Daniel M. Bensen's Blog, page 110
February 7, 2014
The Night Land Second Draft 1
So here’s a thing. My buddy Paul and I are doing a project where we illustrate the mechanics of modern fiction by editing the classic (101 year old) The Night Land. You can read the original here. Lovecraft and Ashton Smith loved it! We liked it too, but thought it could use a little work…
II
The Last Redoubt
I have suffered such as no words can ever tell.
Yet at night I have dreamed. I have felt once again the gladness of life, and visited in my dreams a place in the womb of Time where Mirdath and I will come together again, and part, and again come together; after strange ages reuniting in a glad and mighty wonder. I feel as though I awake, there in the dark, into the Future of this world.
The Sun had died. When I first opened my eyes upon the everlasting night that lapped against the world, I did not wake in ignorance, but in full knowledge of those things which lit the Night Land, even as a man wakes from sleep each morning remembering the names and knowledge of his own time.
I was a youth of seventeen, and my new memory told me that I was in one of the embrasures of the Last Redoubt – that great pyramid of grey metal that will one day protect the last millions of this world from the powers of darkness. In that earliest memory I stood high up in the side of the Pyramid and looked outward through a strange spy-glass to the north-west. I was full of youth then, and with an adventurous, half-fearful heart. I knew I had poured over this landscape all the years of my life, and I knew all the names of its features and their distance from the center point of the Pyramid in the Room of Mathematics, where I daily went to my studies.
By the Red Pit lay the long, sinuous glare of Vale of Red Fire, and beyond that for many dreary miles the blackness of the Night Land, cold in the light from the Plain of Blue Fire. And on the very borders of the Unknown Lands lay a range of low volcanoes, the Black Hills, where shone the Seven Lights, neither twinkling nor moving nor faltering. No adventurer from the Pyramid had ever come back to tell us of them, and the Great Library of the Redoubt was full of the histories of those who risked not only life, but the spirit of life out there in the Night Land.
The bright glare of the fire from the Red Pit shone against the underside of the vast chin of the Watching Thing. “That which has watched from the beginning, and until the opening of the gateway of eternity” came into my thoughts, the words of the ancient poet Aesworpth, ancient to that time though still in the distant future of our own.
But my dream-memories revealed to me Aesworpth’s ignorance, and those thoughts drew my mind back to the sunshine and splendor of my waking life, and I felt a keen longing for Mirdath, my wife, who had been mine in those faery days of light.
I turned from the hazy pain of my memory to the hideous, unfathomable mystery of the Night Land, that black monstrosity that held at bay the last refuge of humanity.
~~~
You would be surprised how many beta-readers and editors respond to authors with the comment: “Cut the first chapter.” That’s not a bad thing. It wasn’t in this project.
If we got back such a drastically pruned text from one of my beta-readers, we might take that as a sign that in fact the beta-reader hated the whole passage and we ought to re-write everything from scratch. Here, however, we don’t recommend scrapping this scene (the beginning of chapter 2 of the original), because it does such a good job of establishing conflict, mystery, and atmosphere. It has plenty of hooks to pull the reader forward: suffering, lost love (Mirdath? Who’s that?), an interesting world and future history to discover (the Watching Thing? Awesome!), and an ominous existential threat to humanity and possibly the whole universe.
Most of our changes revolved around bringing these hooks into the forefront, usually by rearranging and trimming sentences so that the kernel of the hook is at the beginning or the end of the sentence or paragraph (that is, in a Position of Emphasis). There’s also the issue of logical progression and rising tension to consider. Plugging the paragraphs describing the Night Land before we get to the Watching Thing adds tension because it establishes (1) the Night Land is weird (2) it’s dangerous and (3) we have constructed defenses against it. Defenses that might fail? Oh, read on!
We also wielded the blade of Omit Needless Words. There is no need, for example, for the author to tell us that he is writing, or that we are reading. We know that. Likewise phrases such as “I saw”, “I felt”, “it seemed to me,” are needless, except when the author wants to evoke a sense of separation between observer and observed. See how we left in a few of those references to memory? Then of course you don’t need repetitive language. Derivations of “wake” appear 11 God-damned times in the original passage. Often the gist of entire sentences is repeated, which is what happens when you write flow-of-consciousness and then don’t go back and edit, Hodgson!
