You choose!

It’s the 1950s! Which would you rather invaded your farmhouse and/or shopping mall? Rayguns or shamblers, people! The choice is upon us and the time is now! Decide!

(warning, this poll is not for the faint hearted)

Biding my time

I did finish off the last little bit of AP yesterday, as well as did some editing and reading of the original datastream, which was rather interesting in reading. Obviously, the setting and the style has come a long way since datastream 1. I had to do some retrograding on the terms used, link for example. Linking is essentially ‘calling’ someone online, but it wasn’t called linking (from what I can tell) until later in the series. Originally, it was just called calling or ‘opening a line’.

I want a book of AP. So to that degree the damn thing gets edited and put on Lulu. That will be my immediate project for the next little bit. I’ll probably stop writing, and edit for the time being, getting the whole thing up to some semblance of good state for publishing. It’s still pulp serial in my mind, but I will see it through.

Will there be a ’season 2′? I think that the things that start happening in the next datastream really leave the whole story in an interesting place. Do I want to explore those places? Yes … sorta. I’ve been with these characters a while. I will admit it’s not top notch writing on my part. Some segments have gone out woefully scratchy and unedited.

It is fun, when I’m not scrambling to work out whose done what to who. But at the end, the first File (Lulu print book) will only be 5 datastreams, and 5 interludes (plus another 5 chapters of Skycity (k)Nights). Not a lot has happened over the whole thing. Other than the whole Constance thing, which is pretty much the glue in the half dozen or so characters of the setting.

There are a whole smattering of short story competitions coming up locally that I want to enter. I don’t really have anything that I can just send out, so they will have to be written from scratch. I figure seems I’ve created a setting with AP, I should try for an AP stand alone.

I figure that’s the plan for now. I really should write up a novel for local submission, but maybe I’ll stick to all these short story competitions for now. I never really did get myself an impressive resume of published works (stands at about 3 right now).

Sudden disgust

Who knows what it is, or if it’s passing or what. I was about halfway through the last part of the AP storyline, and I stopped. I lost complete interest, stared out the window and packed it in for the day. Bah. Not a good sign when you hit the most dramatic part of your story and you just give up on it.

The voices told me that now would be a perfect time to just pack the whole series in. After all, who reads it? asks the seductive voices. What point is there to continue, other than on blind faith. After all, you’ve proved you can pull a long haul series. What’s left to prove?

I’ll finish the interlude of course.

Cassie and I were talking about writing a few days back, and what I want out of writing and such. Maybe that has a little something to do with things. But, the sudden disgust and feeling of pointlessness in a writing project hasn’t hit me like that before. Who knows what I will do on this one.

So much to write, so little time?

I feel like one of those writers, hunched over his typewriter. With the latest short story done, I pull the page from the roller and toss it over my shoulder, complete. I’ve finished up the Chapter One Rewrite. It’s done and done. Published up here too, even if not polished. It never had to be polished, only written. And it is.

What next? Finish off Agents Provocateurs. Then I should start reviewing the text in preparation for Lulu. I’d rather get that sorted and out there, sooner rather than later. Will I have any takers? Actually, I’m not sure. If I have a fanbase for AP, they are a rather silent fanbase. Secret, like spies. Ruzzie, are you still keen with your deadly red pen? I fear asking it for an editors touch, but it needs at least basic editing before it goes to the pulp markets.

Merrilee, a present for you. I know how you like your free fiction at the moment. I haven’t had a chance to check out any of your reviewed fiction, but this site comes straight from Neil Gaiman, so it gotta be good.

What else? Not sure actually. I’m still not mended from my sickness yet, but launching myself back into things all the same.

Chapter One Rewrite – Lord of the Rings

And so it came, that on the eve of Bilbo Baggin’s one hundred and eleventh birthday, and his nephew Frodo’s thirty third, that Frodo found himself sitting watching the very same road that his uncle had once travelled out on. About him, the Shire was struck with weather most unbefitting such an auspicious occasion. Most of the older folk agreed that it would clear for the big day tomorrow.

Frodo wasn’t so sure.

Most of the older folk also agreed that there was a change in the air, a cold wind, like when one leaves a door ajar somewhere within ones house. It’s not always so obvious, but its effects can be felt. Frodo stared out over the winding path that headed from the Shire, through rolling fields and comfortable glens. He could feel the cold wind, cutting through even the oilproofed materials of his coat. Even as he sat in the shelter of the same tree had had sat behind, awaiting his now famous uncles return.

