Matthew Lang's Blog, page 8

Jupiter’s (Elias Chapter 2: Mass Effect)

Art by Cat Meff (Used under Creative Commons)

On Saturday morning, Elias found himself standing before a faded red door in a clean but spartan hallway.

“Well, this is the place,” Corbin said. “It ain’t much, but I figure it’s better than a boardin’ house.”

“It’s on a main road with street-lighting,” Elias said. “That’s a step up in my books.”

Out of his hazmat suit, Corbin was tall, and had a muscular upper body and a barrel chest. He wore low slung jeans and a short sleeve shirt over an old white T-shirt, and indeed, his entire look was a bit 20th century throwback, except for his shoes, which were top of the line extra padded MC42s from Micah Black. Clearly, the man dressed for comfort. Right now, he swiped his omni-tool across the lock and the door swung open, revealing a simple interior that was both cluttered and spacious. By human standards, it would be considered cramped, with a tiny living cum dining room with a kitchenette off to one side. Three doors led off the lounge behind the couch and although the floor was clean and the benchtops immaculate—or possibly unused—there was a light jumper thrown over the couch, a pile of books and a few datapads next to the couch and the shelves near the entertainment unit were filled with trinkets from around the universe.

“Where’d you get all of that?” Elias asked.

“The extranet mostly,” Corbin said, his face flushing. “I got that from an asari doctor who was stationed in London for a spell,” he said, pointing to a small greenish crystal that glimmered in the sunlight coming through the window. One day I’m hopin’ to see the universe, but the idea of hopping on a ship and leaving this all behind…”

“You can always come back,” Elias said. “That’s the point isn’t it? You leave and go off so that one day you can go back. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next month. Maybe it won’t be in your lifetime even, but one day.”

Corbin looked up at him, the small cardboard box that held Elias’ possessions in his hands. “Sorry. I forgot that you didn’t have a home planet until a few years ago.”

Elias shrugged. “That’s all right. I had the fleet, cramped and overcrowded as it was. Even the rooming house was spacious in comparison.”

“Really? Wow,” Corbin shook his head. “I saw that place and I don’t think I could live there. Admittedly my spare room ain’t that much bigger, but that’s probably why no-one’s wanted to rent it off me so far.”

“What, no one?”

“No one I’d be comfortable rentin’ to, I guess,” Corbin said, leading the way across the room to the door on the far right. “Well, this is it.”

The room was probably a bit over two square metres in dimension, and had a single bed, a desk and a built in closet and not much else bar an old ceiling fan. Used to worlds of ducted airflow, he stared up at it quizzically.

“I think it looks pretty,” Corbin said placing the cardboard box on the desk. “Plus the ducts in this place can rattle something awful. This really all you got?” he asked, patting the box.

Elias nodded. “When you’re not used to a lot of space you don’t keep many things. It took me a while to get my head around credits, to be honest.”

“What do you mean?”

“We don’t use currency,” Elias said. “On the fleet all food and resources are communal to ensure we all survive. When I have something I don’t need I take it to a plaza and leave it so that someone else can have it and vice versa. If we don’t all pull our weight our people…it’s odd to think we’ll have an economy one day.”

“Sounds to me like you all look out for one another,” Corbin said. “Wish more folk around here did that.”

When Elias took the small A4 poster from his first gig out and hung it from the wall, Corbin snapped his fingers. “Hey, I’ve read about you. La Ville gave you five stars and said you were one to watch out for.

Elias paused. “You got that from my poster?”

“The print of your face…um…mask,” Corbin said. “I didn’t get your name that time.”

Stepping back from the wall, Elias pulled out his databook and a small potted iris from the box and put them onto the desk, and carefully hung the string of red Mardi-Gras beads around the corner post of the metal bedhead.

“Well that’s me unpacked,” he said.

“Good,” Corbin said with a grin. “Now we’re gettin’ you a gig.”

The thing Elias quickly came to realise about Corbin was that the man was enthusiasm personified and within the hour he was standing by a battered black piano with a microphone in his hand. Apparently it was open mic night at one of Corbin’s favourite hangouts: Jupiter’s. It had an old world feel mixed with some industrial flavour. The floors were old wooden boards, the walls a mix of dark metal panels and a deep green paint that had probably been the height of fashion in years gone by. There were brass railings that were still polished regularly, and the crowd appeared to be regulars who knew each other, and although he got a few glances, he could see enough alien faces in the crowd to be comfortable as he walked in next to the doctor. Over on a sidetable near the piano was a number of piles of sheet music and Corbin steered him over and left him with an admonition to pick a good song while he got some drinks.

It took a while to find something that he knew, but when he brought the creased, yellowing paper up to the pianist, the wizened man smiled at him, blue eyes twinkling with a youthfulness that Elias sometimes didn’t see in people his own age.

“I don’t think anyone’s sung that number in ten years,” he said. “And up you pop. I hope you’ve got a good voice on you lad. This song deserves a good outing.”

Behind his mask, Elias smiled. “I hope I have a good voice as well. Otherwise I’ll be letting a friend down.” Over by the bar, Corbin had pushed his way to the front and was leaning over the bar to chat to the barman—and Elias was certain the front of his t-shirt would have a wet mark where the front of the bar had pressed into his abdomen.

“You’re with the Doc?” The pianist asked, adjusting his spectacles. “Well, I always did wonder.”

“I’m sorry?”

In his helmet the blue light that Pi used flickered. “If my analysis of human syntax is accurate, I believe the old musician believes you and your new flatmate are romantically involved.”

Elias was glad the tint of his helmet hid his blush.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” the pianist said. “I’m just rambling. The name’s Jacques and I’m the ivory tinkler in this here bar. Been doing it when it was a Japanese restaurant called Hong’s.”

Grateful for the subject change, Elias’ mind came to a shuddering halt. “Isn’t Hong’s a…Chinese name?” he ventured.

Jacques grinned, the lines on his face creasing into a wreath of happiness and his white teeth contrasting with his dark skin. “That it is. Was still the best tempura in town for near on a decade. Need a key change?”

“Huh?”

“Key change?” Jacques asked, pointing at the music which he’d spread out over the piano’s music desk. “Or are you good with D major?”

“I’ll cope.”

Oh Danny boy, the pipes the pipes are calling,

From glen to glen, and down the mountainside.

It took a moment to adjust to the microphone and the speakers, which although old by galactic standards, still produced a clear, clean sound. The initial nerves and concerns that Elias had about his heath and his voice and the strangeness of his location was swept away as Jaque’s fingers flew across the piano keys and there was something undeniably right about being in this old style bar with its brass and wood and non-electronic pianoforte.

