Carter and Youla boarded the train with minutes to spare. This early, the trains heading out of the city were largely empty; Only a couple of errant youngsters, dozing while plugged into their musical life support, shared their carriage. The pair picked a table and sat opposite each other, go-bags taking the extra seats.
As the train pulled out of the city, cutting and covering through ancient thoroughfares, Carter rested his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the black sky was beginning to be tinged Prussian blue.
Youla sat opposite, still and almost serene, eyes closed. As Carter looked at him, his eyes opened, looking back. "You snore." He said simply.
Carter had to smile. "I'm Claydon. Gabriel, wasn't it?"
"Yes. Gabriel Youla." He nodded in lieu of a handshake.
"So, where are you from, Gabriel?"
"Brixton. Before that, Sierra Leone."
"Ah. I was there briefly, a few years ago. Interesting times."
"That is not the word I would use. I like Brixton. It is nice to be able to sleep well."
"So, what brought you to England?"
"There was nothing left in Sierra Leone but gunpowder and blood. I was given the opportunity to leave as payment for a job. My sister and I came to England. She is studying to be a doctor."
"A noble calling. What do you do, when you're not catching trains to the middle of nowhere?"
"I work in the docks. It is simple work, but safe and it pays well enough. My sister wants to study at Cambridge in a few years, I must save for her to afford it."
Carter nodded appreciatively. "There's not many people who'd go that far even for family these days."
"There is not, but there should be. But what of you, Mister Carter?"
"Me? Well, I used to work for the Government, mostly abroad. It used to feel like it meant something, but after my grandfather died, well, I felt like the part of me that had enjoyed the work went with him. I worked for myself for a while, then this came along, and they offered me what I missed."
"And what was that?"
"Revealed secrets. I missed knowing the truth behind the lies everyone got told, and they promised to give that back to me. What about you? What did they offer you?"
"Mostly it was the money. But in Africa I did things I would rather forget. I cannot forget them, but I hope I might be able to balance them out."
Friday 10 December 2010
Friday 3 December 2010
[LNC] Crash Call
The phone was ringing. The phone was ringing and it wouldn't shut up.
Carter half-fell out of bed as he clawed over to it, stabbing the green button on the flashing screen to answer the call. "Hello?"
"Carter, we've got a crash situation. Get to the office now."
"What time-"
"It's oh-three-twelve in your time zone. This isn't going to wait for you."
"Who is this?"
"This is Sakura. I'm your operations handler. Enough questions already, put some clothes on and get moving."
"The tube'll be shut."
"I'm sure you can improvise. Office, fast as you can. Freya will meet you there to brief you." The line went dead.
Carter swore, quietly but repeatedly, as he shuffled into the bathroom and flicked on the light. The fluorescent tube hummed and flashed a couple of times before igniting, serving to ruin Carter's night vision as well as temporarily blinding him. He blinked a couple of times, then filled a sink with tepid water to splash his face. This was too bloody early.
Returning to the room he picked up the phone and, while hunting through the wardrobe for something comfortable to wear, called a taxi. This time of night was about the only time you could do that in the city.
Finally he grabbed the go-bag from the bottom of the wardrobe and slung it over his shoulder as he headed for the door. The time on the clock as he left was 03:18.
~
The taxi pulled up Outside Waterloo Station ten minutes later. Carter paid the taxi-driver, a short, swarthy man with an impermeable accent that sounded like an Indian man trying to speak Welsh, and extricated himself from the black cab. At least the weather was better than the last time he was here.
The short walk round the corner to the Necropolis Railway building served to allow Carter to finish waking up. By the time he stepped through the open door he merely felt a couple of coffees shy of human. On instinct he headed upstairs.
Freya was there, slim, pale hands clasped around a large, steaming mug that smelled mostly of lemon and sugar. "Mister Carter, good morning." She smiled. "We're just waiting for one more to arrive."
There was the sound of a bike engine outside- high revving, probably a supersport. A few seconds later, the door, footsteps, stairs.
Another man entered the room- tall, dark-skinned, shaven-headed and lean, he wore jeans, work boots and a biker jacket. Carter had seen the look in his eyes before- the look of recently-caged animals, or that of veterans from Africa's many recent wars. A soldier?
"Claydon Carter, this is Gabriel Youla. You two will be working together in this matter."
"Mister Youla," Carter shook the man's hand. Firm grip, calloused palms. "Miss Douglas, forgive me for asking out of line, but are we going to be told what's going on any time soon?"
"Of course. Just over an hour ago, a radio distress beacon was detected from a United States Air Force bomber, just off the South Coast of Cornwall. The bomber itself was on a training flight, though it was detected descending to low level not long before the signal was picked up.
"The aircraft in question, callsign Bone Nine Six, was being used under the auspices of a project named Pave Spider, and we believe was carrying a prototype weapon system that poses a significant risk in both the right and the wrong hands; as such we are obliged to treat the aircraft's loss as suspicious.
"We need you to go to Porthallow, where you will act as initial crash investigators for the Civil Aviation Authority. The Air Force is in the process of sending its own team to secure the crash site- you need to get in there before they clear up any evidence. If there is a larger issue at hand, you are to take any steps you deem necessary to resolve it, as long as you do not compromise this organisation. If you need anything else, contact Sakura through the speed-dial on your phones- she will be your handler for the duration of the operation. Any questions?"
"How do you know all of this?" Carter responded, his mind reeling. To have put all this together in an hour...?
"Our access to national and corporate intelligence is extensive; you gentlemen may be the tip of the spear, but the implement itself is much larger. Suffice it to say that should Western intelligence agencies learn something of interest to us, we would learn of it with them."
"You say there will be American soldiers there?" Gabriel spoke, his voice deep and flavoured of central Africa.
"Yes, we believe troops from RAF Mildenhall will already be en-route to Porthallow, the closest point of civilisation to the crash. They will likely be in position before you arrive, however a legend and the required identification will be provided to you before you arrive. Here are your train tickets- I would advise you to move quickly, your first train leaves in twenty minutes.
"Oh, one more thing," Freya called as the two men began to make their way downstairs, "Please be discreet. Our organisation has freedom to act because we do not draw attention to ourselves or to the matters we are involved in. And this, like other instances you may be asked to handle, is likely to be something best hidden from the world."
Carter half-fell out of bed as he clawed over to it, stabbing the green button on the flashing screen to answer the call. "Hello?"
"Carter, we've got a crash situation. Get to the office now."
"What time-"
"It's oh-three-twelve in your time zone. This isn't going to wait for you."
"Who is this?"
"This is Sakura. I'm your operations handler. Enough questions already, put some clothes on and get moving."
"The tube'll be shut."
"I'm sure you can improvise. Office, fast as you can. Freya will meet you there to brief you." The line went dead.
Carter swore, quietly but repeatedly, as he shuffled into the bathroom and flicked on the light. The fluorescent tube hummed and flashed a couple of times before igniting, serving to ruin Carter's night vision as well as temporarily blinding him. He blinked a couple of times, then filled a sink with tepid water to splash his face. This was too bloody early.
Returning to the room he picked up the phone and, while hunting through the wardrobe for something comfortable to wear, called a taxi. This time of night was about the only time you could do that in the city.
Finally he grabbed the go-bag from the bottom of the wardrobe and slung it over his shoulder as he headed for the door. The time on the clock as he left was 03:18.
~
The taxi pulled up Outside Waterloo Station ten minutes later. Carter paid the taxi-driver, a short, swarthy man with an impermeable accent that sounded like an Indian man trying to speak Welsh, and extricated himself from the black cab. At least the weather was better than the last time he was here.
The short walk round the corner to the Necropolis Railway building served to allow Carter to finish waking up. By the time he stepped through the open door he merely felt a couple of coffees shy of human. On instinct he headed upstairs.
Freya was there, slim, pale hands clasped around a large, steaming mug that smelled mostly of lemon and sugar. "Mister Carter, good morning." She smiled. "We're just waiting for one more to arrive."
There was the sound of a bike engine outside- high revving, probably a supersport. A few seconds later, the door, footsteps, stairs.
Another man entered the room- tall, dark-skinned, shaven-headed and lean, he wore jeans, work boots and a biker jacket. Carter had seen the look in his eyes before- the look of recently-caged animals, or that of veterans from Africa's many recent wars. A soldier?
"Claydon Carter, this is Gabriel Youla. You two will be working together in this matter."
"Mister Youla," Carter shook the man's hand. Firm grip, calloused palms. "Miss Douglas, forgive me for asking out of line, but are we going to be told what's going on any time soon?"
"Of course. Just over an hour ago, a radio distress beacon was detected from a United States Air Force bomber, just off the South Coast of Cornwall. The bomber itself was on a training flight, though it was detected descending to low level not long before the signal was picked up.
"The aircraft in question, callsign Bone Nine Six, was being used under the auspices of a project named Pave Spider, and we believe was carrying a prototype weapon system that poses a significant risk in both the right and the wrong hands; as such we are obliged to treat the aircraft's loss as suspicious.
"We need you to go to Porthallow, where you will act as initial crash investigators for the Civil Aviation Authority. The Air Force is in the process of sending its own team to secure the crash site- you need to get in there before they clear up any evidence. If there is a larger issue at hand, you are to take any steps you deem necessary to resolve it, as long as you do not compromise this organisation. If you need anything else, contact Sakura through the speed-dial on your phones- she will be your handler for the duration of the operation. Any questions?"
"How do you know all of this?" Carter responded, his mind reeling. To have put all this together in an hour...?
"Our access to national and corporate intelligence is extensive; you gentlemen may be the tip of the spear, but the implement itself is much larger. Suffice it to say that should Western intelligence agencies learn something of interest to us, we would learn of it with them."
"You say there will be American soldiers there?" Gabriel spoke, his voice deep and flavoured of central Africa.