So glorious it must have been, to see beyond the Shire. The day dreams passed the time, as thunder rumbled tumultuously on the horizon. Frodo tightened his coat about him, waiting like he had waited then. The weather was pulling more strongly at the branches of the old oak. It spoke softly to Frodo in quiet creaks of protest.

‘Wait for him, my dear Frodo. Wait for him, and you will know him when you see him.’

Thunder rolled again, distant flashes hitting in the storm clouds. Frodo hoped his arrival came sooner rather than later, least he be soaked. The skies felt pregnant with the rain. His approaching thirty third birthday, the age at which a hobbit truly reached adulthood excused him from the preparations. A party held in his honor, as much as his uncles. He knew he could never stand up to the legends and rumors surrounding Bilbo.

Frodo stood up. Gaze cutting through the dim light. What he had at once thought was a traveller on the road had turned out to be one of the tall pines, blowing in the wind. He was more aware this time, but he took a few moments. Waiting. Then he saw it. A lone figure on carriage, wearing a tall hat that close resembled a bent tree.

“Gandalf,” Frodo whispered, reverently. It could be no other.

It felt like an age, but as the man drew closer, Frodo could see the size of him. Tall, like an old fir tree, just as bent and thin. The wind whipped at his grey cloaks, as he sat hunched on the front of the carriage. The horse before him was an equally grey mare, drawing him closer, slow and inevitable. Somehow, even in the gusts, Gandalf’s hat remained fixed. Frodo saw the long, white shock of his beard, a long time before those eyes.

When he drew close enough that he looked up, those eyes, steel grey like the clouds, stared from under his hat. It was then that the skies finally opened up, unable to hold back any longer.

* * *

“Thank you, Frodo,” Gandalf said, excusing the boy. “That will be all.”

Gandalf let himself in, bending low and cautious under the top of the door. Nothing had changed. Everything was as he remembered it. It was as if the entire Shire was immune from the troubles beyond its borders. As close as the ceiling was, the warmth was tighter for it, comforting him against the squall that had chased him most of the way through and pounced on him just before Hobbiton.

“I’ve told you! Just put down extra ropes,” came a call from within. “There’s no need to shift the whole arrangement! Can’t you sort this yourself?”

A short figure came from deeper into the home, and it was truly a home more than any Gandalf had been in. Bilbo’s face was older than he had remembered it, but not nearly as old as it should have been for his age. He cut a curious figure in sharp attire, a yellow waistcoat of silks, rather than the homespun wools of the Shire. He had the look of Man about him. The hobbits face softened when he saw Gandalf’s, and his own too did also.

“Gandalf!” Bilbo exclaimed, drawing closer. “I had thought you would not make it!”

“If that were true, you would have had your nephew sitting through storms on my arrival.” Gandalf put aside his tall staff, shook free the rain from his hat, letting his long and wild hair free. “And that would have been a true shame indeed!”

“He insisted,” replied Bilbo. The hobbit looked harried, a hint of the stress returning to his face. “To be honest, anything to get people out from under foot. Has the sign blown free again? I fear it has. But where are my manners?”

Gandalf followed the hobbit into the sitting room. It was sumptuously appointed with the collected things of a lifetime. Here and there sat reminders of a life that could not have been collected within the limits of a mere hobbits surrounds, but the house at Bag End was everything Gandalf remembered it. Soft couches, easy chairs and books. Collected volumes shared shelf space with curios that even Gandalf had trouble identifying. A hearty fire blazed on the hearth.

“Make yourrself at home, Gandalf,” Bilbo called from the kitchen beyond. “I shall make us some tea. You must be famished after your trip. Was the Brandywine particularly swollen? Which way did you come from?”

Gandalf frowned, glancing about the room. The suspicion was there, still. A feeling. A tiny itch within the pleasant confines of ones home. A window left unlocked when one went out. No doubt any hobbit had ever worried of such a thing, Gandalf thought. He lowered himself onto one of the couches, setting his thoughts aside.

“My trip was well enough, thank you, old friend. I am sorry that I could not come sooner, though.”

“It’s no trouble. Although you might have been useful to ward against my relatives.” There was a bit of a brittle laugh. “I fear they have become worse since I announced my celebration. It’s as if they sense something, Gandalf.”

Gandalf let himself rest back in the couch, finally setting his hat aside. “It is to be expected,” he mused, half to himself. Bilbo came out, a tray laiden with all manner of breads and cheeses. A pot freshly laid, from which emitted the most warm and earthy scents.

“It’s just left overs from breakfast, I hope you don’t mind. Things have been rather frantic lately. Moreso since the party plans have been laid. They fight over the littlest of things.”