The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling,

‘Tis you, ‘tis you, must go and I must bide

As he closed his eyes and let the music carry him along, Elias dimly heard the room still around him. Conversations petered out, the clinking of glasses stopped as they were placed on tables and when he opened his eyes he found himself at the pointy end of the room’s collective stares. It was somehow different to Le Alligator, where he primarily provided background music, sitting on a stool next to the pianist, an Asari maiden who typically wore dresses of red to match the decor in the bar, which appeared to be styled along the lines of a French Bordello, which was a word Elias had had to look up, and then blushed when he’d found out what it meant. It certainly explained the pictures of women in various stages of undress that adorned the wall, even if there wasn’t any hanky panky on the premises. There, people went to drink and chat and the music was background noise, much the way that the constant creak of bulkheads and the pumping rattle of old air ducts had been on the Ashru. At Jupiter’s people seemed to take their music seriously, even if most of the singers typically performed current pop songs or whatever big musical was currently playing on Broadway. Maybe he should go to New York at some point.

But come ye back, when summer’s in the meadow,

Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow,

On the other hand, the older songs spoke to him in a way that newer human music just didn’t. Maybe it was the autotune or the carefully manufactured life of the pop star, churning out predictable hit after predictable hit and being seen at all the right places with a trail of media hyped relationships behind them. Sometimes he wondered if those were even real. He remembered a documentary about the celebrity machine where the human heartthrob Lance Bakkar had enlisted the help of Asari Diva and heiress Aisha Parralli to see if they could manufacture relationship rumours. All they did was go out for dinner and get in and out of the same car and they’d received two weeks of press coverage. Such was the price of celebrity.

For I’ll be here, in sunshine or in shadow,

Oh Danny Boy, oh Danny Boy, I love you so.

Was it? Was it possible to be a celebrity with integrity? Was it really only the music that mattered, or was there a cost that you paid to the machine that enabled you to make and sell enough to get to where you needed to be in order to make the music that you wanted. And if you paid too much would you ever be able to go back to the simple nights when it was just you and the piano in a dingy bar with nothing between you and the audience.

But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying,

If I am dead, as dead I well may be,

If he hadn’t been singing, Elias would have laughed at himself. No Quarian had ever become a big recording artist. Best he could hope for was doing small gigs that would allow him to keep travelling the universe and doing what he loved. And maybe afford to stay somewhere where he wouldn’t get jumped in alleyways for no apparent reason. It was nice to dream, but then, the dream was scary. Idly, he wondered what he’d do if he ever came face to face with the choices of fame, but pushed it out of his head. He had a song to perform. Really perform, and not just stand and sing on autopilot.

You’ll come and find the place where I am lying,

And kneel and say an Ave there for me.

Opening his eyes, Elias glanced around the room, and felt a warm glow as he saw a clusters of rapt faces watching him, most people sitting quietly at tables. Some had music in front of them, one or two were still flipping through stacks of music, much as he had earlier, but they were the exception. Over by the bar, Corbin was standing with a drink in each hand, one in a red glass which typically signified a dextro-friendly drink. He was staring up at Elias with a strange look on his face and his mouth was hanging open. When the last note faded and the music stopped the silence at the end of the song was almost painful and he clipped the microphone back into its stand to hide the shaking in his hands and stepped back, blinking as the room erupted into applause.

“Elias with Danny Boy ladies and gentlemen,” the host said, a voluptuous black woman with short dreadlocks and a silver nose piercing. “Give it up folks!”

Elias raised a hand, and then ducked his head in an awkward half bow and then walked as fast as he dared off the stage.

“Hey, Elias, lad,” Jacques said.

“Yes?”

“You did the song proud.”

“Thanks.”

“If you like the old stuff, you should check out the library. That’s about the only place you can find music like that these days. You bring it in, and I’ll play it for you.”

That was how it started, but as Corbin descended upon him with a grin that was nearly as broad as the man’s shoulders, Elias knew the future was going to have to wait. It seemed he’d made a friend.

Go To Chapter 3

Pilgrimage: Earth (Mass Effect Collision, Chapter 1)

Note: This is the start of a storified tabletop rpg campaign entitled Mass Effect: Collision. It is watchable on YouTube and run by AngelArts.

Earth, March 2188 CE

New Orleans-Lafayette was what happened after sea level rises and the effects of increasingly frequent hurricanes lashed the Louisiana bayous, all but sinking the old city of New Orleans. It had never really recovered from the blows it took in the mid 2000s, and the government of the United North American States had paid billions to migrate the population up the Mississippi River, eventually founding New New Orleans, before urban sprawl effectively merged it with Lafayette. The mega city was a study in modern construction, with ivory skyscrapers pushing up into the sun and elevated walkways looking out over parks and canals that stretched out over Fausse Point Bay.

However, even in all of its rebuilt glory, the elegant decay the city had long been known for wasn’t hard to find. In the old town, the tallest buildings were no more than fifty stories high, and some of them had been painstakingly repaired with scavenged stone. Some were still piles of rubble, although scaffolding was everywhere and all levels of government were arguing over the benefits of preserving the ‘historical precinct’ and the benefits of modernisation and new technologies. There were still back alleyways, full of smoke and less than pleasant smells hidden off the main street where the tourists came through for their sanitised slum tours.

In one back alleyway, so hidden that it didn’t even have a name on the street directory—if it appeared at all—there was also a torn, broken quarian envirosuit, and inside an equally battered Quarian, slowly bleeding out. Thick red blood pooled beneath him, some running off into a gutter. Somewhere, in the distance, an omni-tool pinged unexpectedly. A battered metal door squeaked open and a burly man looked out and down. Swearing, he turned back and yelled back into the heat and noise of the building. “Hey, someone get Doc!”

For Elia’solor nar Ashru, New Orleans-Lafayette had been the perfect place for the next part of his pilgrimage. Maybe he’d find something worth bringing back. Maybe he wouldn’t.

Arriving just in time for Mardi Gras, Elias was swept away in the music and riotous colours and revelry of the parades, parties and street performers. He was soon sporting around six necklaces of cheap, sparkling beads and was being offered delicacies by the Turian and enterprising human entrepreneurs who had thought to cater for dextro-tourists. The amount of flesh and casual nudity during the festival had caught him by surprise, and he wondered what it would be like to feel the breeze on his skin. He’d heard that there had been recent advances in genetic engineering that was aimed at strengthening the quarian immune system, but ancestors knew when that would bear fruit. Of course, before the Device had been triggered there had been some geth uploading themselves into quarian suits and effectively running high speed immuno-boosting programs to allow some quarians to bypass to live without the suits, but after the Synthesis, well, things were tricky as geth suddenly found themselves to be a strange mix of hardware and software and with a council injunction against creating new synthetic life, that wasn’t something likely to happen now. Or to him.

Elias had found odd jobs around town—some welding, some basic electronic repair work, and after a few auditions, he’d also started booking gigs at jazz bars and lounges around city. After a few months he had a regular gig at Le Alligator, and even a few fans who showed up wherever he was performing. About six months into his stay he was making plans to move out of the rooming house he’d been renting, probably to a studio apartment. More space than the bedsit, but, well…still roomier than anything he’d had back on the Vashru. He’d kept a few things—the very first string of beads he’d been thrown, and digital copies of the posters his name had appeared on, along with one pristine copy of the first poster that had his face on it. Posters were still used in the city—there were digital billboards everywhere, but for the small, independent music scene it was still easier to print on cheap paper and paste the posters up on the many abandoned walls and temporary fences that were ubiquitous in the area. Sometimes cheap holograms were used, or iridescent inks, but often simple black on colour prints were used in a technique that hadn’t changed in centuries.

