Excerpt

It's been a little while so I thought I'd update with something that I've been working on for a long while now (something that will *hopefully* **hopefully** turn into an actual novel at some point).

Unfortunately it slipped to the wayside for a while (sort of hit a wall), but in the last few weeks I've managed to get back into writing it and other related stories. I still think that the beginning has some problems (infodump again) so I'm not going to put that up just yet but some of the rest of it seems generally readable - so that's what you're going to get. An excerpt.

One last note, back in typical form, this is very definitely science fiction (soft - don't think I have the ability/background to write hard sci-fi) so reader beware. (Or don't, even if it's crap it might give you the idea that maybe you should read some and I have a rather long list of good novels that I can suggest).

Anyway, without further nonsense here is what (as I have yet to name the story itself) for the moment will simply be called Exile.


Exile


I wake early. I’m still in the cell and someone is unlocking the door. It slides open with a hiss. Presently a guard and two med-techs enter. I feign sleep. I’ve never really liked the faux-doctors that seem to gravitate towards the prison system and I always try to avoid having conversations with them. But that’s not what they had in mind. One of them, aided by the guard holds me down, while the other, moves in with the needle. I don’t struggle. No much point really. There is a quick jab in my right arm, then another sharper one in my lower neck. The second one lingers, eventually fading enough so that I can feel something cold pressed against my skin. I taste metal. Bio-monitor. Definitely Cryo then. I can feel them pulling me onto a stretcher, darkness takes me.
I’ve never liked Cryo, let’s just make that clear from the start. Never have, never will. Practice should have been abandoned as soon as the we broke the light barrier.

Sure I can understand the necessity aboard something like a prison ship, but that does not mean that I have to like it – and no, before you ask, my reasons aren’t the typical ones that people seem to bandy about all the time.
Sure before my first time I had the usual worries. Worries about the failure rates of the early days. Worries about the couple of sleeper ships that drifted into stars or things they shouldn’t have simply because someone somewhere made a mistake. Worries about the ships that simply disappeared. But like most of the rest I convinced myself that those were all issues that had been fixed for decade. That I had nothing to worry about. I didn’t even think about the actual freezing process, about how it might feel. That changed very quickly after the first time.

While your frozen you’re not supposed to feel anything as your supposed to be, exactly that, frozen. Not asleep, not unconscious. There is no thinking, no moving. You’re just frozen. Every cell in your body, every cell in your brain shuts down and remains shut down until they thaw you out at the other end. Or that’s how it’s supposed to be.

For me it’s different: I swear to god that each time I go under I dream. And they’re not your run of the mill dreams either. They’re vivid. I see people and places I haven’t seen in years. Old friends come and go, talking to me as if no time has passed at all. I can’t talk back, or even move, but that doesn’t seem to bother them. They just continue on their merry way, quickly replaced by some other familiar face. And this whole time, as if that wasn’t enough, I can feel the cold. The chill is shocking, almost unbearable. There’s no escaping it either, it’s in you, in every fibre of your body and there is nothing you can do to make it go away.

It’s much the same on the way to Fecund. I try to ignore as much as my half conscious mind can ignore anything, but like always it never works. After a while a single face keeps coming back to haunt me, and that hurts more than the cold. I try and run, but there’s nowhere to go. I’m stuck in my own head. Quite literally.

As far as I can tell this isn’t something that happens to other people. They go under. They wake up. No dreams. No visitations. Nothing. Simple. The only thing I can think of that makes me different is the implant. Makes sense in a weird sort of way. It’s part of me: it’s hooked into my brain but it’s not biological, so it reacts differently to the cold and the chemicals. While the rest of my brain is frozen, it still ticks away, and I think part of my consciousness bleeds into it. Not enough to be totally aware, but enough to remember. I hate the thing sometimes. Wish it had never been put in. Not that I had all that choice when it was. Not that there’s anyway now to take it out.
They bring us out in orbit. I come awake groggy and sick. Cold hands brush over me. I wretch as one tube is pulled from my throat, running on gag-reflex. I barely feel the one they yank from my arm. The chill left over from Cryo is everything. My bones feel like they are made of sloshed ice. The light is blinding and I want to vomit. But there’s nothing to bring up. Someone tries to get me to drink water, but their gone by the time I register that I’m actually thirsty. Stupidly I struggle, try to lean forward. For my trouble something cold brushes against my ribs and I collapses back onto the bed, writhing from the sudden electrical discharge. For a while all can do is lie there and pant, barely registering the alarm ringing in my head. Sometime later the pain subsides and my vision begins to clear. I’m no longer on board a ship. The ceiling is too clean - not enough grime or cables - and it’s much too big. Craning my neck I see dozens of other pods surrounding mine, most of them closed. Here and there are med techs, decked out in that sickly green that they seems to like so much. Every so often they crack another pod, bringing the occupant out of cold storage and checking to see if he’s still alive. A single tech stands back from the others, shock lance in hand, just in case a convict gets to lively.