Bilbo looked tired. Downtrodden. Gandalf frowned, and felt a sympathy for the hobbit. He took out his pouch, proofed against the rain, and his pipe. Silently, Bilbo set the tray down on a low table and began to pour the strong smelling tea.

“Then you mean to go through with it?” Gandalf asked, cautiously. He watched the hobbit, who seemed more aged even since he had arrived. “All of it.”

“Oh yes. Definitely. Of course,” replied Bilbo. He fussed over the pot and the tea. Finally setting out two cups of the steaming beverage. “All of it.” Bilbo sat back on one of the easy chairs, taking one of the cups up himself. He looked to be carrying a weight, one that Gandalf stay silent in the presence of, knowing that Bilbo would relief himself of it.

“It just hasn’t felt the same,” Bilbo admitted, finally. “Not for many years, Gandalf. I’m tired. More than that. I’m weary. I feel it in my bones. But more than that. I’ve lived here all these years, watching my relatives grow more suspicious. I’ve become somewhat of an outcast, Gandalf. Imagine that! In my dear Hobbiton, where I grew up.

“No. It is time. And I have to go through with it. I have to leave here, Gandalf. Surely you can feel it. It’s best that I just leave here, leave it all to Frodo and hope whatever it is doesn’t pass to him.”

Gandalf began packing his pipe, feeling that same silent itch. Bilbo was right. He did feel it, something within the Shire. But little did Bilbo know that it was more than just that. A trouble that Gandalf had wished he had never visited on the Shire. It wasn’t Bilbo that didn’t belong here.

“I fear I have done you a great injustice my friend,” Gandalf admitted, quietly. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows. Gandalf’s was especially long. “No, hear me out. I should never have visited you all those years ago. There is no place for the world of Man here in the Shire. I have visted it upon you.”

Bilbo shook his head, dismissive. “Surely not, Gandalf. It can’t be. I don’t believe that for a moment. But whatever the reason, it will not change my mind. It is made up. I will be going through with my plan, just as I told you. But I intend to have a little fun, before I go.”

“Oh?” Gandalf asked, letting a wry smile touch his lips. He began to pack his pipe. “And I wonder what that might be …”

“You shall have to wait, Gandalf. Wait like the rest of my family. This will be an occasion long spoken about in the Shire. I assure you that.”

Gandalf just smiled, musing to himself. He tried to shake the feeling of how hard and lean the shadows seemed here, even here. He put his pipe to his lips, and began to light. Tomorrow would be an interesting day indeed.

* * *

“You should be lapping this all up!” exclaimed Pippin. He had stayed close to Frodo’s side since Gandalf’s arrival. The Shire had been abuzz with talk of that, almost more than the party itself. “This is all for you.”

“It’s for Bilbo,” Frodo protested. “I’m not even sure if there will even be a party, at this rate.”

“If Old Rufus says that the weather will hold, I’m sure it will!”

Frodo had opted to stay on the outskirts of it all. There felt something not quite right, underneath all the celebrations. The brew had begun to flow early, and in great abundance. No one had really known when the party was to begin, but Frodo figured that it had started a lot earlier than some had planned. Great kegs had already been broken open, kept close and greedy under the protection of the giant awnings that still pulled and struggled against the weather.

“At least there will be plenty of food,” Pippin said. The hobbit was a few years younger than Frodo, for more eager for the excesses in life, despite maintaining such a thin build. ‘Nothing natural will come of it,’ his parents had said. ‘No hobbit should be truly so thin!’. “And weed for the smoking. All of the fun, but none of the work. Isn’t that a dream?”

Frodo managed a smile, if for no reason other than the enthusiasm of his friend. “You’re right.”

“Of course I am!”

Frodo wondered where Bilbo had got to. He had gone up to the house a number of times during the day, but found the door locked. He had retrieved the sign that had said ‘No admittance, except on party business’, and stuck it back to the green door, but it seemed that since Gandalf had arrived, Bilbo was admitting no one. The mans presence had scared of all but the most die hard of their family.

Until his most legendary uncle made an appearance, he would have the bare the brunt of the well wishes. Frodo grimaced a little under the congratulations of yet another relative. One of the Proudfoots.

“Quick! Let’s get a place at the table, before we lose it!” Pippin remarked, pulling him into the tight press of the tent. “Your uncle is bound to be here soon. I don’t think anyone would miss this for the world.”