There are still some problems. Aside from Omit Needless Words and Control Readers’ Emotions, the third axiom we write by is Show Don’t Tell. That’s because what matters in a story is what the characters do, not what they look at, not how they feel, and not what they are. So we’ve been with the main character for a page so far and what has he done? He’s lost his wife and looked out a spyglass. Yes, we need scene description, world-building, and emotional context, but all of that should come at service to the story, and the story is about action. The next thing after the word “humanity” MUST be a conversation or a fight.
And will it be? Hodgson sure didn’t think so. To find out how we solved that problem, tune in next time for Paul and Dan’s The Night Land Second Draft.
February 2, 2014
42 The Wandering Warrior 2/3
I’m back with Cory Trego-Erdner and his concept art for an epic fantasy project based on Japanese and Pacific-Northwest mythology. We talk about what medium of storytelling one should choose as well as…
Game of Thrones the books (thoughts) versus the show (dialogue)
Girl Genius the comic versus the books
Visual symbols in Watchmen
Steve LeCouiliard (sorry if I mispronounced your name, Steve!)
Biting off a smaller part of a bigger story
Focus on a single problem that the main character has and how he either solves the problem or learns to live with it
The Kingdoms of Evil which had a…highly developed world. And how I wrote this thing for four years.
The World’s Other Side (which has a coherent story!)
We see a lot of epic fantasies that just go on forever
What’s the solution? Which one should you choose? If you answer that question, then you can come up with a satisfying conclusion.
Also, thrill as Cory valiantly resists my attempt to make him change his ending. So that’s a good lesson.
January 28, 2014
Wanted: Paid Editor for YA fantasy
Hello all! My friend Kalin Nenov of the Human Library is translating a YA fantasy and he needs your help.
Specifically, he needs help with copy-editing (that is catching typos and grammatical errors, as well as any other suggestions about word choice, but no critiques of plot or structure). The deadline is the end of March, but might change depending on whether a publisher picks up the project. The pay rate: 2 US$/1.5 euro per 1,800 characters, spaces included (the complete project is ~ 210,800 characters). Also any donations to the project will be split between everyone involved, including editors.
If you’re interested, please send an email to Kalin (kalin dot m dot nenov at gmail) with your name and writing experience and your edit of the two sample pages below. Remember the focus of your revision should be grammar and word-choice, not plot and character.
One more thing. Before you begin, please read this discussion of their project and its background so you are conscious of the characters’ voices.
~~~
“Awesome!” Raphael said. “I’m utterly enthralled. We’re gonna sleep in a shanty that’s survived two or three ages!”
“It might not look imposing from the outside, but it’s comfy.” Kia headed for the door, cracked from multiple layers of paint. The two wings welcomed them with a sinister creak. Inside, a wall of smoke hid nearly everything.
“Quite … comfy,” Aik coughed.
“They don’t usually smoke so much, but the plantation harvest must’ve arrived recently,” Kia wheezed. “Kobolds make their living chiefly with tobacco farming. Now they string it here, and they smoke an awful lot—tobacco stringing is a sluggish job. C’mon, we’ll find our way.”
Mephodi realized Kia talked mostly to Aik rather than him or the quadronor. The child kept coughing, tears in his eyes.
“There’s no need to get poisoned.” The young mage yawned and twisted the hand that he used to cover his mouth. “Protectodore!”
The wall of smoke thinned out in front of them, and Aik managed to catch his breath. They headed for the reception, ignoring the din around. Raphael was quietly swearing at all low-class dumps and their owners. Mephodi smiled. Then he examined the vague shapes sitting at the tables. Members of the lower races only … Kobolds, goblins, ogres—the dregs of society. Well, in most instances, they have done nothing wrong to get here. The Alliance government entices them with its new reforms, they buy the promises—and end up as cheap labor. Exploited for the sake of the higher races’ comfort. Some of them, those who’ve seen through the scheme, have turned against the government and the laws, but in what ways? They’ve taken on the burden of thievery, smuggling and the other ‘dishonest’ activities.