He was cutting through the maze of alleys in old town at 3 AM when he was jumped. He ducked the first blow from a two by four and sliced through a length of metal rod that came towards him with his omni-blade. It was an instinctive response, as was ducking to one side and going into a combat roll that took him past the two attacking thugs and then he took off down the closest side street. Footsteps behind him told him he was being pursued and it sounded like there were more of them if the shouts and hollers were anything to go by. Ahead, a red shape loomed out of the dark, and a bright, circular white light illuminated a rising gun. Elias hit the deck as shots rang out, his hands covering his head for all the good that would do. There was a cry behind him that was cut short and the footsteps stopped.

“Creator Elias. You should not be walking alone through back alleyways. Chance of assault calculated at 6.78 percent per night which is not insignificant.”

Elias stared up through his faceplate at the familiar, lithe figure. “You’re geth?”

“Yes creator Elias,” the weapons platform said, its voice smoothly modulated. “We should not delay. I suspect the gang after your credits have guns of their own.”

Scrambling to his feet, Elias pulled out his own sub machine gun and took cover behind an old bollard.

“You’re not synthesised,” he said. He’d become used to seeing the green shimmer over all forms of life and not seeing it on the weapon platform had come as a bit of a shock.

“No I am not. You should ready your weapon, Creator Elias. The humans outnumber us significantly,” he said.

The firefight was swift and brutal. Although Elias and the geth hit most of their targets, one of the gang members, a scrawny, pale human with faux Krogan tattoos and scraggy hair was using modded rounds that tore through Elias’ envirosuit. The red danger icon flashed up in his visor advising of breaches in the abdomen, chest, and left arm. As he fell to the ground with a cry the platform stepped forward, placing itself between him and his assailants. There was more gunfire, more screams, the loud crack of a shotgun and then the platform slowly toppled over to lie next to him. Slow footsteps approached, and Elias stared up into a scarred, battle hardened face.

“Who are—”

The man raised his shotgun, the barrels staring down into Elias’ mask. He opened his mouth to speak and then stopped, a gush of blood pouring out as he fell to his knees, his eyes both shocked and accusatory. As he fell out of view, Elias saw a three fingered, cybernetic hand, holding a pistol.

“Creator Elias?”

“You shot him! Is he…it? Are…there more?”

“Creator Elias you must flee. This area is not s-safe and you…you…”

Elias grimaced and pulled himself up into a sitting position. “My suit’s ruptured badly and…are you okay?”

“Mobility seriously imp-impaired, power reserves failing. I am…dying, Creator Elias. You m-must apply antib-b-biotics and flee.”

In the distance, Elias could hear the the sounds of gunfire, although whether that was more of the gang that had attacked him or something unrelated he didn’t know. Reaching over to the weapon’s platform, he deftly opened the panel to the geth’s memory banks. “Come with me,” he said, using his Omni-tool to open up a localised wireless network. “I’m probably not going to last long anyway and…someone might as well… Try not to get the suit trashed, okay?”

Elias half limped, half crawled away, not knowing which direction was best even as he saw the meter in the corner of his vision showing one of his isolated hard drives filling up as the geth’s programs transferred into his suit. On the other side he pulled up a map of the local area, and cursed when he found himself in the middle of an unmapped mess of buildings. A snatch of alto saxophone floated through the air with the sounds of laughter and glasses clinking, and the night air felt warm against Elias’ blue skin. It wasn’t the feeling of freedom he’d been hoping for, however, and he as his strength gave out he collapsed on the floor.

“Creator Elias!” the geth’s voice rang in his helmet. “Creator Elias!”

The air smelled of antibacterial cleaner and the floor was white. No, the ceiling was white. He was on his back, staring up at a ceiling. Grunting, Elias tried to sit up, and gasped as his body protested. He fell back against the pillows beneath him and swift footsteps approached.

“No sir, don’t you be trying to get up now. You’ve taken quite the beatin’ and I don’t know how good your suit’s held up. You’re running a fever, which is to be expected and you’re in the cleanest room we have, but I’d appreciate it if you don’t tax yourself none, all right?”

Turning his head, Elias saw a tall, broad shouldered human with what appeared to be an engaging smile. He was wearing a surgical green suit that was probably a hazmat suit and a clear plastic helmet that was more tub than anything else. Inside, Elias got the impression of black rimmed glasses and short, dark hair, slightly damped down with sweat.

“You’ve got one hell of a diagnostics program in there though,” the man continued. “Kept telling me where you had contaminants and what I needed to do to make sure your suit was sealed up and well…patched I suppose. I didn’t know you could section off your suits like that. Makes sense I guess, but it sure puts ours to shame. I’ll bet it costs a bit more to make than this cheap thing though.”

Staring down his torso, Elias could see the black of his envirosuit had been patched with a rough, blood red resin.

“Sorry about that,” the hazmat man said. “I’m not real good at patchin’ stuff, but I used a new tin of resin over medical gauze. I should’ve matched the colour but…honestly I just grabbed the first unopened tin I could find.”

“I can—” Elias’ voice came out in a rasp. Coughing, he cleared his throat. “I can work with it. It’s a bit of a signature look, I guess.”

The other man laughed. “I’m glad to see you’ve still got your sense of humour. I’m Corbin, by the way. Most people ‘round here call me Doc though.”

“Doc Corbin?”

“No sir, just Doc. My boss is Doc Skinner, and there’s four of us here in total, but I’m just Doc.”

“Why’s that?”

“Cause I’m the first boy from Old Town to go to college, and come back a doctor, I guess,” Corbin said. “What’s your name? I don’t really like just having ‘Male Quarian’ on your chart, y’know?”

“Elia’solor nar Ashru. Most people call me Elias.”

“Well, Elias, it’s very nice to meet you,” Corbin said. “Now do you think you can drink some water for me? I’ve got you on a drip, but your throat sounds dry.” Reaching over to the table on the other side of the bed, Corbin brought over a bottle of distilled water and a straw. Cracking the top he helped Elias get the straw into the right section of his helmet.

“I’m amazed you managed to get a drip in,” Elias said. “Actually I’m amazed you know enough to treat a Quarian patient.”

Even through the hazmat suit, Elias could see Corbin was blushing. “I studied some xenomedicine in college. Honestly I had to dig out my notes from that class and well…like I said, your diagnostics program was incredibly helpful. Voice interface and everything.”

Elias swallowed and lay back into the pillows. “Thank you,” he murmured to the Geth in the privacy of his own helmet.

“You’re welcome,” was its muted response.

Corbin might have said something else, but Elias was fast asleep and didn’t hear it if he had.