"Yes, we believe troops from RAF Mildenhall will already be en-route to Porthallow, the closest point of civilisation to the crash. They will likely be in position before you arrive, however a legend and the required identification will be provided to you before you arrive. Here are your train tickets- I would advise you to move quickly, your first train leaves in twenty minutes.
"Oh, one more thing," Freya called as the two men began to make their way downstairs, "Please be discreet. Our organisation has freedom to act because we do not draw attention to ourselves or to the matters we are involved in. And this, like other instances you may be asked to handle, is likely to be something best hidden from the world."
Friday 26 November 2010
[LNC] Interview
Carter shrugged his coat a little tighter as he stepped out into the early morning rain on the thronged street. He hated London, especially first thing in the morning. So many people intent on getting from A to B, without a care for those around them. No concept of civility, coupled with a lack of understanding of personal space. This was a city that had to put up signs telling you which side of the escalator to stand on, so the people in a rush could bustle past you. That told you everything you needed to know about London.
At least he didn't have far to go.
Turning away from the station doors he forded the road and headed on through the crowd, like a salmon forcing its way upriver. Grey, sullen faces looked over him as they passed, faces recognising another human but not stopping to comprehend any further. Ambulatory business suits and overcoats devoid of personality marched ever onward under a canopy of umbrellas like a cohort of Roman legionnaires protecting themselves from a hail of cold, wet arrows. Carter threaded himself through the office-bound meat grinder, down the pavement and around the corner, off the main drag and emerging into suddenly quiet breathing space.
No longer shielded by the throng's umbrellas, Carter realised just how bad the rain was. England famously saw every type of rain that fell on God's Earth, sometimes in the same day. Today's deluge was not so much heavy as persistent- like a falling mist that glinted in street-lights and soaked through even the most waterproof coat in short order.
He jogged down Westminster Bridge Road, moving from bus shelter to shop overhang in a vain attempt to minimise the soaking he was inevitably receiving. Why did he ever come back to England?
The building up ahead was at least easy to recognise. The top three floors were red brick, decorated with columns and arches and pocked with dark windows like an oversized tombstone on the street. Its base was a slate-grey plinth two storeys high, dominated by the huge iron door left ajar seemingly just for him. He jogged through, coming to a halt a few steps out of the rain.
The foyer area had variously been a ticket hall and a car park, and it showed. There were a couple of workmen halfway up ladders, arc welders flashing blue-white like industrial-strength sparklers and casting crisp shadows onto polished brick walls. The periods of gloom between flashes were warmed by sputtering gas-lights mounted against the walls, framing the doorway to what was apparently once a ticket office. In the courtyard beyond, a white Ford Transit sat, incongruous against the olde-world charm of the station building. Carter called over to one of the workmen. "'Scuse me mate, looking for the site manager?"
"Upstairs, chap." The workman came down from his ladder, walking over to Carter by way of a large mug of steaming tea acquired from a workbench. "Lass said she were expecting someone. I'd go on up." The man gestured through the doorway into the ticket office with grubby, soot-stained fingers.
"Thanks." Carter smiled enough to put the man at ease and headed in the direction he'd been pointed, transferring from oil-stained concrete to age-worn threadbare carpet. He pulled his coat off, slinging it over one arm and instantly regretting it as he felt his shirtsleeve dampen. Bloody weather. Resigned, he headed upstairs.
Upstairs, there was a reception room. A large desk dominated the area, optimistically an antique but likely merely old. Behind it sat a young woman, slight, dark-haired and bespectacled, reading a newspaper. She put it down and stood as Carter reached the top of the stairs.
"Welcome to the London Necropolis Corporation. May I take your coat?"
"Thanks," Carter gratefully handed the overcoat to the woman, who hung it on a coatstand behind her. "My name's Claydon Carter, I had an appointment with-"
"With Miss Douglas, correct?" Her voice was a mix of regional accents- Carter picked out Lowland Scots and Kerry Irish amongst others. She offered her hand to him, returning his firm shake with a demure one. "Freya Douglas. A pleasure."
"All mine, I assure you. It's not a nice day out there." The old English fallback- always start with the weather.
"Please, take a seat. Would you like a drink?"
"I'd love a cup of tea, if I may." Her accent was infectious, Carter noticed- he'd had to check himself from appropriating part of it.
"Milk and sugar?"
"Please."
Freya left the room through a door at the rear, and Carter heard the sound of a kettle boiling. The door to his left opened, issuing forth an older gentleman with short salt-and-pepper hair and a figure giving itself over to good living. Carter stood, offering his hand. "Claydon Carter. Good morning."
"Mister Carter," The man smiled genially, returning the handshake. "Daniel Mitchell. I trust you've already met Freya?"
"He has," she replied, stepping back into the room with a tray of three mugs. "Please, Mister Carter, have a seat, let's not stand on ceremony."
Carter returned to his seat as the unlikely couple moved to the other side of the desk. So far, as interviews went, this was pretty haphazard.
"So," Douglas began, "We understand you recently liquidated the assets of your private security company that had been running for six years?"
"That's right. In the current market the overheads of the company didn't make continuing a viable option."
"And before that you worked for...?"
"The Foreign Office. Mostly in Security." The familiar lie.
"I see, the Foreign Office." Douglas looked down at the paperwork on the desk in front of her. "We spoke with your superior at the Foreign Office, who provided us with a strong recommendation for you."
A shiver ran down Carter's spine. This could be bad. "My superior?"
"Correct. If we're to dispense with government euphemisms, you worked for the Secret Intelligence Service for seven years, primarily in the Balkans and Eastern Europe?"
For a moment Carter's resistance training came to mind. He forced down the urge to reply with a serial number. "Yes."
"You're uncomfortable talking about your service?" Mitchell spoke up, his eyes not rising from the document he was reading.
"I'm not normally allowed to talk about it."
"Ah. Our organisation is not bound to the usual conventions of the Official Secrets Act." Douglas gave a cryptic hint of a smile. "Indeed, we largely do not operate within the confines of national or international law."
Carter moved to stand. "I'm sorry, but-"
"You left the Service because of your grandfather, is that correct?" Mitchell again.
"Yes. I wanted to be with him at the end. He was pretty much the only real family I had."
"He was a good man. Ruthless, perhaps, but very good at his job."
"He never mentioned you."
"He wouldn't." Douglas picked up. "Our organisation does not have much in the way of names, hierarchies, or structures. We exist primarily as a geopolitical form of bomb disposal. Every day, somewhere in the world, there's a crisis that has the chance of burning humanity from the face of the planet. You've seen some of them, and I'm sure you've seen the power of a single, well-supported individual in the right place, at the right time, with the right skills. That's where we come in."
"We have a network of officers around the globe," Mitchell continued, "Each on retainer to be ready if we need to call on their services, often at very short notice. We have our own intelligence support and a large pool of resources. Our mandate is simply to detect threats against the survival of humanity as a whole, irrespective of religion, ideology or nationality, and to neutralise them swiftly and quietly."
"If the world knew how close it came to disaster, and how regularly," Douglas went on, "There would be chaos. We keep that from happening, in a way that governmental agencies constrained by rhetoric and bureaucracy cannot. We can be in the right place at the right time to do the right thing, and we would like to offer you the opportunity to assist us."
Carter thought for a moment. "Okay. Assuming you've convinced me, what would I be required to do?"
"We would pay you a retainer salary of fifteen hundred pounds a month, after tax, to cover your living expenses. For this, all we ask is that you are ready to answer the phone we provide you with, should it ever ring. And for whatever service we require you to provide should that happen, you will also be remunerated."
"Moreover," Douglas added, "We promise to show you some of the secrets of the world that even someone of your background may be unaware of. There's a lot more to this world and to the events that happen in it than most people ever know, and we offer you the opportunity to see the truth behind the headlines and behind even the intelligence dossiers. We can show you the real world you live in."
"So," Mitchell concluded, "Do you have any further questions?"
"Just one," Carter replied. "What's my new phone number?"
[DIS] Hiatus
Unfortunately, Endless Sky has hit a wall- I've run out of things I can write without the introduction of major characters, and I'm still in need of people to provide such characters.
The plot will continue- however it'll be on hold until I'm in a position to push forward.
In the meantime, however, I'm not going to be resting on my laurels. To keep my hand in I'm going to be dramatising an old plot I worked up. Items in this story will be headed with the code [LNC], for London Necropolis Corporation- so, without further ado, on to some actual writing. :-)
The plot will continue- however it'll be on hold until I'm in a position to push forward.
In the meantime, however, I'm not going to be resting on my laurels. To keep my hand in I'm going to be dramatising an old plot I worked up. Items in this story will be headed with the code [LNC], for London Necropolis Corporation- so, without further ado, on to some actual writing. :-)
Friday 5 November 2010
[STO] Three To Beam Up
(Leading story, The Sun, UK; large cover image shows the poster from Star Wars with the faces of the three main protagonists blacked out)
Three of our lads will soon be going off to war in outer space.
An anonymous tip-off from a source within the UK Security Services has led this paper to discover that the list of names provided by the alien visitors to the UN has three British names on it, and that they will be sent into space within the next few days.
It's unclear at this time whether the brave souls have been told, or indeed what their names and backgrounds are. Indeed, no names have yet been announced by the UN or any government.
The statement from the UN yesterday advised that the Morning Star would be leaving Earth in three days- that gives our government very little time to track down the "UK Three" before shuttling them away.
If possible, this paper aims to provide an interview with one or more of our Star Warriors before they depart.
Friday 29 October 2010
[STO] Bitter Pill
Karen realised her hands were shaking. She clasped them in front of herself, concentrating on not wringing them in terror. The last few days would be historic, but in the pit of her stomach she knew that the next few minutes would be what she would be remembered for. She had conducted first contact with an alien race, yet her epitaph would be the speech she was about to give.