“Maybe that’s what he’s counting on,” Frodo reflected. Inside the tent, the heat was incredible, even with the cold, lashing winds. A boozy cheer went up, and Frodo glanced around, looking for his uncle. It took a moment for him to realize that the cheer was for him.

Frodo threaded through the maze of faces. The malty smell was thick in the air, along with the rich tang of sweat, mingled with the earthy spices of cooking. The press was tighter, the singing loud on Frodo’s ears as he stayed close to Pippin. He kept his eyes locked on the rich green of his friends attire. A hint of flamboyance. A style taking after the legendary Bilbo.

‘That’s all they want,’ Frodo reflected. ‘They’re gathering here like hounds. They all have since they heard about this occasion. They all know it.’

The legendary Bilbo was swamped in rumor almost as much as what might really be hidden in that fabulous house on Bag End. All manner of myths surrounded the late night visitors, and the treasures that packed it’s deep tunnels. One rumor Frodo had heard spoke of how the tunnels ran all the way to the edges of the Shire itself.

The more Frodo felt the stare of the gathered, the more he noticed their rosey faces, warm with liquor. The smiles were wide and full enough, but there was a lack of honesty to it. And those eyes. Frodo could see the greed, working out deep in the eyes of his family. Terrible looks that he pretended that he had only imagined.

“He’s here!!”

“Bilbo!” went up another cry. It was one of the Sackville-Bagginses. There had been a brawl earlier about seating arrangements, and that particular family was now seated closest to the main table. “Bilbo’s here!”

Frodo glanced towards the main table, hoping it was true. It was. He caught the smile of his uncle, who was already greeting with a number of hobbits that had suddenly appeared at his side. Frodo pushed his way through the throng, closer still. When he finally reached his uncles side, he found Bilbo’s hand on his shoulder, and a close whisper at his ear.

“Stay close, dear Frodo. The fun’s about to begin!”

By fun, Bilbo had surely meant food, of which there was an abundance that Frodo had never seen before. The celebrations now renewed with the arrival of their host and plates laiden with all manner of meats. Frodo almost became a little shamefully used to being waited on, as food was bought to the main table, and others. He began to forget his worries as he ate, along with the rest of his family.

The beer continued to flow freely, the smell of it and the heat of the food and crowds pressing tightly at Frodo’s temples. He tried to let himself relax, but there was still that pent, nervous expectation in the air. He ate in silence, watched. Bilbo seemed almost as young as him, filled with a cheer and spirit that he hadn’t seen in his uncle for years.

That alone must have been a good thing.

When the third course of desserts had finally been cleared up, the sense of expectation was as rich as the syrupy puddings. Pipes were taken out for the smoking, and flaggons filled anew, in anticipation of the speech that was surely to come. The time was ripe and richly appointed for it.

“My friends!” Bilbo remarked, and a hush fell about the tent, leaving for the moment just the sounds of the storm brewing outside. He paused a moment longer, adding it like an afterthought, “Family.

“I see a lot of my family here today. Boffins and Sackville-Bagginses. Proudfoots –”

“ProudFEET!” came a cry, deeper into the gathered. A laugh rippled across the gathered, one well lubricated by beer.

“Proudfoots,” repeated Bilbo, with a smile. He glanced down at Frodo for the moment, before continuing. “I shant keep you with long speeches. I have three things to announce today, and so with that I will keep things short.”

There was a general murmur of encouragement at that. Frodo could feel the sense in the air, but then, maybe it was the weather, that rumbled again outside the tents. The winds too seemed to drop, like the lands were holding their breath for Bilbo’s words. Frodo watched his uncle, his hand dipped into the pocket of his waistcoat, looking every part the elder statesman he spoke like.

“Firstly, and this is not so much an announcement as an acknowledgement, that of my own one hundred and eleventh birthday, but moreso of Frodo’s thirty third. Truly a coming of age of my nephew, one of whom I have never been prouder of.”

Frodo felt the flush of acknowledgement, uncomfortable with the attention as a few scattered cheers went through the gathered. Bilbo waited them out, but they were short lived, as the attention stayed on the hobbit.

“Second, I would like to take this opportunity to announce Frodo as my sole heir and benefactor of my will. I will be passing all my worldly belongings to him, and to him alone.”

With this, there was something of a collective, choaked gasp, and Frodo stared up at his uncle sharply. He tried to find the words to protest, but the murmurs of disbelief and general ill in the air was swelling sharply. Bilbo refused to look at him, just staring at the gathered revelers with a grim and aged look.

“Thirdly. Thirdly!”

