Market Theocracy

Still packing, cleaning and doing the other hundred and one things necessary to move. It’s a good thing I’m travelling light. A heavy trip would drive me insane.

Will try to have some writing up tomorrow. Hope all is well amongst the readerfolk.

!

Spent the day packing, cleaning and otherwise preparing for my move on Oct. 8th. As today was the day I officially bought my ticket, I figured it was symbolically a good day to get this shit over with.

The bulk of the work was actually transferring everything from my desktop computer to my laptop, then formatting the desktop. My dad is going to use it as the base for his ‘new’ system: a dual core thingy with some fancy-schmancy video card. Eh. As long as a computer will log onto the internet, run my freeware word processors and has enough ass to play Neverwinter Nights and Fate, I’m happy. It must also be able to run a Super Nintendo emulator as that’s where I get most of my entertainment from these days. That and Spider Solitaire, which I am strangely addicted to.

But Dad is bopping around like a kid on Xmas eve, talking about the cool new toys he’ll be ordering and how kickass his system will be when it’s all ready to go. My Dad does need power: he’s a game junkie who simply has to play the newest and best.

Whatever makes you happy, says I. And I’ll take melodramatic Japanese RPG’s with hilarious dialouge and big headed characters any day.

[The Critique Circle](http://www.critiquecircle.com/default.asp)

Interesting workshop site that uses a point based system to ensure fairness and access to crits. There are also some really helpful looking tools (outliner, sub tracker, character brainstormer, etc.), a forum, and a really well designed system for composing and presenting the critiques themselves.

I’ll be exploring this one for a while, and will report on the quality of the crits I get as soon as I, you know, get some.

I think the ‘net troubles have cleared up. It’s still ridiculously slow, but whatever was making our connection drop every 10-15 minutes has gone. They were doing work up the road, and I’m betting that was the case.

And got to see my good pal RF today and chat with him for a few hours. That’s always a plus. Don’t see anywhere near enough of him these days.

Having some ‘net difficulties folks. Hope to have them sorted out by tomorrow. Bear with me.

Odd but productive day of writing today. In keeping with my thoughts on direction that I posted yesterday, I managed to knock out about 6k words on three seperate stories — two rough drafts and half of another. I don’t know if this is merely enthusiasm for trying something new or evidence that I may have at last found my niche. What is obvious is that framing the stories in the way I talked about has allowed me to proceed on a long blocked story and actually do something with a couple of ideas that have been floating around in my brain for years.

What’s even more exciting is that all three stories have a good chance of appealing to the current SF/Fantasy market.

And, if I do say so myself, are pretty cool.

I’ll talk a bit more about the stories themselves tomorrow. I’m gonna go write some more.

Had a bunch of company show up out of the blue today, which means I didn’t get to polish Part 3 of Coyote. I’ll try to get it posted by tomorrow night.

I’ve been doing some thinking about writing lately. I’m conciously attempting to avoid all mytho-folklore tropes in the fantasy work I’m doing now. This is beastly, bitchily hard considering that the very structure of storytelling is bound up with those tropes.

It can be done, though. LeGuin’s mid 70’s and early 80’s short work, Jeff Ford’s entire career. Jeff VanderMeer, Hal Duncan and Steph Swainston also labor in this particular garden.

My…hmm, direction may be the best term…at the moment is a sort of focused use of the unexplained as both a reflection of and map through various human conditions, which are then distilled through the individual characteristics of normalized characters. The responses of everyday folk faced with ‘reality unmasked; naked and with no excuse’ to quote a work-in-progress (Meeting The Last Man On Earth, For Coffee: A Raincheck) functions as a form of hyperactive allegory. The metaphor rests not in the description, but in the interpretation of events and facts that fit no previous dataset.

Why? Because, to be honest, I’m bored with reading about vampires, werewolves, ghosts, elves, fairies and the like. The idea of writing about them holds even less appeal since it’s so much more work.

Another reason is the simple fact that a framework like the above is far more amenable to inserting my pro-individualism ideals on a subconcious level. The idea that the universe is a funhouse mirror construct that requires subjective interpretation makes a case for individualism in a basic, brass tacks sense. Objectivism and the like then becomes a mindset (or toolset) to strive for rather than the ultimate truth of existence.

Or, as I said to a guy on a debate forum years ago, I have no idea if there are objective truths to life or not, but I see no reason in not behaving as if there were. You have to ground your actions in some form of value. I choose to ground mine in a respect for life, compassion for others, preference for beauty and a goal for finding joy in the days that I have been alloted.

Trying to get my whacked-out sleep schedule back on some rational track. Sorta fuzzy at the moment.

Tommorow I start packing, something I usually leave until the last minute, which means I hurry things and forget stuff. I’m gonna try to avoid that this time.

Eric Lancaster came up from unconsciousness in layers; gently managed stages designed to reduce shock and disorientation. Godiva, the familiar he had carefully designed and built since the age of six, was an old hand at this. She’d certainly gotten enough practice. A youth spent on the rougher streets of Houston and a long decade as a Charleston soldier for hire had given her the experience to manage something as simple as unconsciousness.

The final stage before full waking was a pleasantly dim space filled with soothing music and warm memories. He called it The Lobby.

Eric, love, I may as well be blunt. Godiva told him. You’re a prisoner.

“Shit.” he muttered.

Calm down. Deseret Union is well known for humane prisoner policies. They’re more interested in ransoms than honor killings. Godiva chuckled. Some claim that’s the main reason they bother with fighting. But I suspect that’s mainly anti-Mormon prejudice.

Eric smiled, but shook his head. “May not be a ransom this time.” he reminded her. “I’ve let my dues to MidAmerican slip in the past month. And Charleston hasn’t bothered insuring grunts since the fuckin’ union insisted on combat bonuses in lieu.”