The General Assembly hall was full, both delegates and journalists crammed in as thick as possible. She knew the podium would be under scrutiny by dozens of cameras sent from around the world. Most would be broadcasting live, or streaming onto the internet. Her words were likely going to reach almost every person on the planet before she had a chance to take them back.
She realised she couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept. Not properly, anyway. Half an hour’s catnap on a sofa here and there, and a lot of coffee, were the only things keeping her going. She couldn’t even remember the last time she ate, though at the moment she’d be hard-pressed to hold anything down if she did.
The new suit itched. She’d been wearing the same clothes since the first meeting, with no time to go home and change. In a moment of desperation this morning she’d sent an aide into the city with her credit card to find her something fresh to wear. He’d done well, though she feared her bank might disagree. That was a problem for tomorrow.
“You’re on in sixty,” another aide whispered. Karen nodded, knowing that if she spoke her voice might well break up. She closed her eyes, centred herself, calmed her breathing, cleared her mind of distractions as best she could. Whatever happened in the next few minutes, this was where she would be remembered. The least she could do was look like she appreciated that.
“Well, here we go,” she murmured to no-one in particular, and stepped out onto the stage. The tide of hushed voices washed away, replaced by the insectile chattering of dozens of camera shutters. Flash-bulbs seared from all corners of the audience, temporarily brightening the stage and forcing Karen to momentarily avert her eyes. As she took up her position behind the podium, the chatter cleared away into an expectant silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, good morning. My name is Doctor Karen Wilshaw, of the United Nations Office of Outer Space Affairs, and primary liaison with the visitors brought to our world by the vessel now in orbit above us.
“I have been authorised by both the Secretary-General and the leader of the visitors to issue the following statement.”
Here we go. No stopping it now.
“The visitors represent the crew of the Morning Star. They have been travelling between worlds for centuries, and have encountered many species. They have come to us under a flag of peace, hoping to forge a bond of brotherhood.
“They do this not for altruistic reasons but for survival. All the crew of the Morning Star are the last survivors of their races. All are the only ones to have escaped the destruction of their worlds at the hands of an implacable force they name The Storm. In the countless worlds that they have visited, this is the first planet they have found with a civilisation not facing its own extinction.
“They have brought us a message: The Storm is coming. They do not know when, but they are certain that our world will soon be forced to fight for its continued existence, that humanity will need to raise arms against a force that has destroyed everything they held dear.
“The people of the Morning Star will stand by us on this day. They have vowed that this time they will not arrive to pick up the pieces but will stand alongside humanity and fight to ensure our world does not vanish into the night as theirs did.
“To do so they have agreed to provide humanity with the technologies to do so. The United Nations will shortly take possession of items of non-terrestrial technology, and in cooperation with agencies and companies around the world will endeavour to reverse-engineer these technologies for our use when the time comes. When The Storm reaches us, we will not be found unprepared.
“The Morning Star has asked for a single favour in return. In their cultures, as in our ancient times, their battles were led by the best and brightest, those most able to stand against the terrors that were arrayed before them. They have asked that forty people join them when their vessel departs three days from now, forty people they have named. These people will journey on into the stars with them, learning their ways as well as the ways of the enemy, so that on the day we take up arms the call to battle may be led by our own people. They will form the bond between our world and those beyond our solar system, and will represent humanity to the universe. They are our heroes and our messengers, and they will carry with them the hopes and dreams of our whole civilisation.
“National governments have been informed of the individuals identified within their borders, and the people requested will shortly be contacted to arrange their transfer to the Morning Star. For security reasons it is necessary to keep details of this confidential for the time being, but more information will be provided as soon as it is safe to do so.
“The last few days have seen a paradigm shift in the way we see both the universe around us and ourselves. We can no longer limit ourselves to considering us to be American, Russian, Chinese, British, French or any other citizen of a flag and an artificial border. We have been shown the border to our nation is the edge of our planet’s atmosphere, that first and foremost, before we owe any allegiance to a flag, or to a politician, we owe our allegiance to the ground beneath our feet and to the air we breathe. Before we belong to a nationality, we belong to Earth. To those outside our biosphere we are Terrans, and we will not be judged on our internal politics but on how we show ourselves on a global scale. We have been shown how ephemeral our concept of nations is, and it is now up to us to rise above that concept and see ourselves for what we may be able to become. The journey will likely be difficult, and for some traumatic. But it is a journey we started on centuries ago. These are just the final few steps.
“Thank you. At this time we will not be taking questions.”
The General Assembly hall was full, both delegates and journalists crammed in as thick as possible. She knew the podium would be under scrutiny by dozens of cameras sent from around the world. Most would be broadcasting live, or streaming onto the internet. Her words were likely going to reach almost every person on the planet before she had a chance to take them back.
She realised she couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept. Not properly, anyway. Half an hour’s catnap on a sofa here and there, and a lot of coffee, were the only things keeping her going. She couldn’t even remember the last time she ate, though at the moment she’d be hard-pressed to hold anything down if she did.
The new suit itched. She’d been wearing the same clothes since the first meeting, with no time to go home and change. In a moment of desperation this morning she’d sent an aide into the city with her credit card to find her something fresh to wear. He’d done well, though she feared her bank might disagree. That was a problem for tomorrow.
“You’re on in sixty,” another aide whispered. Karen nodded, knowing that if she spoke her voice might well break up. She closed her eyes, centred herself, calmed her breathing, cleared her mind of distractions as best she could. Whatever happened in the next few minutes, this was where she would be remembered. The least she could do was look like she appreciated that.
“Well, here we go,” she murmured to no-one in particular, and stepped out onto the stage. The tide of hushed voices washed away, replaced by the insectile chattering of dozens of camera shutters. Flash-bulbs seared from all corners of the audience, temporarily brightening the stage and forcing Karen to momentarily avert her eyes. As she took up her position behind the podium, the chatter cleared away into an expectant silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, good morning. My name is Doctor Karen Wilshaw, of the United Nations Office of Outer Space Affairs, and primary liaison with the visitors brought to our world by the vessel now in orbit above us.
“I have been authorised by both the Secretary-General and the leader of the visitors to issue the following statement.”
Here we go. No stopping it now.
“The visitors represent the crew of the Morning Star. They have been travelling between worlds for centuries, and have encountered many species. They have come to us under a flag of peace, hoping to forge a bond of brotherhood.
“They do this not for altruistic reasons but for survival. All the crew of the Morning Star are the last survivors of their races. All are the only ones to have escaped the destruction of their worlds at the hands of an implacable force they name The Storm. In the countless worlds that they have visited, this is the first planet they have found with a civilisation not facing its own extinction.
“They have brought us a message: The Storm is coming. They do not know when, but they are certain that our world will soon be forced to fight for its continued existence, that humanity will need to raise arms against a force that has destroyed everything they held dear.
“The people of the Morning Star will stand by us on this day. They have vowed that this time they will not arrive to pick up the pieces but will stand alongside humanity and fight to ensure our world does not vanish into the night as theirs did.
“To do so they have agreed to provide humanity with the technologies to do so. The United Nations will shortly take possession of items of non-terrestrial technology, and in cooperation with agencies and companies around the world will endeavour to reverse-engineer these technologies for our use when the time comes. When The Storm reaches us, we will not be found unprepared.
“The Morning Star has asked for a single favour in return. In their cultures, as in our ancient times, their battles were led by the best and brightest, those most able to stand against the terrors that were arrayed before them. They have asked that forty people join them when their vessel departs three days from now, forty people they have named. These people will journey on into the stars with them, learning their ways as well as the ways of the enemy, so that on the day we take up arms the call to battle may be led by our own people. They will form the bond between our world and those beyond our solar system, and will represent humanity to the universe. They are our heroes and our messengers, and they will carry with them the hopes and dreams of our whole civilisation.
“National governments have been informed of the individuals identified within their borders, and the people requested will shortly be contacted to arrange their transfer to the Morning Star. For security reasons it is necessary to keep details of this confidential for the time being, but more information will be provided as soon as it is safe to do so.
“The last few days have seen a paradigm shift in the way we see both the universe around us and ourselves. We can no longer limit ourselves to considering us to be American, Russian, Chinese, British, French or any other citizen of a flag and an artificial border. We have been shown the border to our nation is the edge of our planet’s atmosphere, that first and foremost, before we owe any allegiance to a flag, or to a politician, we owe our allegiance to the ground beneath our feet and to the air we breathe. Before we belong to a nationality, we belong to Earth. To those outside our biosphere we are Terrans, and we will not be judged on our internal politics but on how we show ourselves on a global scale. We have been shown how ephemeral our concept of nations is, and it is now up to us to rise above that concept and see ourselves for what we may be able to become. The journey will likely be difficult, and for some traumatic. But it is a journey we started on centuries ago. These are just the final few steps.
“Thank you. At this time we will not be taking questions.”
Friday 22 October 2010
[DIS] You Ever Been Shot?
"They make psychiatrists get psychoanalysed before they can get certified, but they don't make a surgeon get cut on. That seem right to you?"
-Jubal Early: Firefly, 'Objects In Space'.
Part of writing- particularly the sort of writing I get drawn to doing- is being able to visualise, describe and draw the reader into things that they have never, or indeed could never experience. A significant amount of that is a lie- it's not like I'm ever going to fly fast jets or handle the first contact with an alien race. A lot of things I describe and am planning to describe I have no direct experience of. So I've got to make it up, based largely on what few relevant experiences I've got and on what I've read by those closer to the subject matter.
Getting shot at, however, was something I figured was worth trying, at least after a fashion. So I went airsofting.
This has taught me some very useful things about combat. first, and most importantly, all the various bits of cool tactical gear you can cram onto your gun and your body will, in most circumstances, serve to get in your way. As the day went on the scope, silencer, hydration pack, scrim netting and pistol holster came off as they were more trouble than they were worth. They're fine for not-fighting, but when you have to sprint, crawl and dive with them your priorities change quickly.