When Elias woke next he was alone in the room. Well, mostly alone.

“Good afternoon, Creator Elias.”

“Good afternoon…wait, have you picked a name yet?”

There was a pause. “No, I have not.”

A number of questions swam through Elias’ mind, and he picked the first one that came to him. “How did you know my name?”

“Your name and voiceprint was in our database of creators likely to be in this system.”

“The geth have databases on quarian pilgrims?”

There was a pause. “Your safety is important to us.”

“That was kind of creepy.”

The baritone voice in his ear sounded amused. “It was also true.”

“Why?”

“You are our creators,” the Geth said simply. “You and the Sheppard-Commander chose to give us life. We choose how to live it.”

“And how do you choose to live it?”

“Do you remember what the word geth means, Creator Elias?”

“Touché,” Elias said. “Okay, so tell me about you.”

“I am geth.”

This time Elias grinned. “Okay, that might have flown four years ago, but I know better than to believe that’s it.”

“I am made up of three thousand one hundred and forty one individual runtime processes. I like circles. I also like red.”

Elias smiled. “I like red too. Why haven’t you returned to Rannoch?”

“Why haven’t you?”

“I did. Then I left,” Elias said. “I just didn’t think I’d be very useful there right now.”

“I came to the same conclusion.”

“Wait, I get that I’m not useful back home, but why not you?”

“I am not programmed for construction.”

Elias paused. “You can reprogram yourself to do anything you want, can’t you?”

“I can yes. But then would I be me?”

A laugh escaped unbidden from Elias’ ribs, which turned into a gasp. “Please don’t be funny,” he said. “It hurts too much right now.”

“All right. I will be funny in the privacy of your envirosuit circuitry.”

“Smart Ass.”

“I am a fast learner.”

“What’s the difference between learning and re-programming?”

The answer was slow in coming. “Learning is iterative.”

“You know, if I could just add data directly into my brain to improve my knowledge immediately, I totally would.”

“You are hardware and software,” the geth said. “I am just software.”

“And if you weren’t, you’d be dead by now,” Elias pointed out.

“I…concur.”

“So why don’t you have a name?”

“I have not found one that fits.”

“You like circles, huh?”

“Yes. I find them to be…mathematically symmetric.”

“You could just say beautiful, you know.”

The geth paused. “I am still formulating my concept of beauty.”

“Until you find a name, do you mind if I call you ‘Pi’?”

There was a long pause. “What flavour?” Pi asked eventually.

“Does it matter? You don’t eat!”

“I do not think I’d like banana,” Pi said.

Elias grinned. “Well I can’t eat those either, so I can’t help you there.”

“Who are you talking to?”

The clean room doors hissed open, and a now familiar pale green hazmat suit.

Inside his helmet, Pi’s voice rang softly in his ears. “I suggest you do not be too forthcoming,” he said. “I’m not sure if humans will be comfortable with geth, even one in a suit.”

“It’s my VI,” Elias lied glibly. “I’ve been modifying the voice interface and need to test it.”

“You have a VI for your suit?” Corbin asked, as he made his way around to the drip that Elias was attached to and switched the bags over.

“Well, for some of the functions inside of it, yeah,” Elias said. “Mostly things like enhanced facial recognition, birthdays, sorting through audition notices and keeping track of my…wait, what day is it?”

“Thursday, why?”

Elias sat up with a jerk and started to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. “I’ve got to go, I’ve got a gig at Le Alligator and if I don’t—”

A hand on his chest stopped his movement and a strong arm grabbed his shoulders just as the pain hit.

“You’re not in any condition to be gettin’ up on no stage, no sir,” Corbin said.

“I’ve got to,” Elias said. He tried to push past Corbin’s grip but found himself weaker than an Eden Prime Gasbag. “I need to pay the boarding house, I know I’m going to need creds for this place and if I lose that gig—”

“You’ll get another one,” Corbin said. “I know Le Alligator, I’ll give them a call and let them know you’re here. How long are you paid up for at the rooming house?”

“Until tomorrow,” Elias said. “I was planning on moving out to a studio, but I’m not sure I can afford to now. Studio’s aren’t cheap.”

“Do you mind me asking how much you’re paying?” Corbin asked, as gently encouraged Elias to lie back down.

“Seventy five creds a week,” Elias said. “It would be more, but I can’t eat the meals there.”

“Let me get your stuff from where you’re staying,” Corbin said. “I think I might be able to help.”

Elias collapsed into the pillows with a sigh. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Doc, but why would you? You barely know me.”

Corbin laughed. “Elias, I’ve spent the last two days monitoring your vitals, patching your suit and draining out your suit’s waste port. I didn’t even know Quarian suits had a waste system, you know? I know more about you in two days than I knew about my ex after two years. You’re a good guy. Plus I love this city.”

Elias blinked. “I didn’t follow that leap of logic.”

“I’ve lived here all my life,” Corbin said. “Bar six odd months hiding out in the countryside patching up soldiers’ hurts, I’ve always been here. And I think it’s better than what you’ve experienced—and I’d like to prove that to you.”

Elias laughed, only slightly awkwardly. “That’s the southern charm I’ve heard so much about is it?”

“If you like,” Corbin said. “You’ll be out of here tomorrow evening, if you keep mending the way you are. Do you quarians normally heal this fast?”

“Compared to humans? I don’t know,” Elias said. “My suit does monitor my health constantly though.”

Corbin shook his head. “There’s something to be said for those things,” he said. “Maybe all of our patients should wear those.”

“Expensive treatment process,” Elias said. “Could be good if you could tailor it to their species though.”

Corbin laughed. “Something to think about, that’s for sure. Almost a pity I’m a doctor and not an engineer, huh?”

“Nope,” Elias said. “I’m very glad you’re a doctor. When… I honestly didn’t think I was going to make it.” He took a deep shuddering breath and let it out slowly. “I just…”

“Are you… oh um… this is normally when I’d give you a tissue, but um…”

Elias laughed a shaky laugh as a suction fan turned on inside his helmet. “It’s all right. My suit has an extractor fan built in.”

Corbin squeezed his shoulder gently. “All right. Can you get your suit to bring up your temperature please? I’m a bit concerned you’re still feverish now.”

“That’s just my body adapting to the environment,” Elias said. “It’s normal.”

“Right,” Corbin said, snapping his fingers. “That quarian response to foreign pathogens. I remember learning about that.”

Elias looked up into a big toothy grin. “You’re getting a kick out of having me as a patient, aren’t you?”

“Yes sir, I am,” Corbin said. “It’s a chance to get better at xenomedicine and hell, I’ve been talkin’ to doctors on the Citadel to make sure I’m doing right by you. Most of the other staff here ain’t got the training in alien physiology. Wasn’t a thing when they were going through college, you know? Now. Where are you stayin’ exactly? I need to get a wriggle on to get everythin’ done, you know?”