I said calm down, laddie!

Eric sighed. He hadn’t programmed the stern motherly tone Godiva often adopted, but that was the price for high functioning individual cognitive software: random variations in the personality were a given. Things could be worse, he knew. He had a friend who’s familiar often went off into hour long rants about the Masons. And he knew a gal who’s proxy often did impressions in moments of stress. A little mothering, he figured, was a small price to pay.

I was allowed a half hour of full access, in order to make bond arrangements. she explained. I contacted Meline.

Eric groaned. “You mean you contacted Amelia.”

Godiva’s voice could barely conceal her smirk. Of course. Meline was sleeping. Amelia promised she’d arrange your release as soon as she got the go ahead from her girly.

“Are you two ever going to stop scheming to get us back together?” Eric asked her,knowing the answer.

Certainly not. Godiva said, rather insulted at the suggestion. Are you two ever going to admit that your familiars know what’s good for you and let what’s been obvious since you were both toddlers happen?

“I’m currently at the mercy of Mormons.” he reminded her, darkly. “Can we talk about this later?”

If you please. But her voice had that infuriating Mother-knows-best shading. You ready for reality?

He sighed. “As I’ll ever be. Am I alone?”

Godiva laughed. No. These are Mormons, baby. First they’ll try to convert you. Then they’ll simply make sure your ransom will be paid — all the while making sure you’re comfortable, cheerful and aware of how disgustingly nice they are.

“Better than hot rods and bamboo skewers I guess.”

Marginally. Here we go…

The Lobby faded. Light intensified. Ambient sound intruded. Around Eric Lancaster, the world came out of hiding.

Godiva wasn’t kidding. His warden’s smiling face was looming over him as soon as his vision focused.

“Well welcome to Deseret, Mr. Lancaster!” the voice was annoyingly chipper and scarily sincere. This guy was honestly welcoming a prisoner of war to his happy little community. “I’m Brother Thaddeus. I’ll be your host and liaison.”

Eric attempted an experimental move and discovered that he was completely paralyzed.

“My captor, you mean. Or do you paralyze every guest as a matter of course?”

Thaddeus chuckled, appreciating the joke. “A security precaution, I’m afraid. We’ve had more than a few guests come up from the bed swinging. As soon as you prove you’re civil and cooperative, the stasis will be released and you’ll have full run of the guest dorm.” Thaddeus beamed in such a way that suggested he could not imagine a more enjoyable thing to have full run of.

His captor glanced at a wristcom. Mormon doctrine proscribed implants and familiars. Wearable tech was as state-of-the-art as they got. “Your ransom has actually been paid, so you have little to worry about.” Another glance. “A Miss Meline Kennaly, I see. Girlfriend?” His eyebrow raised to suggest this was a just-us-guys thing.

He took Eric’s silence as a rebuke, actually blushing a little. “None of my business I suppose.”

Eric shrugged. It wasn’t that, really. It was that he himself wasn’t sure what his relationship to Meline Kennaly actually amounted to. Friends, most certainly — they’d practically been raised together in early childhood while Eric’s father served as head of James Kennaly’s security detail. When his father was killed in an attack on headquarters, Eric had run away rather than deal with his grief and confusion. He spent five years on the streets. In that time, the only person he made contact with was Meline, who could always be counted on to lend him cash or a sympathetic ear. After his last stint in City Jail, she’d even helped him get the soldiering job in Charleston.

And, he admitted, he loved the girl. A deep down love and affection he felt for no other living thing. And no non-living thing with the possible exception of Godiva. But girlfriend? Not exactly.

Sometime during this little brood the stasis was lifted. He sat up, joints a bit cramped and skin tingling.

“Care for a bite to eat?” Thaddeus asked. “The cook here does an excellent lunch.”

Eric realized suddenly that he was starving. He thanked his captor, who muttered into the wrist com to order. While they waited, Eric asked the only real question he dreaded.

“So. How did the battle turn out?”

Thaddeus sighed. “Inconclusive, the way these ridiculous border flare ups usually go.” He cocked his head at Eric and, smile drifting a little, asked a question of his own.

“Why on earth would Charleston side with thugs like United Secular Utah? Deseret has never had anything but amiable relations with Charleston or any of the Southern Citystates.”

Lunch arrived — fried chicken and ample sides — and Eric dug in. He shook his head at Thaddeus’ question.

“I’m a grunt, my friend. We don’t get the lowdown on why or what.” He paused to use a napkin. “If I had to guess, I’d say some convoluted treaty bullshit.”

Thaddeus opened his mouth to speak, when the alarm screamed from his wrist.

At the exact moment, Godiva screamed in his head: Incoming! Down Eric!

The world exploded. Eric grabbed Thaddeus and yanked him towards him, rolling off and under the bed, his half finished lunch disintegrating in the blast that took out the facing wall.

“What the hell?” shouted Eric.

Godiva was powering up combat system, enhancing senses and searching feeds desperately for answers.

Don’t know yet, but stay down!

Eric glanced at Thaddeus. He was unconscious and bleeding from a wound on the side of his head, but seemed in decent shape. His vitals were solid and regular.

He chanced a look at the destroyed wall. Smoke and flashes kept him from seeing anything. Vague raised voices, screams, and the sound of gunfire poured in from various directions.

Frying pans and fire, he thought. The life a soldier, eh?

While Godiva swam the infostreams, Eric prepared himself for a fight. He wondered if the guest house had a weapons cache anywhere.

He gently picked his captor up in settled him over his shoulder. For psychological reasons, he grabbed a large chunk of wood. Not much of a weapon, but swingable.

Once more into the breach, he thought. Holding his breath, and cranking his eye implants to max, he stepped through the shattered wall and into bedlam.