Secondly, running in kit takes a hell of a lot more anergy and a higher level of fitness than you think. You see those videos daying things like "There's fit, then there's Army fit"? They ain't kidding. Three days on and I can still feel the strain in my legs. it's a damned fine workout though.
Thirdly, the more you want to move around the smaller and lighter you want your weapon to be. Even an SMG like the G36C I'd armed myself with weighs quite a bit, and once you've factored in ammo as well you're carrying a fair load before you even think about anything you don't absolutely need. if I'd had a full-size rifle or something even larger, I'd have been holing up and waiting for people to come to me rather than face lugging it around.
Fourth, no matter how good you are, you're only as good as the people around you. When you're being shot at you rely on your friends and compatriots both consciously and unconsciously- knowing they're there and that they have your back lets you concentrate on your task in hand. Meanwhile, you also know that your actions are giving them the same boost.
Writing action-oriented fiction means needing to write heroes, but how does one consciously do that? I've pored through Victoria Cross and Medal Of Honor citations, and the only conclusion I can come to is that those people we call heroes are mostly doing what they hope their buddies would do for them if the situation were reversed. No-one thinks they're a hero- at least no-one, in my opinion, who actually is. The thing, then, that makes a dramatic hero, is a character who'll do the right thing at the right time irrespective of the personal risk. The person who'll go the extra mile not for any conscious reason but because he can't countenance not doing so. And the person who, when it becomes apparent what they've done, won't blow their own trumpet about it because they don't feel they've done anything to deserve it. No-one's a hero in their own eyes.
I'm not the sort of person I've described, at least not as far as I know and as far as I've experienced. I can't say I wouldn't want to be- everyone wants to be a better person. I guess being a hero means stopping wanting it and, when the opportunity arises, aspiring through action to be such a person rather than staying where you are and hoping someone else steps up. These are the sort of people I aspire to write- these are the traits I hope the characters in this tale will develop as time goes on.
if you want to help a hero find their way, I'm still looking for character briefs.
-Jubal Early: Firefly, 'Objects In Space'.
Part of writing- particularly the sort of writing I get drawn to doing- is being able to visualise, describe and draw the reader into things that they have never, or indeed could never experience. A significant amount of that is a lie- it's not like I'm ever going to fly fast jets or handle the first contact with an alien race. A lot of things I describe and am planning to describe I have no direct experience of. So I've got to make it up, based largely on what few relevant experiences I've got and on what I've read by those closer to the subject matter.
Getting shot at, however, was something I figured was worth trying, at least after a fashion. So I went airsofting.
This has taught me some very useful things about combat. first, and most importantly, all the various bits of cool tactical gear you can cram onto your gun and your body will, in most circumstances, serve to get in your way. As the day went on the scope, silencer, hydration pack, scrim netting and pistol holster came off as they were more trouble than they were worth. They're fine for not-fighting, but when you have to sprint, crawl and dive with them your priorities change quickly.
Secondly, running in kit takes a hell of a lot more anergy and a higher level of fitness than you think. You see those videos daying things like "There's fit, then there's Army fit"? They ain't kidding. Three days on and I can still feel the strain in my legs. it's a damned fine workout though.
Thirdly, the more you want to move around the smaller and lighter you want your weapon to be. Even an SMG like the G36C I'd armed myself with weighs quite a bit, and once you've factored in ammo as well you're carrying a fair load before you even think about anything you don't absolutely need. if I'd had a full-size rifle or something even larger, I'd have been holing up and waiting for people to come to me rather than face lugging it around.
Fourth, no matter how good you are, you're only as good as the people around you. When you're being shot at you rely on your friends and compatriots both consciously and unconsciously- knowing they're there and that they have your back lets you concentrate on your task in hand. Meanwhile, you also know that your actions are giving them the same boost.
Writing action-oriented fiction means needing to write heroes, but how does one consciously do that? I've pored through Victoria Cross and Medal Of Honor citations, and the only conclusion I can come to is that those people we call heroes are mostly doing what they hope their buddies would do for them if the situation were reversed. No-one thinks they're a hero- at least no-one, in my opinion, who actually is. The thing, then, that makes a dramatic hero, is a character who'll do the right thing at the right time irrespective of the personal risk. The person who'll go the extra mile not for any conscious reason but because he can't countenance not doing so. And the person who, when it becomes apparent what they've done, won't blow their own trumpet about it because they don't feel they've done anything to deserve it. No-one's a hero in their own eyes.
I'm not the sort of person I've described, at least not as far as I know and as far as I've experienced. I can't say I wouldn't want to be- everyone wants to be a better person. I guess being a hero means stopping wanting it and, when the opportunity arises, aspiring through action to be such a person rather than staying where you are and hoping someone else steps up. These are the sort of people I aspire to write- these are the traits I hope the characters in this tale will develop as time goes on.
if you want to help a hero find their way, I'm still looking for character briefs.
Friday 15 October 2010
[STO] Not Alone
(Leading story, The Observer, UK)
Humanity took its first step into a wider universe today with the first meeting between United Nations officials and representatives of an extraterrestrial race. The meeting took place behind closed doors at the United Nations headquarters in New York, though the arrival of our planet's guests was anything but private.
The first signs of their arrival came shortly before dawn in the UK, when telescopes started tracking a new object in the night sky, a vessel clearly of non-human construction big enough to be seen by the naked eye. It is unclear if any attempts at communication were made, or indeed responded to, but by mid-morning in the United States a craft from the spaceship was seen to enter our atmosphere and perform a dramatic approach and arrival at the United Nations.
Though no official statement has been released, photographs have been widely circulated showing both the streamlined shuttlecraft and its occupants, who appear to be of two distinct species. The first, much taller and heavier-built than humans and protected by a suit variously described as a spacesuit or set of armour, flanked the second species, a single individual of whom was seen. This alien, apparently at home in our climate and atmosphere, appeared to be the group's leader and is believed to have addressed members of the United Nations Office of Outer Space Affairs as well as the Security Council, convened in a closed emergency session.
Much speculation has already been published across all media outlets as to the aliens' motives, however that they appear to have come to talk rather than wage violent conflict and that they have chosen to speak to our international leaders directly is taken by many as a sign of an intelligent, reasonable and accepting culture willing to treat our race as an equal.
However, the voice of reason is tempered by a number of demonstrations that have erupted across the world. Flash mobs organised through the internet have gathered outside seats of power in seventeen countries to protest against the percieved acquiescence towards the visiting beings, and online demagogues in the US, Asia and the Middle East have released statements and podcasts demanding a 'strike first' policy before an invasion materialises.
The world holds its collective breath, waiting for a voice to be raised and a figure to guide them; it seems now to be a question of whether our leaders have been offered an olive branch or an ultimatum- and whether the people they represent will accept their responses as their own.
(Obituaries section, Chicago Sun-Times, USA)
Major Alan Conroe, United States Air Force
A native of Chicago, Alan Conroe was a proud father of David and an avid aviator. Learning to fly before he could drive, he enlisted in the United States Air Force as soon as he was able and graduated at the head of his class. Serving with distinction during Operation Desert Storm and over the former Yugoslavia, Major Conroe's career and life were sadly brought to an end during a routine training flight over the Atlantic when the experimantal aircraft he was testing broke up mid-flight. He will me sorely missed by his family, friends and fellow pilots in the 101st Reconnaissance Squadron.
Humanity took its first step into a wider universe today with the first meeting between United Nations officials and representatives of an extraterrestrial race. The meeting took place behind closed doors at the United Nations headquarters in New York, though the arrival of our planet's guests was anything but private.
The first signs of their arrival came shortly before dawn in the UK, when telescopes started tracking a new object in the night sky, a vessel clearly of non-human construction big enough to be seen by the naked eye. It is unclear if any attempts at communication were made, or indeed responded to, but by mid-morning in the United States a craft from the spaceship was seen to enter our atmosphere and perform a dramatic approach and arrival at the United Nations.
Though no official statement has been released, photographs have been widely circulated showing both the streamlined shuttlecraft and its occupants, who appear to be of two distinct species. The first, much taller and heavier-built than humans and protected by a suit variously described as a spacesuit or set of armour, flanked the second species, a single individual of whom was seen. This alien, apparently at home in our climate and atmosphere, appeared to be the group's leader and is believed to have addressed members of the United Nations Office of Outer Space Affairs as well as the Security Council, convened in a closed emergency session.
Much speculation has already been published across all media outlets as to the aliens' motives, however that they appear to have come to talk rather than wage violent conflict and that they have chosen to speak to our international leaders directly is taken by many as a sign of an intelligent, reasonable and accepting culture willing to treat our race as an equal.
However, the voice of reason is tempered by a number of demonstrations that have erupted across the world. Flash mobs organised through the internet have gathered outside seats of power in seventeen countries to protest against the percieved acquiescence towards the visiting beings, and online demagogues in the US, Asia and the Middle East have released statements and podcasts demanding a 'strike first' policy before an invasion materialises.
The world holds its collective breath, waiting for a voice to be raised and a figure to guide them; it seems now to be a question of whether our leaders have been offered an olive branch or an ultimatum- and whether the people they represent will accept their responses as their own.
(Obituaries section, Chicago Sun-Times, USA)
Major Alan Conroe, United States Air Force
A native of Chicago, Alan Conroe was a proud father of David and an avid aviator. Learning to fly before he could drive, he enlisted in the United States Air Force as soon as he was able and graduated at the head of his class. Serving with distinction during Operation Desert Storm and over the former Yugoslavia, Major Conroe's career and life were sadly brought to an end during a routine training flight over the Atlantic when the experimantal aircraft he was testing broke up mid-flight. He will me sorely missed by his family, friends and fellow pilots in the 101st Reconnaissance Squadron.