The quiet returned, although it was an entirely different sort. Frodo saw the sharp and angry looking faces in the crowd, felt his stomach tense against the food of the feast. He looked to his uncle, and saw that same grim look.

“I know half as much of you as I should like, and I like half as much of you as you should deserve,” Bilbo remarked, his hard tone carrying across the tent. “One hundred and eleven years is too long a time to spend amongst your company, and the last twenty has shown me that even another ten would be too much to bear.

“My third announcement is this. It is over. I am leaving, and I won’t be returning. GOOD BYE.”

With that, Bilbo simply vanished. A hideous moan passed through the crowd, although Frodo found in his shock wondering if it was something entirely different. There was a sharp bile in the air, like the beer turned stale, as the gathered hobbits shouted and broke into talk at the sudden disappearance.

Frodo just stared at the place where his uncle had stood. Something of it didn’t seem real at all, but the proof of it was there. Bilbo was gone.

* * *

Gandalf was smoking in the living room when he heard the door bang closed. He had felt something in the very core of his being, one that he had not felt for the longest of times. Something told him that it was only a matter of time before Bilbo arrived. The fire had gutted quickly, with the wind from outside, and then it was still again.

“Finally free!”

Gandalf looked up, hearing Bilbo’s voice before the hobbit stepped into the lounge. He still felt that churned sensation in his stomach, frowning as he watched Bilbo head lightly within. Bilbo almost looked younger and more playful, a weight gone from his shoulders.

“It’s done, Gandalf,” he exclaimed. No sooner than he was in the lounge that he headed through to the kitchen. He returned a moment later with the pack that he had prepared earlier. “I’ve told them all what I think of them. Now I’m finally free!”

“That’s good.”

“This is going to be the start of something truly wonderful,” Bilbo said. He was filled with life and ready to begin, Gandalf noticed. Gandalf puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “It’s a pity that you won’t be coming with me Gandalf. It will be like old times.”

“You have everything in order then?”

“Yes, yes,” replied Bilbo, bothered by the question. He pulled an envelope out of his waistcoat pocket and laid it on the mantlepiece. “My last will, and testiment. Oh, that surprised the family no end! Imagine their faces, Gandalf, you couldn’t! When I told them that Frodo would be getting it all. Nothing for any of them, the toads.”

“And the rest?”

Bilbo glanced towards Gandalf, looking bewildered. “Rest?”

“The ring, Bilbo. As we agreed.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Bilbo dug about in his pocket and pulled it out, a simple gold ring. They both looked at it, for all the innocence that it was. “I was thinking about that. I don’t se why I can’t keep hold of it. It’s probably safer with me anyway, rather than here. No doubt one of the Sackville-Bagginses will get hold of it. Hah! It will hardly be safe then, will it –”

“Bilbo. As we agree.”

Bilbo paused, going silent. Holding the ring in his palm. Gandalf felt a chill in the air, that carried despite the warmth of the fire. “Well, it’s mine, though. Isn’t it.”

“It’s not yours Bilbo. You merely came across it, and it will pass like it passed from that poor wretch Gollum.”

“But it chose me,” Bilbo insisted, quickly angry. His mood quickly gutted up like the fire under the wind when he had opened the door. “Didn’t it. And why shouldn’t it? Who more deserving. After all, it is my precious, my –”

“BILBO BAGGINS,” Gandalf thundered, rising from his seat. His form took height and power, sending the hobbit scrambling backwards, all but tripping over his pack. “Do not toy with me! Even now you sound like Gollum, do you not see it?”

“You mean to take it!” said Bilbo, finding a sudden, desperate courage. “Take it then! Take it, Gandalf!”

“Do not offer it to me, Bilbo, merely surrender it! Surrender it’s hold on you, now that it claws deep into your soul at this last minute!”

Bilbo shrunk, defeated. He stared at the ring for the longest of moments. His voice was powerless and meek when he finally spoke, “Of course. You’re right, Gandalf. I don’t know … I don’t know what came over me …”

“There is something more to the ring, more than I suspected, Bilbo. It is more dangerous than I suspected.” Gandalf found something itching again at his mind. A thought, a fleeting feeling. Something that would require study and investigation. Maybe Bilbo had been right, maybe he hadn’t visited the evils of the World of Man on the Shire. Maybe it had come in an entirely different form.

“I should like to see mountains,” Bilbo said, finally. He drew his pack up to his shoulder, glancing towards the fire. “Elves. Like before. One last adventure, Gandalf. That’s all that I feel I have left in me. I guess this is is.”

“Indeed.”

“But I will see you again?”