“How may I help you, gentlemen?” meowed the kobold receptionist and took a drag from a long cigarette sticking out of his feline mouth. The little black eyes, brown fur, two tails, batlike nose, and long fluffy ears covered in piercings gave him a rather untrustworthy look for his line of work.
“We need two double rooms, K’harry.” Kia’s hoarse voice made the kobold shift his gaze from Mephodi’s face to the silver visor. “I hope you’ll give me a reasonable discount.”
“Kia!” The kobold’s lips wavered, perhaps for a smile, but then he noticed Raphael’s self-satisfied face and his uniform. “Well I never … To bring me a paladin here! Wasn’t the money for the last errand enough? You agreed! We made a deal!”
“Easy, K’harry. I haven’t ratted you out. This elf,” Kia pointed at Raphael, “is off duty today. He knows us and he’s not going to arrest you or question you.”
“For now.” The quadronor smiled haughtily, but K’harry obviously lacked discernment and chuckled at him.
“We need quiet rooms. We want to rest after a long journey,” Mephodi said.
“Of course, rest!” K’harry meowed happily. “Alright then!” He exhaled smoke through his nostrils. His two straggly tails shot at the panel where apartment keys hung. “Rooms twenty-four and twenty-five. Second floor, end of the corridor. Freshly painted yellow doors. It’s calm and quiet. There’re no other guests in the area.”
“How much do we owe you?” said Kia and turned to the quadronor. Raphael assumed a puzzled look. Are you expecting me to pay for everything? his eyes said.
“Fadgnal sent you to protect and help us,” the modulator rasped. Aik giggled. Fadgnal likes you for a reason, Mephodi thought.
“Generally, I take five silver credits per guest.” K’harry closed his eyes and took the cigarette out of his mouth. “But since I’m K’harry the Charitable, I’ll take only three from you.”
“Why, that’s a licensed robbery!” Raphael said. “Three silver credits for staying at this hovel?”
“For your sake, I’ll drop it to two, boss, but you get no supper or breakfast,” the owner sighed. “Can’t go any lower. You can see how we live.”
“No problem, there must be enough cockroaches around. We’ll fix ourselves a kobold dainty.” Raphael pursed his lips, reluctantly handing the money over.
“Thanks, K’harry! If anything comes up, give Dorios a call,” Kia wheezed.
“Okay.” The communicator hanging around the kobold’s neck started buzzing, and K’harry picked it up. The group made for the stairs.
“What sort of errands did you two mean?” Raphael said, knocking his armored fists together.
“Nothing illegal.”
The quadronor stared at the visor in plain disbelief.
When they reached the corridor on the second floor, the Tin Man caught the child’s shoulder. “We’re in twenty-four.”
“And I’m not sharing a room with someone who’s messed with my mind!” Raphael said, stopping in front of the room chosen by Kia.
“Have you forgotten about this?” Mephodi pointed at his circlet. “Not to mention I’m dead tired. I don’t intend to deal with the thoughts of a wayward city guard, tonight least of all nights.”
“Quadronor, boy,” Raphael corrected him. “Quadronor!”
“The kind quadronor may share a room with the ungrateful worm, if it pleases him,” gargled Kia and bowed affectedly. Aik giggled, pointing a thin finger at Raphael.
“I’d rather stay with this hypnotist than sleep next to a freak!” Raphael stormed away to the other door, whose color was not so much yellow as off-white with gray streaks.
Kobolds’ eyes do have a different perception from ours, but that’s a bit too far, Mephodi wondered as he unlocked the door.
“Good night,” he said quietly before entering.
“Good night!” Aik called.
“Let’s hope it’s good,” Kia wheezed.
January 26, 2014
41 The Wandering Warrior 1/3
This week I’m talking with concept artist and illustrator Cory Trego-Erdner and his concept art for an epic fantasy project based on Japanese and Pacific-Northwest mythology. And then I get my nerd on. And then Cory actually manages to tell us about his story. More next week.
a sort of lion thing that looks really cool and is based on foo dogs
The Green Bastard with a capital B
Haida canoe-mounted swivel-guns
The titans versus the Olympian gods
The Book of Invasions or “the Book of the Taking of Ireland”
The motherflippin Kojiki
The Sun Goddess Amaterasu
The citations from my college paper about this stuff. Bam bam bam!