Friday 8 October 2010
[STO] Handshaking
Karen forced another cup of instant coffee past her gag reflex. Her hands were shaking. She hoped it was the caffeine, but her churning gut told her otherwise. It was a Sunday morning, dammit, she should have been in bed! And why New York? Sure, this was the UN headquarters, but why here, why now? And most importantly, why her? Where the hell was the Director? Why couldn't they have landed in Vienna?
She quickly checked her reflection in the window- hair tidy, no stains on her suit, the look of panic on her face somewhat suppressed. It was going to have to do.
"How long have we got?" she asked the security officer at the door, hoping the response would be in days, weeks, months.
"About thirty seconds, Ma'am, they're in the elevator now." Damn. "They asked for directions at the front desk. Can you believe that?"
"They just parked a spaceship on the lawn, right now I think I'd believe anything."
Karen turned to the window, hoping for a moment's calm. Outside, the streets were thronged with people. The city- possibly the whole country- had ground to a halt and it seemed every face was looking up at her, expectantly. Soldiers and police had cordoned off the area around the complex, but their faces bore the same expressions as the throngs of people they held back. Similar expressions to her own. There was an urge in the pit of her stomach to run and hide, to lock herself in a toilet cubicle until this all went away. The President should be here. Or the Secretary-General. Or any one of a dozen world leaders. Or her damned boss whose job this actually was. Or-
The door opened.
The first figure through the door stood head and shoulders taller than the tallest person Karen had ever seen. Humanoid, and clad in what appeared to be iridescent armour the colour of oxidised copper or a beetle's wing casings, its head brushed the ceiling tiles even at a slight stoop. Its face was masked behind a golden visor that reminded her of the astronauts she'd done photo calls with. Astronauts were never this scary. She clasped her hands behind her, mostly to avoid the tenmptation to bury her face in them and cry.
The second figure was shorter, and much more slender. Unlike the first, it bared its face to the world, narrower than a human's with large, dark eyes, which would be expressive, she thought, if she knew how to read its expressions. It had no nose, merely a vertical slit in the centre of its face, and its pupils were a cruciform shape. Arms, legs, body... it was just human enough to give her pause, if not for the features that looked more amphibian than mammalian. Its skin was nominally a mottled blue-grey, but other colours traced across it- greens, reds, browns- as it looked around, examining and absorbing the new world around it. Was it chameleonic? Did the colours represent moods? Was this how it communicated?
"What is your name?"
The question, in English, threw Karen completely. She was so concerned that the colour-shifting skin might be a language she would have to learn, and fast, that for a moment she forgot how to use her own mother tongue.
"I-I... Err..."
The al- not alien, never, alien, individual, person! - approximated a smile. "It is a relatively simple interrogative."
"I- I'm sorry, my name is Doctor Karen Wilshaw."
"Thank you, Doctor Karen Wilshaw. I am Ankjh'ya, of the Kalan'thi. I represent the Morning Star. Do you speak for your world?"
Right now I can barely speak for myself. "I represent the United Nations Office for Outer Space Affairs. Um, I'm not sure if I can speak for the whole world right now, but on its behalf I welcome you to Earth."
The giant behind Ankjh'ya barked something guttural that made Karen jump. She cursed herself for flinching. The speaker smiled again.
"I apologise. It appears Kh!Ruik has won a wager with his kinsmen with regard to your planet's name."
"I'm sorry?"
"It seems that every world, in its native language, names itself after the material underfoot." Ankjh'ya paused for a moment. "I apologise also for our manners. This is the first time since our voyage began that we have happened upon a population that was not bewildered, distraught, terrified and angered. We are used to the extremes of emotion. To meet a new race under calmer circumstances is something new to us. We are used to expecting the worst in a reception."
"In that case I'm happy we can be different." Karen started to relax a little. Questions began to bubble through her terror. "How did you learn our language?"
"Your world is noisy. We have been listening to your broadcasts, learning from them your tongues and your ways to make this day a victory for all. We have learned to be quick studies of languages; when we encounter a new race it is normal for them to be hostile, and the wrong words may be regrettable for all."
"May I ask why? You make it sound like every world is hostile."
A cascade of colours shifted across Ankjh'ya's skin. "The reason is why I must speak to a representative of your world."
Fear knotted itself around Karen's stomach. Oh God, this is going to be bad, isn't it?
"My office is charged with handling our first communications with species from other worlds. In that regard I can speak for my planet." There, she thought. I've said it. Now tell me how bad this is going to be.
"The Morning Star is home to many races, from many worlds, that all share one common link. They have all been victims of The Storm."
"The Storm? What is that?" Oh Jesus, here it comes.
"The Storm is the antithesis of life. It is a plague, a predator and a harvester. It has existed since the dawn of time, and it travels through space searching for planets with intelligent life. Then it destroys them. It attacks all signs of life and strips the planet bare. Those who have survived The Storm did so in deep shelters or on other worlds."
Oh, fuck. Karen's legs betrayed her and she sat in the chair by the window, hoping it didn't look too much like she'd fallen into it. "Is it intelligent? Is it a species?"
"It was once, perhaps, a fleet or a species. Since then it has become a force of nature. There is no dialogue with The Storm, no more than shouting into the wind. Some of our species tried diplomacy. Some tried war. All fell."
"So you've come to give us a warning?"
Ankjh'ya smiled againg, the once-disarming expression now oddly sinister in Karen's eyes. "That was part of our intention. But in the many years we have lived since The Storm took our home we have found many other worlds, and this is the first time we have reached one before The Storm has fallen."
"How long have we got?"
"We are unsure. we believe the time can be measured in orbits of your star, but precious few of them. But we did not come simply to warn."
"Then can you help us?"
"We have learned much from your race already. We have seen your brightest and darkest sides in the information you have sent into space. And we have a... prophecy. We believe that this time, with the right preparation and if the right portents are followed, there is the option not to run, but to fight. Your species may prove equal to the task of standing against The Storm."
"You speak of preparation and portents- what is our part in this?"
"We will provide you with technology in advance of your own, that your own thinkers and makers may be able to adapt. But from you we will need a commitment to stand. We will honour it by standing with you, but once we are on the path we must not falter. And as a symbol of that commitment, we will need something precious from you."
Karen suppressed a shiver. "What do you need?"
"In the first instance... Give us the Ghost Raven."
She quickly checked her reflection in the window- hair tidy, no stains on her suit, the look of panic on her face somewhat suppressed. It was going to have to do.
"How long have we got?" she asked the security officer at the door, hoping the response would be in days, weeks, months.
"About thirty seconds, Ma'am, they're in the elevator now." Damn. "They asked for directions at the front desk. Can you believe that?"
"They just parked a spaceship on the lawn, right now I think I'd believe anything."
Karen turned to the window, hoping for a moment's calm. Outside, the streets were thronged with people. The city- possibly the whole country- had ground to a halt and it seemed every face was looking up at her, expectantly. Soldiers and police had cordoned off the area around the complex, but their faces bore the same expressions as the throngs of people they held back. Similar expressions to her own. There was an urge in the pit of her stomach to run and hide, to lock herself in a toilet cubicle until this all went away. The President should be here. Or the Secretary-General. Or any one of a dozen world leaders. Or her damned boss whose job this actually was. Or-
The door opened.
The first figure through the door stood head and shoulders taller than the tallest person Karen had ever seen. Humanoid, and clad in what appeared to be iridescent armour the colour of oxidised copper or a beetle's wing casings, its head brushed the ceiling tiles even at a slight stoop. Its face was masked behind a golden visor that reminded her of the astronauts she'd done photo calls with. Astronauts were never this scary. She clasped her hands behind her, mostly to avoid the tenmptation to bury her face in them and cry.
The second figure was shorter, and much more slender. Unlike the first, it bared its face to the world, narrower than a human's with large, dark eyes, which would be expressive, she thought, if she knew how to read its expressions. It had no nose, merely a vertical slit in the centre of its face, and its pupils were a cruciform shape. Arms, legs, body... it was just human enough to give her pause, if not for the features that looked more amphibian than mammalian. Its skin was nominally a mottled blue-grey, but other colours traced across it- greens, reds, browns- as it looked around, examining and absorbing the new world around it. Was it chameleonic? Did the colours represent moods? Was this how it communicated?
"What is your name?"
The question, in English, threw Karen completely. She was so concerned that the colour-shifting skin might be a language she would have to learn, and fast, that for a moment she forgot how to use her own mother tongue.
"I-I... Err..."
The al- not alien, never, alien, individual, person! - approximated a smile. "It is a relatively simple interrogative."
"I- I'm sorry, my name is Doctor Karen Wilshaw."
"Thank you, Doctor Karen Wilshaw. I am Ankjh'ya, of the Kalan'thi. I represent the Morning Star. Do you speak for your world?"
Right now I can barely speak for myself. "I represent the United Nations Office for Outer Space Affairs. Um, I'm not sure if I can speak for the whole world right now, but on its behalf I welcome you to Earth."
The giant behind Ankjh'ya barked something guttural that made Karen jump. She cursed herself for flinching. The speaker smiled again.
"I apologise. It appears Kh!Ruik has won a wager with his kinsmen with regard to your planet's name."
"I'm sorry?"
"It seems that every world, in its native language, names itself after the material underfoot." Ankjh'ya paused for a moment. "I apologise also for our manners. This is the first time since our voyage began that we have happened upon a population that was not bewildered, distraught, terrified and angered. We are used to the extremes of emotion. To meet a new race under calmer circumstances is something new to us. We are used to expecting the worst in a reception."
"In that case I'm happy we can be different." Karen started to relax a little. Questions began to bubble through her terror. "How did you learn our language?"
"Your world is noisy. We have been listening to your broadcasts, learning from them your tongues and your ways to make this day a victory for all. We have learned to be quick studies of languages; when we encounter a new race it is normal for them to be hostile, and the wrong words may be regrettable for all."
"May I ask why? You make it sound like every world is hostile."
A cascade of colours shifted across Ankjh'ya's skin. "The reason is why I must speak to a representative of your world."