It takes them a while to wake everyone and by then some of the other prisoners have managed to find their voices. A few shout insults, or call out for others they think might be nearby. To me it’s all a blur. A few stupid ones shout threats at the techs, and are swiftly shocked into submission. The guy next to me is one of those. It takes him a while to stop thrashing around and afterwards he just lies there, looking blankly in my direction. I try to catch his attention but he just looks through me. Face a mask of despair. I look away.

After what seems like an eternity the tech begin to finish and move away. Somewhere up above a red light begins to flash. One by one the pods begin to slide closed again, setting a few prisoners off again as claustrophobia kicks in. I lose the yelling behind the thick Perspex screen and my own nervousness is quickly washed away by the warm air pumping into my pod. It feels too good for me to be scared. There’s no smell to give away the knock out gas, but my implant chimes in with a hazard warning just the same. A wave of exhaustion washes over me as text scrolls in front of my vision, showing what exactly it is that I’m breathing. Fat lot of help to a man tied down. I find myself laughing at the repetition. The constant shift between awareness and oblivion, totally beyond my control. The text distorts and swims as my concentration dies and I slowly slip into unconsciousness.

Genre stories

Dear everyone (this is a potentially singular form of address), I've just finished uni for the year so I thought that now would be as good a time as any to update my reader/s with new tales of cowering heroes, dashing villains and other various examples of mashed genre and mutilated plot.

Hurrah!

In all seriousness, it occurred to me the other day that I had been neglecting the blog and that I should do something new to make up for my absence. Something unlike the stuff that I’ve done before. Something based on genres that I have never written on before.

So here are two new stories:


The first is a redo of a story that I wrote about a year ago after reading 'The Overcoat' by Nikolai Gogol entitled 'The Bookshop' and is a pretty straight forward attempt at literary realism (i.e. Gogol's 'The Overcoat' just with less fantastical stuff at the end).


The Bookshop

It was a certain day in the month of August that a young man by the name of Sergei Kozlovitch arrived for the first time in the city of Moscow and instantly decided that he did not like it.

Now Sergei’s disdain for the city stemmed not from an arrogance born of wealth (as indeed he carried most of his possessions with him in a rather pathetic looking suitcase held together with twine), but from the place of his birth. Sergei had been raised in Petersburg, and to him the fine stone construction of his home made Moscow look like a haphazard collection of wooden kindling.

Sergei would have preferred not to have left home at all, but when news had arrived a week previously that his mother’s brother, Andrei Borislav, had grown ill (and it seemed was soon to die), Sergei had been left with little choice. While he had never had any real affection for his uncle, who Sergei remembered from his visits to Petersburg as rather self-important (always having a little too much to say and lot too much to drink) it would have been considered terribly bad form if someone from the family did not come and pay their respects.

After all, his entire uncle had reached greater heights than Sergei and his mother ever would, having been a tutor to the children of one of the great noble houses before his retirement.

Sergei’s mother, a humble washer-woman, who had grown in weight over the past few years had been in no condition to make the journey and so had fussed and fretted from the moment the message arrived about how the arrival of at least one member of the family would be expected.

Of course these shrill statements had always been accompanied by not so subtle glances at Sergei, who (with his father away in the war) was the only immediate family she had available to her.

So it was that he found himself, days later, at the end of one of the city’s narrow streets, standing in front of the Borislav residence, almost in a stupor, staring at the muck that was clinging to his boots and trying to blink away the sting that the cold brought to his eyes.