“Of course, Bilbo,” Gandalf remarked, softly. He was still partly lost in his thoughts. Bilbo was already heading towards the door. “The ring, Bilbo.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Bilbo stopped, right at the brink. He fumbled nervously in the pocket of his waistcoat, bringing it out. “Here it is. How did it get there?”

Gandalf stared down at Bilbo, wondering if he needed to draw on the same power again, to force the ring from Bilbo. He watched as Bilbo stared down at the simple gold band, sitting there on his palm. The hobbit turned his hand, and slowly, relucantly, the ring slipped from his gasp.

It hit the ground with more weight than it aught to.

“Goodbye,” Bilbo whispered, finally. Gandalf nodded, although he was not sure if he was farewelling himself or the ring. Bilbo drew a long breath, already starting to look his age, but surely a trick of the shadows. And then he was gone.

Gandalf sat again, as the door closed. He thought that he heard Bilbo singing as he headed down the path of Bag End, but the sound of it was lost to the storm. Gandalf stared at the ring, silent and solitary there on the floor, and thought.

An hour passed like a moment. Gandalf looked up with a start when he realized Frodo was standing at the doorway, looking down at the same ring.

“Bilbo’s ring. What is it doing there?”

Frodo reached down to take it, and Gandalf felt a powerful urge to stop him. But then it was done. The young hobbit looked at it, holding it up to the light like some curio. Gandalf thought on whether he had made yet another mistake. His pipe was long cold and dead, it’s flame gone out.

“Hide it,” Gandalf said, none too kind. “Put it in the darkest and deepest of cupboards, and speak to no one of it. Do not even think of it, Frodo.”

“Of course, Gandalf, but –”

“Do not question me on this, boy. Merely do it, and carry my instruction to the word. Do it now.”

Gandalf rose, and felt the panic in the air, the movement as he shifted to get his things. Realization dawned on him, and he saw Frodo move to put the ring away in a cupboard near the fireplace. It was a deep cupboard, like a warren, going back far. But was it far enough? Gandalf grabbed up his hat, seeing Frodo’s frightened expression.

“Say nothing of it. Do nothing. Merely carry on your life as if you had never seen it. That, and await my return, and hope that I am wrong, boy. Wrong, or surely the entire Middle Earth will be lost!”

Where have you been?

Laid out hideously sick with something short of food poisoning. Which it still might not be if I recover in the next few days, but lingering on for about five days has thrown me for a loop. I’ve avoided food almost entirely, because food just makes me think of how my stomach feeds.

My inner editors have been tricksie and somehow connected writing with this same sensation. You can’t write, because your stomach feeds had and writing smells like food. Don’t ask me how that works, just that it has, and I’ve not written since last Friday.

This should change tomorrow morning, when I get back onto things and finish my Chapter One Rewrite. Feeling good has never seemed a more satisfying prospect than it has about now. Uuuh.

Agents Provocateurs: Datastream 4.4

First things first.

Craig felt the cold nights chill about him, the way that the boat pitched and rolled in the water. He was far enough out that he couldn’t see any of the lights from the shore, or even the Archologies. It felt like he was half way to Australia now, but experience told him better, even if he couldn’t call on SatComm.

Craig cut the engine and headed back out to the stern of the boat for another brief check of things. Thermals just reported back nothing but a stark, cold blue in all directions. Cold and dark like bruises against the black.

Here was as good a place as any.

Craig went back inside, and got the two cases. He’d had to put the smaller case that he had been carrying when he met Stiles into a more robust case, but the device from Williams would be safe in the one he had given it to him in. Craig spent a few minutes making sure they were tight, and well chained. The device he had locked onto the chain near the old style padlock was good. Even if he lost that prescient sensation in the back of his mind, the Agency’s tech boys had eyes sharp enough in orbit to pick it up.

The night was silent, other than the slapping of the water against the hull. Craig paused. Almost allowing himself a hint of paranoia. This far out, it really almost was like being the only person in the world. Without the Agency and without Dogson, he just had high corporate level wetware, and even with that turned down low, there was barely a blip.

No adverts. No greetings. No Dogson. No ‘how-you-do, buy-me-now’. No poptarts and pennywhistles.

Craig hefted the weight of the two cases up onto the back of the boat, reflecting briefly that this could be how he went out. Just like the Code Black had winked out all his connections to the Agency, he could just fade away. Rumor had always been that the killswitches still worked in Code Blacks. But then how would that be when the Agency cut every single last connection. Now would be the perfect time for a scrupulous agent to go under the knife and vanish for good.