Fear knotted itself around Karen's stomach. Oh God, this is going to be bad, isn't it?
"My office is charged with handling our first communications with species from other worlds. In that regard I can speak for my planet." There, she thought. I've said it. Now tell me how bad this is going to be.
"The Morning Star is home to many races, from many worlds, that all share one common link. They have all been victims of The Storm."
"The Storm? What is that?" Oh Jesus, here it comes.
"The Storm is the antithesis of life. It is a plague, a predator and a harvester. It has existed since the dawn of time, and it travels through space searching for planets with intelligent life. Then it destroys them. It attacks all signs of life and strips the planet bare. Those who have survived The Storm did so in deep shelters or on other worlds."
Oh, fuck. Karen's legs betrayed her and she sat in the chair by the window, hoping it didn't look too much like she'd fallen into it. "Is it intelligent? Is it a species?"
"It was once, perhaps, a fleet or a species. Since then it has become a force of nature. There is no dialogue with The Storm, no more than shouting into the wind. Some of our species tried diplomacy. Some tried war. All fell."
"So you've come to give us a warning?"
Ankjh'ya smiled againg, the once-disarming expression now oddly sinister in Karen's eyes. "That was part of our intention. But in the many years we have lived since The Storm took our home we have found many other worlds, and this is the first time we have reached one before The Storm has fallen."
"How long have we got?"
"We are unsure. we believe the time can be measured in orbits of your star, but precious few of them. But we did not come simply to warn."
"Then can you help us?"
"We have learned much from your race already. We have seen your brightest and darkest sides in the information you have sent into space. And we have a... prophecy. We believe that this time, with the right preparation and if the right portents are followed, there is the option not to run, but to fight. Your species may prove equal to the task of standing against The Storm."
"You speak of preparation and portents- what is our part in this?"
"We will provide you with technology in advance of your own, that your own thinkers and makers may be able to adapt. But from you we will need a commitment to stand. We will honour it by standing with you, but once we are on the path we must not falter. And as a symbol of that commitment, we will need something precious from you."
Karen suppressed a shiver. "What do you need?"
"In the first instance... Give us the Ghost Raven."
Friday 1 October 2010
[DIS] First Contact
In a case of reality connecting with (unwritten) fiction, I heard this week that the UN has appointed an official to lead first contact situations. All power to her, may she never work a day in her life. ;-) However, that got me thinking.
At least in the early parts of the Endless Sky story as it's currently being hashed out, there's going to be a fair amount of interaction with the national and international governing bodies- our planet's rulers and spokespeople. Now that we've got a named spokesperson, should they be included in the tale? Or should I assign a fictional person to a very real role?
That then opens the floodgates. If we're now talking about a parallel world, what other changes to make? Maybe there's a Lib Dem goverment in the UK. Maybe there's another Republican in the White House. Maybe the Soviet Union never collapsed. Maybe Liverpool won the Cup. Where to start, where to end?
Of course, before the plot proper can get underway, I still need characters. I'm in need of around six to eight human characters, and probably the same number of aliens- with the aliens I'm also in need of ideas for species.
For those more artistically- than textually-inclined, I'm also interested in visual depictions of characters, events and designs. Particularly, if anyone out there with a smattering of talent wants to imagine the Morning Star for me much kudos will be given. At present I've got one human character and two aliens in the pot, but I really need more to get the ball rolling. So tell your friends, grab a pen and let rip, I'm gearing up for a big push over the next few weeks to get the show underway.
Thursday 16 September 2010
[STO] Touchdown
[Camera feed opens- jerky images, mostly of sky and the tops of buildings. Indistinct voices, overlapping, are muffled behind heavy breathing and pounding footsteps from a running camera crew.]
V1 (V.O.): Are we live? John? Are-?
V2 (V.O.): We're live!
V1 (V.O.): Ladies and gentlemen, we're reporting live from [brief pause, barely audiable gasp for breath] the United Nations Plaza, where the question of whether intelligent [another gasp] life exists outside this planet may right now be answered.
[Camera pans around, swinging across the front of the UN Secretariat building and capturing crowds standing outside, eyes skyward. Camera turns to follow the eye-line, where a contrail of white smoke/steam traces across the clear blue sky, curving round to angle towards the viewer's position. The object at its head, still distant and indistinct even at zoom, is clearly large and clearly in a controlled descent.]
V1 (V.O.): The object you can see has just minutes ago entered our atmosphere from the vessel detected earlier this morning. We understand it detached from the vessel and has performed a perfect orbital re-entry. There is no word from the United Nations or from the United States Government as to whether there has been any communication with this craft or indeed with its mother-ship.
[Camera zoom adjusts, trying to clear up the image. A brief glimpse of the object at the head of the vapour trail is seen- a long, slender, wedge-shaped craft with a glistening white hull. The vapour is seen to be rolling off the underbelly and particularly the leading edges as it descends in a sweeping curve, as if fluid were being actively vapourised along the hottest parts.]
V2 (V.O., indistinct): Thermal's off the scale. If that was the shuttle it'd be toast!
V1 (V.O.): The craft appears to be decelerating to approach the United Nations building where we are currently standing, indicating an intelligence controlling it that understands humanity's political structure. It appears to be made of unconventional materials or using advanced technologies to allow it to withstand temperatures much higher than those experienced by NASA's Space Shuttle-
[The craft in the camera view suddenly jinks and S-turns, speed bleeding off and the vapour trail blowing out to allow a clear view of the suddenly subsonc craft. The camera swings wildly for a few seconds as its operator compensates for the change in speed. There are indistinct cries, screams and shouts from bystanders.]
V1 (V.O.): Fu- Ladies and gentlemen, the craft approaching us has just cut its speed dramatically and appears to be- [aside: "Where's it headed?"]
V2 (V.O.): Gimme a sec... the river!
v1 (v.o.): The craft is approaching along the line of the East River. Could it be using the water as a landing strip?
[The craft's engines become audiable, first a dull growl building to an ear-shattering roar that drowns out the other background noise. It grows in the image until it fills it, even as the camera zooms out. A hundred feet long and unmarked, it swings low over the water towards the camera, ploughing a furrow in the river below it with its thrust and air displacement.]
V1 (V.O.): [shouting] This is incredible! The aliens have arrived! We are not alone in the universe! It's magnificient! It's so clean, so elegant!
[The craft pulls alongside the camera's position, suddenly nosing up and shucking off the last of its forward momentum. The presenter's voice is lost in the wailing roar of engines. The craft spins a hundred eighty degrees around the point of its nose, giving the camera a brief front-on close-up. A pair of silhouetted figures working controls can be seen behind its tinted canopy. The craft slips sideways from the hover, pulling over land and dropping to a mere thirty feet from the ground. A hatch opens midway down the fuselage, panels swinging up and down. A figure significantly taller than a human and powerfully built, clad in a sealed suit seemingly made from metal but oddly organic in construction, jumps from the hatch, lands into a crouch, then raises itself to full height, moving a few paces forward and left to allow another similar figure to exit. The camera zooms in on the smooth gold plate across the front of the second figure's helmet. It looks back. The noise suddenly cuts for a moment and the presenter's voice can be heard again.]
V1 (V.O.): Please, God, don't let them kill us all.
[The camera feed suddenly cuts off.]
V1 (V.O.): Are we live? John? Are-?
V2 (V.O.): We're live!
V1 (V.O.): Ladies and gentlemen, we're reporting live from [brief pause, barely audiable gasp for breath] the United Nations Plaza, where the question of whether intelligent [another gasp] life exists outside this planet may right now be answered.
[Camera pans around, swinging across the front of the UN Secretariat building and capturing crowds standing outside, eyes skyward. Camera turns to follow the eye-line, where a contrail of white smoke/steam traces across the clear blue sky, curving round to angle towards the viewer's position. The object at its head, still distant and indistinct even at zoom, is clearly large and clearly in a controlled descent.]
V1 (V.O.): The object you can see has just minutes ago entered our atmosphere from the vessel detected earlier this morning. We understand it detached from the vessel and has performed a perfect orbital re-entry. There is no word from the United Nations or from the United States Government as to whether there has been any communication with this craft or indeed with its mother-ship.
[Camera zoom adjusts, trying to clear up the image. A brief glimpse of the object at the head of the vapour trail is seen- a long, slender, wedge-shaped craft with a glistening white hull. The vapour is seen to be rolling off the underbelly and particularly the leading edges as it descends in a sweeping curve, as if fluid were being actively vapourised along the hottest parts.]
V2 (V.O., indistinct): Thermal's off the scale. If that was the shuttle it'd be toast!
V1 (V.O.): The craft appears to be decelerating to approach the United Nations building where we are currently standing, indicating an intelligence controlling it that understands humanity's political structure. It appears to be made of unconventional materials or using advanced technologies to allow it to withstand temperatures much higher than those experienced by NASA's Space Shuttle-
[The craft in the camera view suddenly jinks and S-turns, speed bleeding off and the vapour trail blowing out to allow a clear view of the suddenly subsonc craft. The camera swings wildly for a few seconds as its operator compensates for the change in speed. There are indistinct cries, screams and shouts from bystanders.]
V1 (V.O.): Fu- Ladies and gentlemen, the craft approaching us has just cut its speed dramatically and appears to be- [aside: "Where's it headed?"]
V2 (V.O.): Gimme a sec... the river!
v1 (v.o.): The craft is approaching along the line of the East River. Could it be using the water as a landing strip?
[The craft's engines become audiable, first a dull growl building to an ear-shattering roar that drowns out the other background noise. It grows in the image until it fills it, even as the camera zooms out. A hundred feet long and unmarked, it swings low over the water towards the camera, ploughing a furrow in the river below it with its thrust and air displacement.]
V1 (V.O.): [shouting] This is incredible! The aliens have arrived! We are not alone in the universe! It's magnificient! It's so clean, so elegant!