Presently he realised that there were other people gathered outside the squat little wooden house, people Sergei had to presume were either friends of his uncles’ or fellow well wishers. They certainly did not appear to be family, being much too tall and thin to be related to his uncle who he remembered to be stocky, red nosed and boisterous. All three turned as Sergei approached; their eyes’ seeming to flicker with a vague recognition, though Sergei was unable to place any of their faces.

Regardless of whom they were the strangers had all seemed to glare at him with barely veiled hostility as he had approached and greeted them, looks which soon developed into angry muttering as Sergei was forced to push past so that he could enter the front door. Inside Sergei shed his coat and his confusion and the greeting he had received outside was instantly replaced by fear as he took his first breath.

There was a stale smell in the air, so thick that he was sure that if he stayed to long it would cut through his clothing and permanently sink into his skin. It was the smell of a dead man. The fact that he had not arrived in time to say goodbye to his uncle bothered him less than the feeling of uncleanness that washed over him.

Sighing he realised that he would still be expected to pay respects to the body and to his aunt, and so made his way up the stairs until he reached what he presumed was the master bedroom and knocked furtively at the door.

A small balding man in a smart coat and hat soon opened the door and looked Sergei up and down with a dispassionate stare “Yes. Yes. I am the doctor” he said extending a claw like hand for Sergei to shake, “who are you boy?” Sergei introduced himself just as he saw a figure behind the doctor leaving the room by another door which closed with a loud slam.

Returning his gaze to the doctor Sergei soon gathered that he had indeed arrived too late, and that his uncle’s condition had yesterday taken a sudden turn for worse leading to his death sometime during the night. All of which, the doctor reminded him, was a “terrible business” before clarifying that of course his aunt was thankful for Sergei’s trip, but was still in no state to receive visitors.

As if to punctuate the doctors last sentence, a great clatter arose somewhere down the hall which was quickly joined by a tremendously loud shrieking. “She’s been on like that for hours now” he muttered after a pause, before gesturing for Sergei to enter the room, “I guess you’ll want to see him before you leave.”

It struck Sergei that for all the calamity of his aunt; it had slipped his mind that his now dead uncle was most likely only a few feet away. The Doctor looked directly at Sergei for a moment before closing the door and said “If it’s not too much trouble young Sergei, could you meet me outside once your done. There is something we should discuss.” The door was then shut before he could even nod in response.

Paying his respects to his uncle was not a particularly pleasant experience. For his part, the old man just lay there, but Sergei could not help but squirm. Instead of feeling grief or sympathy he was filled with revulsion, something only tempered by the comforting thought that it was his uncle, not him, who was now lying cold and stiff in the narrow bed.

As this thought filled Sergei with a gnawing guilt he stayed only as long as seemed appropriate, before silently slipping away and joining the doctor outside in the cold. The air bit at him as he left the house, and the Doctor, who now introduced himself as a Dr. Nicholas Tarasov, offered him a drink from a flask which Sergei was more than happy to accept. “Now young Sergei, as you are no doubt aware, you were one of your uncles’ only remaining male relatives” Sergei nodded. “So you stand to inherit a portion of what he had left.”

This was not something that Sergei had considered, and so thinking of his empty purse, this new prospect caused his heart to leap, if only momentarily.

As if reading Sergei’s thoughts the doctor cleared his throat before continuing. “I’m afraid your share will not be what you expected. Most of the money your uncle had remaining will go to his wife and her family, who you no doubt met on the way in, while the remainder will pay for the treatment he underwent before his death”.
Sergei winced. “You my lad will instead inherit the last of your uncle’s property, except for this house of course”.

Strangely it would take a few minutes of probing before Sergei could get the doctor to admit just what the last of this property was and so in the end Dr. Tarasov simply looked at him before handing him the vodka again and said “well boy, it’s a bookshop”.

A bookshop.

Sergei, flask still in hand, watched the doctor depart and was sure that some horrendous joke had just been played on him. He knew little about books, an even less about how they should be sold. But, he sighed, as he gathered his meagre possessions, it was more than he had had an hour ago and anyhow people would begin to talk if he refused his inheritance simply because he disliked it.