Craig set a heavy boot into the cases, and they pitched over the side. The hit the water with an unsatisfyingly small splash, before vanishing almost instantly beneath the surface. Then down they went. A dirty bomb big enough to depopulate a good chunk of Downtown Skycity, and a case that would kill the careers of more than a handful of very high ranked politicians.

Dirty boys and dirty bombs.

Nothing was left now, just Craig and the night. The boat continued to pitch quietly in the waves. Craig didn’t bother amping up the gain on his wetware. It was good to have the world tuned out. It was better not having Dogson over his shoulder.

Now. Next things next.

Craig stood a moment in the back of the boat. Then inside, mind made up as he started up the engine. It spluttered a few times then turned over with a gout of fossil fueled black smoke. It would be a few long hours back into harbor. More than enough time for him to consider the implications of his future actions.

* * *

Craig stared up at the white peaks against the budding morning rays. The sea had turned tumultuous behind him, but Craig was confident enough in the moorings to know the boat was safe against any snap storms across the Taranaki area. He’d have to take the long way back up, but already he could see the almost military style fences and watchtowers above.

“Craig, you old fuck. Figured you were going to take the boat out and off yourself.”

“Not this time, Simon.”

Craig had let the presence press into the front of his mind. It was far more blunt and intrusive than Dogson had ever been. He’d seen people get a lot worse than what he had just felt, a sense of nausea at the intrusion that had felt almost like a needle pressing through the front of his skull. He strengthened his step as he headed up the tight path to the top.

“Weekend visit this time, you old asshole,” asked the voice, as craggy as the cliff path Craig was taking. “Or another of your oh-so-briefs?”

“Hate to disappoint you, Premier.”

“Well you know the drill. Mind the blackout. Take the hut.”

Craig knew that if Simon had even the slightest inkling of the irony there, he wouldn’t show it. The presence was gone, and instead he felt a strange, yet familiar sense of sickness. He pressed himself hard against the cliff face for a moment until it passed. Now, even if the Agency did come out of Code Black, he wouldn’t know it until he left. He blinked the watery tears out of his eyes and pressed on again.

He was getting too old for this shit.

Craig was moving in ahead of the rain, getting to the place Simon called ‘the hut’ just before the first of the squalls hit. The place was dark, and had a musty smell of age about it. It took a few seconds of thought before Craig remembered the place wasn’t wired. He slapped out at the light switch near the door, and bolted the door itself.

The hut had a simplistic modesty about it, moreso than just the fact it was entirely old world. Little more than a single room, Craig could almost feel the rain beating against the roof. The windows in the front rattled as the wind whipped up. A television sat against the back wall, a sofa of comfortable familiarity nearby. The kitchen service was all hands on, and the bed was near the back, where the wall shortened and the ceiling hugged down close.

A ringing shot up near the door, and Craig glanced back. He answered the phone, amused by the quaintness of it all.

“Anything you need, just dial Betty. You remember the extension, right?”

“Of course.”

“Take it how you like, but I’m sort of happy this will be a brief,” Simon reported back. The line ticked in a strange and concerting way. There was a reassuring hardness in just holding the receiver. “I wouldn’t be able to entertain you either way. Some of the codgers back home are rattling the sabers over this whole CER malarky. I tell you, Craig. Your country is as much a bunch of upstart assholes as you are, especially since you up and turned Republic.”

“We am to please, of course,” Craig smiled. “Need I remind you that you dumped King and Country a whole lot sooner than we did.”

“Not like you had much damn choice in the matter when you did. Maybe it’s just that we all have a little more sense than you shaggers.”

“Something like that, Premier.”

“Anyway, the huts yours as long as you need it. Bettys rattling around somewhere here. Do what you need, just don’t hold any all nighters unless you plan on at least spitting me an invitation that I can turn down.”

“Naturally.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised to hear you were shagging my wife on all these close visits of yours, but frankly I couldn’t give a damn.”

“Not in the line of work we’re in, Simon,” Craig replied. The rain was really starting to belt down outside. Craig could see across the tarmac, but the fortress that passed as a house was on the other side, out of view. “Best for all parties to keep their mouths shut.”

“Better they bring back the King. A good, tight monarchy never hurt anyone. Those bastards in the senate don’t know what they’re missing.”

“Politics and I never see eye to eye,” said Craig. He considered letting Simon rattle on, but pulled the conversation short. “I’m going to have to leave you again. Got caught in the downpour, so I should be out of these clothes and into something hot sooner rather than later.”

“Should find clothes in the drawers. Haven’t had any guests over since your last visit.”

