss the broader impact of science as it trickles into the lives regular people. This is, as I have come to expect from F&SF, literary speculative fiction at its very best as it deals with important issues with grace and elan.

 

I think "Year of the Rat" and “The Heartsmith’s Daughters” will be on more than my personal shortlist for awards this year.

 Image: http://www.sfsignal.com/mt-static/images/fsf2013-0708.jpg

If you want to read OTHER reviews, go here: http://www.sfsite.com/fsf/blog/forum/topic.php?id=1050132&replies=23#post-1235980