It was this thought that remained with him until, after finding lodging for the night and sending a message to his mother (the cost of which ate up what little funds he had remaining and forced him to forgo a proper dinner), he found himself in one of the poorest areas of the city facing the small dilapidated building that the doctor had left him directions to.

It was a crooked little place, with the most solid part appearing to be the door. At least Sergei knew that he would get something back if it ever fell down, remembering the doctors statement that his uncle, having great affection for the shop, had made sure it was properly insured.

The key barely seemed to fit in the lock, and upon turning it Sergei was convinced it would snap off in his hand. Yet eventually he got the door open unable to remove the key again steeped inside and was greeted by the interior of a dirty little shop which seemed to have more cobwebs than books. Sergei stepped inside, confused.

If this was a book shop, where were all the books?

Counting them, there only seemed to be a few dozen of the things scattered amongst the shelves. There was nothing there that was worth anything. What good was a book shop without books Sergei thought? In frustration he began to pull the few books that there were off the shelves and throw them across the room. The act was strangely satisfying and he would have continued if it were not for the heavy metallic clunk the third made as it came into contact with the floor.

Gingerly Sergei picked it up from where it had come to rest and shook it. Something rattled around inside. He cracked open the cover and was greeted by the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

Jewellery fit for a prince.

Gold studded with diamonds and rubies, silver inlayed with pearl and half a dozen things he could not even name. All he knew was that they were worth more than he had ever thought he would see in his lifetime. Swiftly he ripped the other books off the shelves. At least three others had something inside.

The last however was different. Instead of only containing jewellery, there was also a note, which fluttered to the floor unnoticed as Sergei whooped and crowded, dancing around the room, praising his uncle he cunning nature of his uncle who he presumed had pilfered the jewels during his time as a tutor (even when drunk he had always had deft fingers).

Sergei, as if in a trance, spent the entire day examining and re examining his inheritance. So enraptured in playing with the jewels was Sergei that he did not notice the sun finally go down. Nor did he notice the door being closed from the outside, or the grinding click as the key was turned, locking him in.

He was so taken in fact by his new found wealth that it would take the sound of breaking glass (as a bottle exploded through the window, spilling liquid fire all over the room) to shake him from reverie.

By then it was much too late. Sergei would claw at the door as the wooden walls around him belched fire and smoke but he would not escape.

Sadly if he had not been so intent on studying the jewels might have caught sight of the little piece of paper that had fallen to the floor. If he had been quick enough he may even have had a chance to read it before both he and it turned to ash and learn of his uncle’s satisfaction that, if Sergei were reading this, he had ensured the continued existence of his shop and managed to hide the existence of the jewels from his wife’s family, who he stated were generally a jealous and conniving bunch.










The second, A Deadly Curiosity was supposed to be at the time of writing (and I guess still is) a re-interpretation of Gothic Fiction that aims to invert some of the genres typical conventions. Reading it again now I'm not entirely sure that I was successful (it is certainly macabre) but I figure I should put it up anyway.



A Deadly Curiosity

The first time I did I did it out a sense of curiosity.

So often had I looked at people passing by and wondered: how easy would it be? How much would it take? Surely not all that much? Just a squeeze or a knock in the right place surely... People can be fragile things after all...

I began to wonder. To wonder if I should try it for myself. Just to see.

Just to test.

Oh I certainly had my share of doubts. Of course I did. I wondered on my own abilities. On whether or not I would be successful. Would I tense up at the wrong moment? Would I re-discover fear or whatever passes for human morality these days. Would my hand slip? My breathing betray me? Would I make a mistake at some crucial moment and become a victim myself?

Such thoughts plagued me for longer than I care to admit, but in the end my curiosity, my obsession grew to be more than I could bear.

I decided that I would do it because I had to and once I this revelation was made my doubts were much reduced.

In preparation I abandoned my regular social (after all none of them would understand my motivations and it would be unlikely that they would still desire my company once the deed was done) and began to plan the when and the where in the most exacting detail possible – I did want to get this right after all.

Fate however, it seems, had other ideas and upon a night of particular bad weather (before I was able to bring my own plans to their ultimate fruition) I was presented with an opportunity so perfect that I would have been foolish to ignore it: Someone came to me.