The horrible but free Chamberlain translation of the Kojiki
January 19, 2014
40 Adventure Fiction 5
I’m still talking with artist, cartoonist, and writer Steve LeCouiliard, creator of Una the Blade and (with Leia Weathington), the co-creator of the historical adventure Silk and Gold.
Here we move on to the weighty topic of historical accuracy in fantasy and when it is and is not important.
Naomi Novik (who wrote His Majesty’s Dragon)
As an approach to writing about historical periods, I’m less interested in writing about the lords and ladies and more interested in just ordinary people.
It doesn’t have to be accurate, it just has to be plausible
STEVE: If there were orks in the service of the Ottoman Empire— ME: That would be awesome!
Age of Bronze by Eric Shanower
Warlord Chronicles by Bernard Cornwell
Rasputin was clearly a vampire
The Skystone by Jack Whyte
100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez
Simon Roy’s Tiger Lung!
The World’s Other Side and the missionary records I read
The Terry Pratchett’s witches
My linguistically-bent friend!
January 12, 2014
39 Adventure Fiction 4
Happy 2014! I hope you enjoyed the break. In case you’ve forgotten in the past month, I’m still talking with artist, cartoonist, and writer Steve LeCouiliard, creator of Una the Blade. We begin our discussion with the Africa-Inspired Sorcerer Culture he made for Una and continue with:
What if they really were saving the world from vampires?
There are always so many great ideas whenever you read about history.
The Byzantine Empire is CRAZY
Buying bread in Constantinople
Justinian II (aka the Byzantine emperor with the gold replacement nose)
Ibrahim the Mad (you would have gone mad too)
Nakşidil Sultan (who probably wasn’t actually Empress Josephine’s cousin, but you never know)
The Magnificent Century! And those other sexy history shows.
December 18, 2013
New Frontiers is ready!
So, as I have been subtly hinting over the past year, I have been writing a novel called New Frontiers. It’s a scifi/humor murder mystery about sex, aliens, sex with aliens, and the Hard Problem of Consciousness.
And it is now done.
Well it isn’t done. It isn’t in stores, but it is ready to be seen by humans other than my wife.
Do you want to be one of those humans?
If you’re interested in beta-reading new Frontiers, send me an email or a note with your email address. I am interested in any criticism from “I don’t like that character what’s-his-face” to “you missed a comma there.” And you can deliver that criticism any time from now to this time next year.
Come on, give New Frontiers a try. If you give me criticism, I’ll draw you a picture of the alien of your choice. Yeah.
December 9, 2013
Vocab story
A while ago, a student asked me to write a story for him, using the words of his vocabulary list in context. So I did. I didn’t plan, I didn’t even look very far down the list to see what words would come next. But I wrote a sort-of-interesting rip-off of Steven King’s Gunslinger. Can you spot the vocab words?
The advent of the Hero was a cause for great celebration. He rode into town, head and guns swiveling. It was a rare clear day in the rainy season, and the villagers were taking advantage of the lull in the weather to hang up their laundry. As the women wrung out and hung their wet clothes, they waved to the Hero. The mayor, however, recumbent on his divan, only scowled and swatted his clerk, who walked toward the Hero with a piqued expression.
The hero dismounted his horse. “I have come for food and a night’s respite from my journey.”
“Sadly,” said the clerk, “we have no means to properly celebrate such momentous an occasion as your arrival.”
“Is there some edict that says you have to celebrate?” asked the hero. “All I need is a bed and a hot meal.”
“There’s an edict against murderers and thieves going free in my town,” said the mayor from his divan, “and that’s what the war spews out. Get moving.”
“You’re not the first mayor to contrive some rule to deny me lodging,” said the Hero, “but you are the last. Food, I said, and lodging. You,” he pointed at the mayor’s servant woman. “You’d take my money and feed me, wouldn’t you.”
The woman wrung her scrawny hands around her broom handle and squinted at the mayor. “If I had food to sell you,” she said. “I would.”
“Your boss has food to spare,” said the Hero, “or so I would conjecture, based on that belly I see.”