[The craft pulls alongside the camera's position, suddenly nosing up and shucking off the last of its forward momentum. The presenter's voice is lost in the wailing roar of engines. The craft spins a hundred eighty degrees around the point of its nose, giving the camera a brief front-on close-up. A pair of silhouetted figures working controls can be seen behind its tinted canopy. The craft slips sideways from the hover, pulling over land and dropping to a mere thirty feet from the ground. A hatch opens midway down the fuselage, panels swinging up and down. A figure significantly taller than a human and powerfully built, clad in a sealed suit seemingly made from metal but oddly organic in construction, jumps from the hatch, lands into a crouch, then raises itself to full height, moving a few paces forward and left to allow another similar figure to exit. The camera zooms in on the smooth gold plate across the front of the second figure's helmet. It looks back. The noise suddenly cuts for a moment and the presenter's voice can be heard again.]
V1 (V.O.): Please, God, don't let them kill us all.
[The camera feed suddenly cuts off.]
Thursday 26 August 2010
[STO] A Naming
"It was the Kalan'thi that named this vessel. They were a race of artisans, living for aeons to perfect their craft before leaving the mortal realm when their work was done. Now only a handful of them remain, trapped here unable to attain perfection and move on.
"When The Storm took their homeworld, only a tiny fraction of Kalan'thi survived, hiding in shelters or fleeing their system in sleeper ships. Those that returned to the surface found only devastation- their breathtaking artworks and soaring, glistening towers had been wiped away like so much detritus. Even when looking up at the sky, smoke and ash clouded the heavens so it seemed even the stars had abandoned them.
"As the pale glow of their blue sun lightened the horizon, the greatest of the Kalan'thi saw a single star bringing the heavens back to their world. It was no star but a star-traveller, a great ship empty yet driven to find their world. They boarded the ship, their new morning star, and left their desolated home behind in search of an answer to why their race had been snuffed out.
"Since that day the Morning Star has visited countless worlds, a herald of sunrise following the longest, darkest night. It has come to find those who survived and to take them away from the doom of their races, to give them a purpose. The Morning Star is the collected sorrow, remembrance and retribution left in the wake of The Storm, and the light that brings hope when it has blown out."
[DIS] You're a character, you are!
Well, a few days in now and both the idea for the plot and the structure of this blog are starting to take shape. well, in my head at least!
I'm putting this post up as a centralised point to collect characters. If you have a character idea, please comment on this post with a brief description of them- a name and a brief description of appearance and personality, as much as you'd get on a first meeting. Once I've got a few characters then I can get started on the actual meat of the story.
Note that it's not just human characters I'm after- the Morning Star already has a sizeable population of alien refugees who are just as important to the story as us Terrans. If you fancy a challenge, write me an alien! Extra kudos for interesting alien races that are original and fun to write for. :-)
I'm putting this post up as a centralised point to collect characters. If you have a character idea, please comment on this post with a brief description of them- a name and a brief description of appearance and personality, as much as you'd get on a first meeting. Once I've got a few characters then I can get started on the actual meat of the story.
Note that it's not just human characters I'm after- the Morning Star already has a sizeable population of alien refugees who are just as important to the story as us Terrans. If you fancy a challenge, write me an alien! Extra kudos for interesting alien races that are original and fun to write for. :-)
Tuesday 24 August 2010
[STO] An Invocation
It is twilight. Our twilight? Who knows? Perhaps. It is certainly someone's twilight, and we may be as deserving as any other.
We stand at the precipice. from here we may only jump or flee, and in either response there is no going back. We still believe we have a choice, but if we are to stay true to the spirit in which we started this journey, our choice is already made.
These may be our last words, our epitaph. last words are meant to be heroic, inspiring, important, but I think the most important thing I've learned on this journey is that you don't get time to plan for things like that. Famous last words are more luck than anything else- I'll leave you to decide whether it's good or bad luck.
If this is indeed to be our epitaph, then there's so much to say. How can one sum up a species? How can one leave a footnote at the door of the Apocalypse? Nothing prepares you for what there is to say, just as nothing can truly prepare you for what it is we're about to do. We thought we were ready so many times, but looking back I'm sure that thinking you're ready is a sign that you don't really know what you're ready for.
Onward it is, then. It's not like we could ever consider going back. Our fates were written the day we started walking. We've done so much since then seen and felt so many things that there just aren't words for. How can we sum all that up? How can we sum up the thoughts, hopes, prayers and fears of those who trusted us without knowing exactly that they were trusting us to do?
I suppose if this is to be a marker to our passing, there's nothing else that can be said.
Before we were, we are.
Before we fell, we stood.
Whatever happens, that is eternal. And though we may be forgotten, it doesn't change who we are today.
Strike up a tune, it's time for us to sing.
We stand at the precipice. from here we may only jump or flee, and in either response there is no going back. We still believe we have a choice, but if we are to stay true to the spirit in which we started this journey, our choice is already made.
These may be our last words, our epitaph. last words are meant to be heroic, inspiring, important, but I think the most important thing I've learned on this journey is that you don't get time to plan for things like that. Famous last words are more luck than anything else- I'll leave you to decide whether it's good or bad luck.
If this is indeed to be our epitaph, then there's so much to say. How can one sum up a species? How can one leave a footnote at the door of the Apocalypse? Nothing prepares you for what there is to say, just as nothing can truly prepare you for what it is we're about to do. We thought we were ready so many times, but looking back I'm sure that thinking you're ready is a sign that you don't really know what you're ready for.
Onward it is, then. It's not like we could ever consider going back. Our fates were written the day we started walking. We've done so much since then seen and felt so many things that there just aren't words for. How can we sum all that up? How can we sum up the thoughts, hopes, prayers and fears of those who trusted us without knowing exactly that they were trusting us to do?
I suppose if this is to be a marker to our passing, there's nothing else that can be said.
Before we were, we are.
Before we fell, we stood.
Whatever happens, that is eternal. And though we may be forgotten, it doesn't change who we are today.
Strike up a tune, it's time for us to sing.
Monday 23 August 2010
[STO] Somewhere over Colorado
"Gaspipe Four-Niner, you are at flight level six seven zero, ninety-five miles out".
This high up, it was always a few minutes before dawn. Blue haze dusted the separation between land and sky, or earth and space depending on how you looked at it. Down below it would be a crisp spring morning, dew on the grass and breath condensing in front of your face. Up here, there was nothing to breathe. Conroe liked that. Up here, isolated in a protective bubble and surrounded by a few billion dollars of deniable hardware, he had time to think. Time to take stock, as he looked out at the curving horizon. This was the best job in the world.
"Gaspipe Four-Niner copies, coming right one-five degrees and beginning descent." All too soon it would be over, and this high-altitude tranquility would be replaced by the terrestrial bustle and the drudgery of the mundane. Part of him wanted to take the old girl around the block once more, kick the throttles open and stay up here for just another half hour. He hated going back to his land legs.
Be careful what you wish for.
"Uh, Gaspipe Four-Niner, this is Peterson Control, authenticate alpha quebec romeo one seven?"
The hell? Conroe snapped out of reverie and flipped through the data on his kneeboard. "Peterson, Gaspipe Four-Niner authenticates, delta mike five. What's going on?"
"Major Conroe, NORAD has just logged an unidentified aircraft moving down to your flight level, no IFF at this time. We need you to activate your transponder and alert civilian traffic control to your location, then achieve visual identification of the bogey. Do you copy?"
"Gaspipe Four-Niner copies, activate transponder, log in with civilian ATC and perform mark one identification of unregistered craft. Peterson, who in the hell could be up here with me?"
"That's what we need to know, Gaspipe."
Conroe swore under his breath and punched in his transponder code to the IFF system. He imagined that in some dark air traffic control room, some nerd had just spat coffee all over his display as a supersonic blip appeared out of nowhere. He dialled into the civilian channels. Time to say hi.
"Colorado ATC, this is Gaspipe Four-Niner transmitting on Guard, I am a US Air Force reconaissance aircraft transiting your airspace at flight level six six zero. How copy, over?"
"Gaspipe Four-Niner, Colorado ATC, we have you on scope, be advised, traffic at your ten-o'clock, come right ten degrees and descent to flight level six zero zero."
"Negative, Colorado. I need you to steer me to visual range of other contact."
There was a pause, silence. Down there Conroe imagined it was probably bedlam. Up here, in the thin air and the darkness, with the muted roar of his own engines a counterpoint to the sound of his slow, controlled breathing, it was another day in the office.
Except it wasn't. There was something off about this. Why retask a high-altitude spyplane on landing approach to take a look-see at some random blip on the radar? This was either an exercise, or something was going very badly wrong.
"Gaspipe, Colorado ATC confirms, come left five degrees and stay on your current flight level, visual intercept in thirty-five seconds."
Time to open the eyes. Conroe flipped his screen controls to wide-angle, and suddenly rather than just the single display ahead feeding him exterior images those to his left and right hid their telemetry data and brought up more darkened sky. There was a moment of vertigo as for a second Conroe's brain lost track of where he was, before the familiarity came back. This was his office, sixty-odd thousand feet up and twice the speed of sound, his windows on the world camera feeds from the jet-black hull of his cutting-edge spyplane. Here he was, flying by the seat of his pants in the belly of this beast, halfway to being an astronaut. Conroe banked left, the controls smooth and responsive, an extension of his body. No longer was he a glorified photographer- the adrenaline of combat flying pumped into his system, sharpening his senses and reflexes to a razor's edge. This was what he lived for.
Visual interception in ten seconds. Conroe activated the camera systems, recording his intercept for posterity. He wondered if he could convince a copy out of the techs? With the resolution on these cameras, he could probably play it on an Imax screen. That'd be cool. If he could get the footage off-base.
Five seconds. Four. Three. Conroe squinted at the vapour trail delineating the horizon, hoping to beat the intercept timer to the punch. Two. One.