He arrived upon my doorstep, rain drenched and shivering in the midnight cold. Through chattering teeth he made reference to some sort of car trouble (my memory on his exact words is now rather vague as I was, understandably excited at the time) and asked whether or not I could be persuaded to lend him the use of my telephone.

I, of course, ushered him in as quickly as possible (the plans racing through my head said nothing against the use of good manners) and placed him in front of the fire to dry, asserting that he must warm himself properly and partake in some tea before using the phone or he would catch chill (I did my best to put forward a motherly concern for his well being).

He, having no suspicions to my true motives, was more than happy to accept my loosely applied conditions and upon seating himself before the warmth of the fire attempt to engage me in jovial conversation. Very quickly he dismissed the ill-fortune of breaking down in such bad weather, instead claiming, with a sly smile, that considered himself to be quite lucky to have stumbled upon the home of such a friendly and hospitable woman, one who was more than happy to offer assistance in his time of need. With what he must have thought of as an expert subtlety he then asked after my husband, expressing concern that, if he were to arrive, he may not be overly pleased to find some unknown man sitting in his house and warming himself before his fire.

At this I laughed in an attempt to feign some form of nervous embarrassment (a timely tilting of the head and a blush greatly added to the illusion) before stating, somewhat shyly, that I did not in fact have a husband for him to offend and that I was very much alone in my little house upon the hill. He of course responded with a mock sincerity, stating that he had in no way meant act in anyway untoward and that as he was a gentleman, I had nothing at all to fear from him his presence.

Deftly I smiled at him, assuring him that I believed all that he had said, before exclaiming that I had forgotten to put the kettle on the stove and that he was welcome to move the chair in which he sat closer to the fire while I was in the kitchen preparing the hot drink I had earlier promised him (in truth I could feel the moment nearing and felt that I had to leave so he would not become aware of my excitement).

To ease his mind (and indeed my own) I did indeed prepare for him a cup of tea and then quickly composed myself in the mirror in the hall before returning to him drink in hand, apologising quite demurely for not remembering to ask him what his preference might be. He chuckled over my words, stating quite simply that he was more than happy with anything as long as it was not laced with poison. I froze at that. My heart suddenly beating a loud staccato in my ears. Should it be now? Or should I wait? Does he know? He began to laugh nervously and I stifled a sigh of relief with a nervous smile – obviously he had realised that his joke (and I now saw that it had been a joke and that I should wait) had not been received in the manner in which he had expected and he was trying deflect attention away from his blunder.

As a way of changing topic he turned to cosy nature of the room mumbling something about how he had always wanted to live in a place just like it. For my part I ignored him, instead trying to control the thrill that had begun to race up and down my spine.. The whole room seemed to close in around us. My mouth was dry. My hands sweaty. I marvelled that the young man could be so completely oblivious to my intentions.

Lost in his own voice he failed to hear the light scraping of the fire poker as I removed it from its place by the fire. Failed to notice as I raised it above my head. He asked me how I had come live all the way out here by myself to which I delivered a vague response through gritted teeth.

The man began to turn just as the heavy iron of the poker lashed out (the word ‘pardon’ no doubt forming upon his lips) and so the blow was a glancing one, loosely connecting just above the man’s ear. Still the crunching noise was a reassuring one and his eyes did indeed glaze over (as they so often do in the stories) as he collapsed (completely ungracefully I might add) to lie in a tangled heap at my feet, giving out little more by way of complaint than a short gurgling sigh.

As I listened to his breathing slow, I marvelled at the ease with which I had satisfied my earlier curiosity and how ill-founded my previous doubts had been. I had not hesitated. I had not been afraid (at least not of the deed itself). I stood waiting for a moment, almost expecting the whole thing to be ruined by the arrival of some misplaced sense of guilt. Nothing. I felt normal, though not as completely satisfied as I had first imagined that I would be. Instead there was this new gnawing of curiosity, stronger than it had been before. I began to wonder:

How much harder would two be than one? Surely not that much...










In my opinion both a little clunky (yes my paragraphing is still abysmal) and in need of editing*, but it still feels good to get them out there and to keep the blog updated.

*Should hopefully get to that over the next few days and weeks (uni is done and I have heaps of free time)

Let me know what you think in the comments (lurkers welcome!).

Thinking of doing more genre stuff for the next post if anyone has some recommendations (thinking something lighter).

M