Go to Chapter 2

Pilgrimage: Earth (Elias Chapter 1, Mass Effect)

Note: This is the start of a storified tabletop rpg campaign entitled Mass Effect: Collision. It is watchable on YouTube and run by AngelArts.

Earth, March 2188 CE

New Orleans-Lafayette was what happened after sea level rises and the effects of increasingly frequent hurricanes lashed the Louisiana bayous, all but sinking the old city of New Orleans. It had never really recovered from the blows it took in the mid 2000s, and the government of the United North American States had paid billions to migrate the population up the Mississippi River, eventually founding New New Orleans, before urban sprawl effectively merged it with Lafayette. The mega city was a study in modern construction, with ivory skyscrapers pushing up into the sun and elevated walkways looking out over parks and canals that stretched out over Fausse Point Bay.

However, even in all of its rebuilt glory, the elegant decay the city had long been known for wasn’t hard to find. In the old town, the tallest buildings were no more than fifty stories high, and some of them had been painstakingly repaired with scavenged stone. Some were still piles of rubble, although scaffolding was everywhere and all levels of government were arguing over the benefits of preserving the ‘historical precinct’ and the benefits of modernisation and new technologies. There were still back alleyways, full of smoke and less than pleasant smells hidden off the main street where the tourists came through for their sanitised slum tours.

In one back alleyway, so hidden that it didn’t even have a name on the street directory—if it appeared at all—there was also a torn, broken quarian envirosuit, and inside an equally battered Quarian, slowly bleeding out. Thick red blood pooled beneath him, some running off into a gutter. Somewhere, in the distance, an omni-tool pinged unexpectedly. A battered metal door squeaked open and a burly man looked out and down. Swearing, he turned back and yelled back into the heat and noise of the building. “Hey, someone get Doc!”

For Elia’solor nar Ashru, New Orleans-Lafayette had been the perfect place for the next part of his pilgrimage. Maybe he’d find something worth bringing back. Maybe he wouldn’t.

Arriving just in time for Mardi Gras, Elias was swept away in the music and riotous colours and revelry of the parades, parties and street performers. He was soon sporting around six necklaces of cheap, sparkling beads and was being offered delicacies by the Turian and enterprising human entrepreneurs who had thought to cater for dextro-tourists. The amount of flesh and casual nudity during the festival had caught him by surprise, and he wondered what it would be like to feel the breeze on his skin. He’d heard that there had been recent advances in genetic engineering that was aimed at strengthening the quarian immune system, but ancestors knew when that would bear fruit. Of course, before the Device had been triggered there had been some geth uploading themselves into quarian suits and effectively running high speed immuno-boosting programs to allow some quarians to bypass to live without the suits, but after the Synthesis, well, things were tricky as geth suddenly found themselves to be a strange mix of hardware and software and with a council injunction against creating new synthetic life, that wasn’t something likely to happen now. Or to him.

Elias had found odd jobs around town—some welding, some basic electronic repair work, and after a few auditions, he’d also started booking gigs at jazz bars and lounges around city. After a few months he had a regular gig at Le Alligator, and even a few fans who showed up wherever he was performing. About six months into his stay he was making plans to move out of the rooming house he’d been renting, probably to a studio apartment. More space than the bedsit, but, well…still roomier than anything he’d had back on the Vashru. He’d kept a few things—the very first string of beads he’d been thrown, and digital copies of the posters his name had appeared on, along with one pristine copy of the first poster that had his face on it. Posters were still used in the city—there were digital billboards everywhere, but for the small, independent music scene it was still easier to print on cheap paper and paste the posters up on the many abandoned walls and temporary fences that were ubiquitous in the area. Sometimes cheap holograms were used, or iridescent inks, but often simple black on colour prints were used in a technique that hadn’t changed in centuries.

He was cutting through the maze of alleys in old town at 3 AM when he was jumped. He ducked the first blow from a two by four and sliced through a length of metal rod that came towards him with his omni-blade. It was an instinctive response, as was ducking to one side and going into a combat roll that took him past the two attacking thugs and then he took off down the closest side street. Footsteps behind him told him he was being pursued and it sounded like there were more of them if the shouts and hollers were anything to go by. Ahead, a red shape loomed out of the dark, and a bright, circular white light illuminated a rising gun. Elias hit the deck as shots rang out, his hands covering his head for all the good that would do. There was a cry behind him that was cut short and the footsteps stopped.

“Creator Elias. You should not be walking alone through back alleyways. Chance of assault calculated at 6.78 percent per night which is not insignificant.”

Elias stared up through his faceplate at the familiar, lithe figure. “You’re geth?”

“Yes creator Elias,” the weapons platform said, its voice smoothly modulated. “We should not delay. I suspect the gang after your credits have guns of their own.”

Scrambling to his feet, Elias pulled out his own sub machine gun and took cover behind an old bollard.

“You’re not synthesised,” he said. He’d become used to seeing the green shimmer over all forms of life and not seeing it on the weapon platform had come as a bit of a shock.

“No I am not. You should ready your weapon, Creator Elias. The humans outnumber us significantly,” he said.

The firefight was swift and brutal. Although Elias and the geth hit most of their targets, one of the gang members, a scrawny, pale human with faux Krogan tattoos and scraggy hair was using modded rounds that tore through Elias’ envirosuit. The red danger icon flashed up in his visor advising of breaches in the abdomen, chest, and left arm. As he fell to the ground with a cry the platform stepped forward, placing itself between him and his assailants. There was more gunfire, more screams, the loud crack of a shotgun and then the platform slowly toppled over to lie next to him. Slow footsteps approached, and Elias stared up into a scarred, battle hardened face.

“Who are—”

The man raised his shotgun, the barrels staring down into Elias’ mask. He opened his mouth to speak and then stopped, a gush of blood pouring out as he fell to his knees, his eyes both shocked and accusatory. As he fell out of view, Elias saw a three fingered, cybernetic hand, holding a pistol.

“Creator Elias?”

“You shot him! Is he…it? Are…there more?”

“Creator Elias you must flee. This area is not s-safe and you…you…”

Elias grimaced and pulled himself up into a sitting position. “My suit’s ruptured badly and…are you okay?”

“Mobility seriously imp-impaired, power reserves failing. I am…dying, Creator Elias. You m-must apply antib-b-biotics and flee.”

In the distance, Elias could hear the the sounds of gunfire, although whether that was more of the gang that had attacked him or something unrelated he didn’t know. Reaching over to the weapon’s platform, he deftly opened the panel to the geth’s memory banks. “Come with me,” he said, using his Omni-tool to open up a localised wireless network. “I’m probably not going to last long anyway and…someone might as well… Try not to get the suit trashed, okay?”

Elias half limped, half crawled away, not knowing which direction was best even as he saw the meter in the corner of his vision showing one of his isolated hard drives filling up as the geth’s programs transferred into his suit. On the other side he pulled up a map of the local area, and cursed when he found himself in the middle of an unmapped mess of buildings. A snatch of alto saxophone floated through the air with the sounds of laughter and glasses clinking, and the night air felt warm against Elias’ blue skin. It wasn’t the feeling of freedom he’d been hoping for, however, and he as his strength gave out he collapsed on the floor.