“Thanks.”

Craig cut the call with a stout tip of the receiver, putting it back onto the hook. He made a line for the heater, and fired it up. It was strange hearing the thing gurgle and turn when it finally got going. Nothing worth buying ran anything other than silent these days. A quick investigation turned up liquor in the cabinet, and enough food to get by for a good few weeks. Craig knew he just needed the hardline and perhaps a good sleep.

Craig poured himself a generous measure of whiskey and then took a shower, despite lying about being caught by the rain.

He toweled himself off after, and enjoyed the anonymity of picking up the hardline in just a towel. He dialed on the number, almost losing it at one point, before hearing the line tick and take the call. The voice at the other end was startled.

“Who the fuck is this?”

Craig smiled, enjoying the mans discomfort. “Any way to speak to a potential business partner?”

“I’m telling you now, identify yourself or I’ll not only termin –”

“It’s fine, Nick. It’s just Craig Welles.” Craig let the information sink into the greasy fucks mind, feeling a pinch of annoyance at his tone. “We met in the Atrium. You remember. Edward Skye for Lord Mayor?”

“Oh! Welles! Well why the hell – the connections ruined. I’m not getting any intel at all. Else I would have known.”

Craig doubted that Stiles didn’t know what a hardline felt and connected like. He was confident that this particular line was bouncing to the colonies and back. “Of course, but I’m in a little of an isolated location at the moment.”

“Orbital?”

“Not quite,” Craig remarked. He pulled the conversation about sharply. “Say, I was looking at my schedule for the next few days, and I’ve noticed a gap. How does a late lunch on Thursday sound? Name the location.”

“Oh! Delightful! I’m sure we can come up with a beneficial neutral. You mentioned a working lunch in the Atrium? Is that still what you had in mind?”

“Yes, actually. I was wondering about your experience with Richmond.”

That paused the man, Craig noticed. He knew Dogson probably dug fairly deep to get that dirt. “I know a little.”

“Good. There’s a man I want to talk to you about. Someone I think would be good for both our organizations to get on board. His names Abraham Williams.”

Diving into the deep end; Season 1 Battlestar

The one thing I’m starting to hate when I sit down to season one of something is hearing ‘previously on …’. It happened with Twin Peaks, and it happened with Battlestar Galactica when I sat down with the season 1 box set this morning.

Oh well, time to play catch up.

I remembered back to what I knew of the story, and did my best to patch the gaps. Two episodes in, I’m rather hooked. It seems to maintain a good sense of continuous tension while still managing to maintain a good plot. So far. Having said that, I have heard that it ranks up there with The Wire as great TV. So far so good.

I like me a good space epic, I sure do.

Sickness calls

A stomach bug incapacitated me for two days, cutting off the flow of writing for the meanwhile. I’m halfway through the Chapter One rewrite of Lord of the Rings. I managed to get out a rather impressive 2,500 words in one sitting. I figure that I’ve got another hour or so in that project, and then onto the last interlude of Agents Provocateurs.

I figure with SOCNOC out of the way, I should be moving onto something else. There are a few calls for submission on the way on the horizon that I should attend to.

I had vague thoughts of trying to get published again locally next year, in a fairly big way. Attempting all the possibly calls for submission, perhaps put together a novel idea in November. I aughta be hearing back from Huia sooner or later on whether I got accepted on this round of the short story comps.

For now though, lazy weekends, post SOCNOC.

When a story doesn’t suck as bad as you thought

I was pleasantly surprised when I read over some of the stuff I wrote doing SOCNOC today. Oh, is that nightmare finally done? Yeah, it is, isn’t it? Well, it’s always a good feeling when you’re sure that something you’ve written sucks, and then you read it and it doesn’t suck. Actually, I found it all rather readable.

Which isn’t the same that I can say for the first chapter of Lord of the Rings. Not to put the poor chap down, but I feel confident that I can do something cool and interesting with it. Tomorrow is the first of a new month, and the first day of our eleven day Chapter One Rewrite Book Club challenge. I won’t need the whole time, but maybe I can write two chapters. Who knows.

Having said that, the first chapter of Lord of the Rings is very much a chapter of its time. Tolkien certainly didn’t have to deal with what’s required of a first chapter in this age. I’m not sure, would it sell on it’s first chapter in this day and age? It certainly has a lot of fat on it.

Last question for tonight. Alien or Zombie? Answer me that. Which would you choose? Keep in mind, this is strictly 50s flavor. Ray guns, or shamblers? Why do I ask? Well, you shall find out, dear reader.