Conroe's eyes widened. Sound fell away. He tried to speak, to swear, to laugh, to cry, anything. Nothing. There was thunder in his ears, a drum tattoo echoing up from his chest as his heart soundtracked the moment.
Somewhere, miles below and distant, on a radar plot in a darkened room, a blip labelled 'Gaspipe' disappeared.
This high up, it was always a few minutes before dawn. Blue haze dusted the separation between land and sky, or earth and space depending on how you looked at it. Down below it would be a crisp spring morning, dew on the grass and breath condensing in front of your face. Up here, there was nothing to breathe. Conroe liked that. Up here, isolated in a protective bubble and surrounded by a few billion dollars of deniable hardware, he had time to think. Time to take stock, as he looked out at the curving horizon. This was the best job in the world.
"Gaspipe Four-Niner copies, coming right one-five degrees and beginning descent." All too soon it would be over, and this high-altitude tranquility would be replaced by the terrestrial bustle and the drudgery of the mundane. Part of him wanted to take the old girl around the block once more, kick the throttles open and stay up here for just another half hour. He hated going back to his land legs.
Be careful what you wish for.
"Uh, Gaspipe Four-Niner, this is Peterson Control, authenticate alpha quebec romeo one seven?"
The hell? Conroe snapped out of reverie and flipped through the data on his kneeboard. "Peterson, Gaspipe Four-Niner authenticates, delta mike five. What's going on?"
"Major Conroe, NORAD has just logged an unidentified aircraft moving down to your flight level, no IFF at this time. We need you to activate your transponder and alert civilian traffic control to your location, then achieve visual identification of the bogey. Do you copy?"
"Gaspipe Four-Niner copies, activate transponder, log in with civilian ATC and perform mark one identification of unregistered craft. Peterson, who in the hell could be up here with me?"
"That's what we need to know, Gaspipe."
Conroe swore under his breath and punched in his transponder code to the IFF system. He imagined that in some dark air traffic control room, some nerd had just spat coffee all over his display as a supersonic blip appeared out of nowhere. He dialled into the civilian channels. Time to say hi.
"Colorado ATC, this is Gaspipe Four-Niner transmitting on Guard, I am a US Air Force reconaissance aircraft transiting your airspace at flight level six six zero. How copy, over?"
"Gaspipe Four-Niner, Colorado ATC, we have you on scope, be advised, traffic at your ten-o'clock, come right ten degrees and descent to flight level six zero zero."
"Negative, Colorado. I need you to steer me to visual range of other contact."
There was a pause, silence. Down there Conroe imagined it was probably bedlam. Up here, in the thin air and the darkness, with the muted roar of his own engines a counterpoint to the sound of his slow, controlled breathing, it was another day in the office.
Except it wasn't. There was something off about this. Why retask a high-altitude spyplane on landing approach to take a look-see at some random blip on the radar? This was either an exercise, or something was going very badly wrong.
"Gaspipe, Colorado ATC confirms, come left five degrees and stay on your current flight level, visual intercept in thirty-five seconds."
Time to open the eyes. Conroe flipped his screen controls to wide-angle, and suddenly rather than just the single display ahead feeding him exterior images those to his left and right hid their telemetry data and brought up more darkened sky. There was a moment of vertigo as for a second Conroe's brain lost track of where he was, before the familiarity came back. This was his office, sixty-odd thousand feet up and twice the speed of sound, his windows on the world camera feeds from the jet-black hull of his cutting-edge spyplane. Here he was, flying by the seat of his pants in the belly of this beast, halfway to being an astronaut. Conroe banked left, the controls smooth and responsive, an extension of his body. No longer was he a glorified photographer- the adrenaline of combat flying pumped into his system, sharpening his senses and reflexes to a razor's edge. This was what he lived for.
Visual interception in ten seconds. Conroe activated the camera systems, recording his intercept for posterity. He wondered if he could convince a copy out of the techs? With the resolution on these cameras, he could probably play it on an Imax screen. That'd be cool. If he could get the footage off-base.
Five seconds. Four. Three. Conroe squinted at the vapour trail delineating the horizon, hoping to beat the intercept timer to the punch. Two. One.
Conroe's eyes widened. Sound fell away. He tried to speak, to swear, to laugh, to cry, anything. Nothing. There was thunder in his ears, a drum tattoo echoing up from his chest as his heart soundtracked the moment.
Somewhere, miles below and distant, on a radar plot in a darkened room, a blip labelled 'Gaspipe' disappeared.
[STO] Endless Sky: Back Cover Blurb
"The history of advanced races meeting more primitive people on this planet is not very happy, and they were the same species. I think we should keep our heads low."
-Stephen Hawking
The Storm comes like a plague of locusts. It falls upon worlds, systems, empires; it systematically strips them bare and leaves only devastation in its wake. It is the ruiner of all life, the antithesis to the Great Plan, the harbinger of our destruction.
Dozens of civilisations have fallen before their might, from those just taking their first steps on the road to greatness to mighty empires spanning whole star clusters. To those left behind in their wake, it is the end of all things. They are the Apocalypse, the Great cleanser, the Devourer, the Four Terrible Riders.
In the shadow of their darkness is the Morning Star. A great and powerful warship from a bygone age and a forgotten race, it is now home to those few souls left behind, those unwilling to drift off into the night as the last of their species. It is a ship of heroes, a ship of vengeance, a ship of remembrance and a single beacon of hope in the great dark.
The Morning Star has followed the ragged hem of The Storm for millennia, picking off what it can, salvaging the remnants of the races it has consumed, and gathering its strength and its knowledge. But now things are different. The Morning Star has reached a world before The Storm, and for once there is an unspoken hope that this time they may not be too late, that this time they may be able to stand, fight and turn back the oncoming tide of destruction.
The Morning Star reached Earth in the early 21st Century, unheralded and bluff. It was almost a bloody war right there as the shock at finding the question of whether we were alone in the universe was answered for us. It's not a war we would have won, and it's as well that cooler heads swiftly prevailed on both sides. The commanders of the Morning Star bade the people of Earth welcome to a larger universe- a larger, darker and more frightening one than we had imagined.
I guess we shouldn't have been surprised that they spoke English- they'd travelled millions of miles across the interstellar gulf specifically to speak to us. How hard could learning our language be? They came to us, they told us of the oncoming Storm, they told us that time was short. They gave us what they could- what technologies we had a hope of understanding, developing and using to defend ourselves. In trade, they asked for flesh and blood- sons and daughters of our world to take with them, to train and to fight alongside. They chose who they took- not just warriors but thinkers, makers and talkers, scores in total, all chosen by name. More than half a dozen were chosen by their gamertag.
Then they departed, to teach their new warriors what would be expected of them in the coming war. The Morning Star promised that when The Storm broke, they would stand with Earth, that this time the world would survive. That humanity would be more than another endangered species roaming the corridors of the ancient ship. We hope they hold to their word, for the sky seems to grow ever darker.
Synopsis:
Endless Sky follows the course of a group of disparate humans picked by name by the commanders of the Morning Star, then taken away from their homes to train for an inevitable, bloody war for their homeworld. They'll encounter many challenges ahead, both that face them in their training and in their minds as they come to grips with the course their lives have taken. They'll interact with alien races, and through them find out what makes them human. And at the end of it all there's the great war looming on the horizon, to determine if humanity will survive to reach the stars or if the last few warriors will carry the heritage of their race into the dark with them.
[DIS] Are We Shooting?
Welcome to Eighth Angel Studios. If you're here, chances are I've foisted this link on you. You're probably wondering why.
I always loved to write, but in recent years there never really seems to be the time or the inclination. It always seems like there's too much preparation and not enough creation. I narrowed this down to the need for believable, well-rounded characters- if I were to create all the characters I needed to the level I wanted, I'd never get around to putting them into a plot.
That's why this blog has been started, and it's where you come in. We're going to write a novel.
The premise is based on roleplaying and crowdsourcing. In essence, what I need readers to do is give me characters. First, I need a name and a thirty-second description, enough to describe someone you've just met. That gets the ball rolling, and I can get on with the heavy lifting of weaving your characters into the story.
The clever part is that it doesn't end there. As the plot develops, you get to exert your will on the character you added in. Think of yourself as a personality wrangler- giving the character a shove when I start to go off on a tangent. The more you contribute, the more I'll have to work with and the more central to events your character likely becomes.
There'll be two sorts of post on this blog. Those prefixed [DIS], like this one, are discussions of the plot and forums for developing ideas. Those prefixed [STO] are the story itself, though they're not immutable. If you think I'm writing your character wrong, let me know in the comments and keep me on track.
Anyway, enough rambling- I'm guessing that you get the picture. I'll hand over to the plot and we'll see if we can get this show on the road.
I always loved to write, but in recent years there never really seems to be the time or the inclination. It always seems like there's too much preparation and not enough creation. I narrowed this down to the need for believable, well-rounded characters- if I were to create all the characters I needed to the level I wanted, I'd never get around to putting them into a plot.
That's why this blog has been started, and it's where you come in. We're going to write a novel.
The premise is based on roleplaying and crowdsourcing. In essence, what I need readers to do is give me characters. First, I need a name and a thirty-second description, enough to describe someone you've just met. That gets the ball rolling, and I can get on with the heavy lifting of weaving your characters into the story.
The clever part is that it doesn't end there. As the plot develops, you get to exert your will on the character you added in. Think of yourself as a personality wrangler- giving the character a shove when I start to go off on a tangent. The more you contribute, the more I'll have to work with and the more central to events your character likely becomes.
There'll be two sorts of post on this blog. Those prefixed [DIS], like this one, are discussions of the plot and forums for developing ideas. Those prefixed [STO] are the story itself, though they're not immutable. If you think I'm writing your character wrong, let me know in the comments and keep me on track.
Anyway, enough rambling- I'm guessing that you get the picture. I'll hand over to the plot and we'll see if we can get this show on the road.
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