“Creator Elias!” the geth’s voice rang in his helmet. “Creator Elias!”

The air smelled of antibacterial cleaner and the floor was white. No, the ceiling was white. He was on his back, staring up at a ceiling. Grunting, Elias tried to sit up, and gasped as his body protested. He fell back against the pillows beneath him and swift footsteps approached.

“No sir, don’t you be trying to get up now. You’ve taken quite the beatin’ and I don’t know how good your suit’s held up. You’re running a fever, which is to be expected and you’re in the cleanest room we have, but I’d appreciate it if you don’t tax yourself none, all right?”

Turning his head, Elias saw a tall, broad shouldered human with what appeared to be an engaging smile. He was wearing a surgical green suit that was probably a hazmat suit and a clear plastic helmet that was more tub than anything else. Inside, Elias got the impression of black rimmed glasses and short, dark hair, slightly damped down with sweat.

“You’ve got one hell of a diagnostics program in there though,” the man continued. “Kept telling me where you had contaminants and what I needed to do to make sure your suit was sealed up and well…patched I suppose. I didn’t know you could section off your suits like that. Makes sense I guess, but it sure puts ours to shame. I’ll bet it costs a bit more to make than this cheap thing though.”

Staring down his torso, Elias could see the black of his envirosuit had been patched with a rough, blood red resin.

“Sorry about that,” the hazmat man said. “I’m not real good at patchin’ stuff, but I used a new tin of resin over medical gauze. I should’ve matched the colour but…honestly I just grabbed the first unopened tin I could find.”

“I can—” Elias’ voice came out in a rasp. Coughing, he cleared his throat. “I can work with it. It’s a bit of a signature look, I guess.”

The other man laughed. “I’m glad to see you’ve still got your sense of humour. I’m Corbin, by the way. Most people ‘round here call me Doc though.”

“Doc Corbin?”

“No sir, just Doc. My boss is Doc Skinner, and there’s four of us here in total, but I’m just Doc.”

“Why’s that?”

“Cause I’m the first boy from Old Town to go to college, and come back a doctor, I guess,” Corbin said. “What’s your name? I don’t really like just having ‘Male Quarian’ on your chart, y’know?”

“Elia’solor nar Ashru. Most people call me Elias.”

“Well, Elias, it’s very nice to meet you,” Corbin said. “Now do you think you can drink some water for me? I’ve got you on a drip, but your throat sounds dry.” Reaching over to the table on the other side of the bed, Corbin brought over a bottle of distilled water and a straw. Cracking the top he helped Elias get the straw into the right section of his helmet.

“I’m amazed you managed to get a drip in,” Elias said. “Actually I’m amazed you know enough to treat a Quarian patient.”

Even through the hazmat suit, Elias could see Corbin was blushing. “I studied some xenomedicine in college. Honestly I had to dig out my notes from that class and well…like I said, your diagnostics program was incredibly helpful. Voice interface and everything.”

Elias swallowed and lay back into the pillows. “Thank you,” he murmured to the Geth in the privacy of his own helmet.

“You’re welcome,” was its muted response.

Corbin might have said something else, but Elias was fast asleep and didn’t hear it if he had.

When Elias woke next he was alone in the room. Well, mostly alone.

“Good afternoon, Creator Elias.”

“Good afternoon…wait, have you picked a name yet?”

There was a pause. “No, I have not.”

A number of questions swam through Elias’ mind, and he picked the first one that came to him. “How did you know my name?”

“Your name and voiceprint was in our database of creators likely to be in this system.”

“The geth have databases on quarian pilgrims?”

There was a pause. “Your safety is important to us.”

“That was kind of creepy.”

The baritone voice in his ear sounded amused. “It was also true.”

“Why?”

“You are our creators,” the Geth said simply. “You and the Sheppard-Commander chose to give us life. We choose how to live it.”

“And how do you choose to live it?”

“Do you remember what the word geth means, Creator Elias?”

“Touché,” Elias said. “Okay, so tell me about you.”

“I am geth.”

This time Elias grinned. “Okay, that might have flown four years ago, but I know better than to believe that’s it.”

“I am made up of three thousand one hundred and forty one individual runtime processes. I like circles. I also like red.”

Elias smiled. “I like red too. Why haven’t you returned to Rannoch?”

“Why haven’t you?”

“I did. Then I left,” Elias said. “I just didn’t think I’d be very useful there right now.”

“I came to the same conclusion.”

“Wait, I get that I’m not useful back home, but why not you?”

“I am not programmed for construction.”

Elias paused. “You can reprogram yourself to do anything you want, can’t you?”

“I can yes. But then would I be me?”

A laugh escaped unbidden from Elias’ ribs, which turned into a gasp. “Please don’t be funny,” he said. “It hurts too much right now.”

“All right. I will be funny in the privacy of your envirosuit circuitry.”

“Smart Ass.”

“I am a fast learner.”

“What’s the difference between learning and re-programming?”

The answer was slow in coming. “Learning is iterative.”

“You know, if I could just add data directly into my brain to improve my knowledge immediately, I totally would.”

“You are hardware and software,” the geth said. “I am just software.”

“And if you weren’t, you’d be dead by now,” Elias pointed out.

“I…concur.”

“So why don’t you have a name?”

“I have not found one that fits.”

“You like circles, huh?”

“Yes. I find them to be…mathematically symmetric.”

“You could just say beautiful, you know.”

The geth paused. “I am still formulating my concept of beauty.”

“Until you find a name, do you mind if I call you ‘Pi’?”

There was a long pause. “What flavour?” Pi asked eventually.

“Does it matter? You don’t eat!”

“I do not think I’d like banana,” Pi said.

Elias grinned. “Well I can’t eat those either, so I can’t help you there.”

“Who are you talking to?”

The clean room doors hissed open, and a now familiar pale green hazmat suit.

Inside his helmet, Pi’s voice rang softly in his ears. “I suggest you do not be too forthcoming,” he said. “I’m not sure if humans will be comfortable with geth, even one in a suit.”

“It’s my VI,” Elias lied glibly. “I’ve been modifying the voice interface and need to test it.”

“You have a VI for your suit?” Corbin asked, as he made his way around to the drip that Elias was attached to and switched the bags over.

“Well, for some of the functions inside of it, yeah,” Elias said. “Mostly things like enhanced facial recognition, birthdays, sorting through audition notices and keeping track of my…wait, what day is it?”

“Thursday, why?”

Elias sat up with a jerk and started to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. “I’ve got to go, I’ve got a gig at Le Alligator and if I don’t—”

A hand on his chest stopped his movement and a strong arm grabbed his shoulders just as the pain hit.

“You’re not in any condition to be gettin’ up on no stage, no sir,” Corbin said.

“I’ve got to,” Elias said. He tried to push past Corbin’s grip but found himself weaker than an Eden Prime Gasbag. “I need to pay the boarding house, I know I’m going to need creds for this place and if I lose that gig—”

“You’ll get another one,” Corbin said. “I know Le Alligator, I’ll give them a call and let them know you’re here. How long are you paid up for at the rooming house?”

“Until tomorrow,” Elias said. “I was planning on moving out to a studio, but I’m not sure I can afford to now. Studio’s aren’t cheap.”

“Do you mind me asking how much you’re paying?” Corbin asked, as gently encouraged Elias to lie back down.

“Seventy five creds a week,” Elias said. “It would be more, but I can’t eat the meals there.”

“Let me get your stuff from where you’re staying,” Corbin said. “I think I might be able to help.”

Elias collapsed into the pillows with a sigh. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Doc, but why would you? You barely know me.”

Corbin laughed. “Elias, I’ve spent the last two days monitoring your vitals, patching your suit and draining out your suit’s waste port. I didn’t even know Quarian suits had a waste system, you know? I know more about you in two days than I knew about my ex after two years. You’re a good guy. Plus I love this city.”

Elias blinked. “I didn’t follow that leap of logic.”

“I’ve lived here all my life,” Corbin said. “Bar six odd months hiding out in the countryside patching up soldiers’ hurts, I’ve always been here. And I think it’s better than what you’ve experienced—and I’d like to prove that to you.”

Elias laughed, only slightly awkwardly. “That’s the southern charm I’ve heard so much about is it?”

“If you like,” Corbin said. “You’ll be out of here tomorrow evening, if you keep mending the way you are. Do you quarians normally heal this fast?”

“Compared to humans? I don’t know,” Elias said. “My suit does monitor my health constantly though.”

Corbin shook his head. “There’s something to be said for those things,” he said. “Maybe all of our patients should wear those.”

“Expensive treatment process,” Elias said. “Could be good if you could tailor it to their species though.”

Corbin laughed. “Something to think about, that’s for sure. Almost a pity I’m a doctor and not an engineer, huh?”

“Nope,” Elias said. “I’m very glad you’re a doctor. When… I honestly didn’t think I was going to make it.” He took a deep shuddering breath and let it out slowly. “I just…”

“Are you… oh um… this is normally when I’d give you a tissue, but um…”

Elias laughed a shaky laugh as a suction fan turned on inside his helmet. “It’s all right. My suit has an extractor fan built in.”

Corbin squeezed his shoulder gently. “All right. Can you get your suit to bring up your temperature please? I’m a bit concerned you’re still feverish now.”

“That’s just my body adapting to the environment,” Elias said. “It’s normal.”

“Right,” Corbin said, snapping his fingers. “That quarian response to foreign pathogens. I remember learning about that.”

Elias looked up into a big toothy grin. “You’re getting a kick out of having me as a patient, aren’t you?”

“Yes sir, I am,” Corbin said. “It’s a chance to get better at xenomedicine and hell, I’ve been talkin’ to doctors on the Citadel to make sure I’m doing right by you. Most of the other staff here ain’t got the training in alien physiology. Wasn’t a thing when they were going through college, you know? Now. Where are you stayin’ exactly? I need to get a wriggle on to get everythin’ done, you know?”

Go to Chapter 2

National Novel Writing Month: Progress, Dragon Age Inquisition and Computer Stuff

Hello out there in the real world! I say the real world because mine feels rather not real at the moment. I’m in the midst of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and I have to say, every year I forget how hard it is. 50,000 words, one month, and well, me being me I’m shooting for about 60,000 to 70,000 words, while not killing my health, diet or exercise regime (such as it is). I know from past experience that shooting ahead of target is great, but typically there’ll be a few days later in the month where I just can’t write—and just write a little bit of nothing (i.e. 200 to 300 words) or I just take the day off and feel both bad and relieved. Actually, even though I’ve made a conscious decision to write this blog post, I can feel the weight of expectation pressing down on my shoulders—does this really count towards NaNo? The answer of course is ‘Yes it does because it’s writing and I say it does’. The next question is ‘Is it cheating?’ to which the answer is ‘Yes it is, but it’s my time and my month and I’m going to define it any way I bloody well please’. I guess I’ve always treated NaNo as a writing month, but now, for me, writing has become more than just putting words into a draft. Currently it also means blogging, which I do far too little of, updating the Queermance website, and sending out emails regarding Queermance 2015. Speaking of, if I’ve just met you at Book Expo Australia earlier in the year (seriously it was only what, one or two months ago? Feels like a lifetime!), then expect an email from me about showing up at Queermance. The emails are on their way, I promise! Also, it’s not writing, but I am also going to be dedicating some time to video editing, both to bring you some of our recent fundraising Cabaret Get Your ROCS Off with the RMIT Occasional Choral Society, but also because Isabelle Rowan and I will be launching a Pozible Campaign very shortly in the hopes of turning our annual Anthology (Queermance Vol II) in this case, into a print book, as well as having it as an eBook. Hopefully with some amazing wrap around cover art! Our first goal, however, is to pay our authors, stay tuned for more info and pitch in if you can (either submit a story to us, support our Pozible Campaign or both), Izzy and I will love you forever if you do! If you want to see some images of the event itself or find out how it went you should have bought a ticket. But if you didn’t, you can check out the Queermance Blog over here. In other news I just splurged . . . → Read More: National Novel Writing Month: Progress, Dragon Age Inquisition and Computer Stuff

National Novel Writing Month – Take 5

NaNoWriMo

 

I’ve been so amazingly busy with Get Your ROCS Off, the Queermance Fundraiser, that I’ve managed to nearly forget that it’s the end of October — actually it’s Halloween tomorrow of all things. And November means National Novel Writing Month–my fifth attempt, and hopefully fifth success. For those of you who already know what NaNoWriMo is and are patiently waiting for me to upload my rebel scorecard, you can download it here:

NaNoWriMo Rebel Report Card

This scorecard works whether you’re a rebel or not, and I realised as I was editing it that I didn’t really need to make a 2014 version, and then a 2015 version and so on – the only difference between them and the 2013 version is the year in the title area of the spreadsheet. So I removed the year – you can either come back and download a fresh copy next year or save a master copy and keep using that until I come up with a better version.

For anyone who doesn’t know, National Novel Writing Month is November, where writers try to write 50,000 words of a manuscript–or a 50,000 word manuscript–just because. No judgement, no editing, no expectations. Just words, words, words.

Personally I use it to work on whatever story or stories I have going at the moment, and this year I have three–an anti-valentines day contemporary story about two friends who have a chance at more, an urban fantasy story with dragons just because, and a young adult story about what happens when you find out you’re more than you think. I’ve also got a concept I’m playing with called ‘Escape From the Breeding Colony’ as a working title, but it’s little more than a concept at the moment. It has aliens though. Too many projects, not enough time. Still, 50,000 words will go nicely towards any of them.

In any case, apologies to anyone who was waiting on the new scorecard, and I’ll see you at the write ins around Melbourne if you’re local. If you aren’t, may your inner editor be silenced for the next month.

Cheers

Matt

Very limited $100 Queermance 2015 tickets available

Some of you may know that I’m the co-director of Queermance Australia, Australia’s National Queer Literary Festival. Launched in March this year, we’ve been slowly planning our next festival in April 2105.

Today, Queermance passed 100 likes on Facebook. A whole 100 likes in less than six months! It’s an amazing amount of love for a tiny (if growing) festival like ours and in celebration we’ve put up five tickets special $100 tickets up for purchase for Queermance 2015 (April 17-19). To get your hands on one of these special discounted tickets, go to Trybookings and select a Special 100 ticket. Then use the promotional code ‘onehundred’ to take $70 off the ticket price. So thank you again to everyone for your support, see you in April and stay tuned for exciting program updates coming very soon!

 

 

 

Book Expo Australia!

It feels like it’s been forever since I’ve updated my blog. It’s true, I’ve been a bad boy and neglecting this space while I went and built up Queermance, and that’s still going. But right now I’m on my way back to Sydney, where you might recognise this wonderful window on Oxford Street. I probably won’t have much time to party through, as I’m off to hang out at Book Expo Australia out at Sydney Olympic Park. I’ve been invited to hang out at the Clan Destine Press Booth (J01 near the food court) by my friend and publisher Lindy Cameron, and I’ll be there to talk Queermance, possibly sell some books and wander around as someone enjoying a book event rather than the crazy guy in the background pulling all the strings. If you’d like to join me visit the website and grab a ticket–they’re insanely reasonable and range from free entry for sprogs up to a whopping $8.50 for adults.

Book Expo Australia When – 30/31 August 2014 Where – Exhibition Hall 5, Sydney Showground, Sydney Olympic Park, NSW 2127. 10AM-5:30PM

Inheritance released as a stand alone book!

It’s been a few months since Inheritance was published in Queermance Volume I, and it’s now been released as a stand alone short story from Amazon and Smashwords! Inheritance follows the unlife of vampire Lex Cranbourne, who we first saw in Mr Perfect, and includes the tongue in cheek humour you’d expect from a Matthew Lang story as well as no geese at all. Why no geese? Why would you want them?

Hong Kong: Shopping – Top 7 tips and places

Three pairs of new shoes, two old, including one pair that couldn’t be replaced on account of massive feet.

Hong Kong is renowned as a shopping destination, and has everything from the highs of high fashion to the cheapest of outdoor markets. It has midrange shopping malls filled with more H&M, Zara and Uniqlo stores than you’ll find in any of Australia’s major cities. You don’t need my help to find those, or the major markets (any guide book will take you to the Temple Street Night Markets or Jardine’s Bazaar), so here’s a few things you might either overlook, or need to know when you’re there:

1) Buy your pants at Bossini/Giordano/U2/G2000 on the first day that you get there.

This is what a Bossini store looks like. Find one early in your trip.

Although some stores, like Giordano, have made their way overseas, the thing about the Hong Kong midrange clothing chain stores is that they all will tailor your pants to suit your leg length for free. They’ll usually take about 4 days, but if you’re in a rush, they can sometimes do it faster. Still, go in and get your trousers done early. And if you have the choice between going to one of these places, Zara or H&M, shop here. You’ll mostly be getting basics, but it’s a great place to stock up.

2) Most of the good places don’t open until noon—at the earliest.

A lot of the following places don’t open until noon at the earliest. Many of them are best to visit after 3PM. So if you’re going to pack the most into your day, I suggest doing something touristy in the morning, and going shopping in the afternoon. Or you could just sleep in until lunchtime and start your day later. Your call really.

3) Place: Causeway Place, 2-10 Great George Street, Causeway Bay – Urban Fashion

Crazy Fashion in Causeway Place: The best place for men’s Urban Fashion in Hong Kong–according to Matthew.

Causeway Place is two stories of funky local fashion toys and bric-a-brac for men and women. It’s largely for the locals, but you can often get by with English. Causeway place is one of the most easily accessible places where you’ll find trendy urban street fashion that’s years ahead of the west at a lower price than you’d pay for something more generic in Chadstone. For men, I particularly recommend visiting Crazy Fashion, which now has three stores on the second level. Not only can you pick up some great pieces for about AUD $50 each. I’ve been visiting this place for about 7 years, and it’s been around for 8 or so, and it has everything from printed t-shirts to assymetrical tops to subtly two toned pants. Also, the designer, Keith, ensures that there are sizes available for Caucasian men too, as he sells to the US market as well. If you’d like a preview, you can find Crazy fashion on Facebook, . . . → Read More: Hong Kong: Shopping – Top 7 tips and places

Hong Kong: Food – Top 3

Everyone who knows me, knows that food is a giant part of my life. It’s the main reason I won’t be on the cover of men’s health anytime soon, but you know, I can live with that. Hong Kong has a rich culinary history, starting with the local Cantonese cuisine, the food brought in by the British, to the food of the Imperial Chinese cooks who fled the Boxer Rebellion in the 1920s. While the Michelin guide hasn’t come to Australia (we have Chefs Hats anyway), it has gone to Asia, and the most amazing thing I found is that some of the places I liked going were Michelin starred restaurants. And I simply went there for great food at under AUD $20 a head. So here are the top three places you really should visit when you’re in Hong Kong if you want some amazing food.

1) Tim Ho Wan – Central, IFC Mall.

Baked BBQ Pork Buns Pineapple Bun style. Probably the most outstanding dish on the menu. Or the only outstanding dish on the menu according to some. Photo by Daniel Ang. I was too busy eating to take one. Whoops!

Tim Ho Wan is a place I first visited when it was a tiny hole in the wall in Yau Ma Tei on the mainland side of Kowloon. I think the official opening hours were somewhere around the 11 AM to 2PM and then 5PM to 10PM mark if what I read on the shop front was any indication. The gaggle of desperate people around the front suggested otherwise. Also the fact that we rocked up at one and were told we could be waiting two hours for a table. We got in about 45 minutes later, but that more or less set the scene for this Michelin starred dim sum restaurant. When you approach to get a table you’re handed a menu (English or Chinese) with a number scribbled down on it and you choose what food you want to order and in what quantity—personally I highly recommend the baked pork buns. If you’ve ever had a chicken pie at a good yum cha with its pastry soft, short and crumbling with that hint of a sugar crunch before biting into the creamy pie filling, it’s a bit like that, only with the sweet, sticky succulence of amazing BBQ pork on the inside. The restaurant has become a bit of a chain with a number of outlets, but the easiest to find is the one in Central, IFC mall. It’s where you go to access the in town check in for your flight out. There was still a forty minute wait for a table when I rocked up on Sunday, and we still sat at communal tables as the staff tried to squeeze everyone in. And the food still arrived piping hot and tasty about five minutes after we sat down. That’s what I call a la minute cooking. Expect to . . . → Read More: Hong Kong: Food – Top 3