“Nothing I’d give to you,” said the mayor, “now clamber back onto your horse and get out of my town before I set the militia on you.”
The hero put his hands on his hips, expression guileless. “No need to haul out your hired guns,” he said placating. “And even if you do, I’ll stay the night here nonetheless.”
“You think you’re invincible?” the mayor’s threat was cut off by the clatter approaching horses. He got up from his divan and stepped gingerly across the mud to stand next to the Hero. “Who’s coming?”
“Friends of mine,” said the Hero, “and they won’t be rebuffed by you either.”
“We can’t help you, there are no supplies in the village, and there won’t be until the next boat comes in with its freight.”
“These are trying times for us all.”
“And we don’t have the resources to feed every stray soldier prowling around the edge of the war.”
“It used to be people like you called people like me martyrs for the nation.”
The Mayor spat. “Fine. Stable your horse and get out of the street.”
In the stable, the Hero wiped at the salty residue on his horse’s harness and brooded on his bad luck. The belligerence of the villagers wafted through the clammy air like the smell of garbage. The damp weather had ruined his hat, too; the adhesive was almost entirely gone and the thing was ready to fall apart. What bad luck had steered him here?
A prim cough behind him. The Hero turned to see the mayor’s maid standing primly in the stable’s doorway.
“Is everything all right?” asked the clerk solicitously. “We haven’t had guests for some time.”
“More than all right.” The hero scrubbed his horse more vigorously, as if to deny to inexorable rot that had turned this once fine stable into the ruin it now was. “I’m sorry if I’ve made life harder for you,” he said, contritely.
“Not at all,” she said, “as long as you make up for it by telling us about your sojourn.”
“Over dinner, maybe” said the hero. “Nothing like a good story to hone the appetite.”
106
A hundred years ago, this town had been part of Aquilia, inviolate and unconquered behind its mountains. Then the barbarians brought cannons across the mountains and changed everything.
The Hero picked up a dainty sandwich from the sideboard, thinking about how much time this town had left. A week? Two? Three at most before the horse-gunmen of the barbarians cruised into town. He told his host none of this.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said. “A woman. Came through here a few days ahead of me.”
The mayor’s words belied his sickly smile. “If you expect me to jot down the name and origin and destination of every refugee who comes through here, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
The hero looked around the well-appointed parlor. The silk lampshades. The grilles in the wall to blow away cigar smoke. Fleetingly, he considered telling this little man what the barbarians would do when they arrived. Smash the levees and let the river flood the fields, probably. Then ride off and let the town starve. That’s what he would do.
“I need to find her.”
“Do you,” said the mayor, “then let us commence with negotiations. We need a garrison here to defend the town.”
“You don’t need defense,” said the hero. “You need deliverance. By the time any friendly troops got here, it’ll be too late to do anything but stand vigil over your graves.”
“Graves?” squeaked the maid.
The mayor rebuked her and sent her out of the room. “Listen friend,” he said, pulling a sheaf of papers out of a drawer, “I don’t know who you are, but I’m a friend of general Adson. Deliver these letters and come back, and I’ll give you any girl you covet.”
The hero cast a dubious eye on the letters. “That’s not Adson’s handwriting.”
“What? What would you know about it?”
“I was with him when he died last winter.”
“These letters came to me yesterday,” blustered the mayor.
“Well that’s the clincher. You’ve been corresponding with a barbarian impersonator. Nice hand the guy’s got. I speculate he was a secretary before they conscripted him.”
“I have copious assurances from Adson—”
“Assurances written by an imposter,” the hero raised his voice. “And now that they’ve garnered your trust, the barbarians’ll sweep over you. You have maybe a day.”
He watched the mayor’s expression go from confusion to apprehension to despair. “What can we do?”
“Stay calm and surrender,” said the hero gruffly. “Give them what they want and they might leave you in peace.”
“We’ll evacuate,” said the mayor impetuously. “They can’t have got us surrounded.”
“They have.”
“I…” the mayor stammered, “I was churlish earlier and I am sorry, but if you can help us…”
“I have helped you,” said the hero. ‘I’ve given you a lucid picture of your situation. Now if you will excuse me, I’m going to try to get out of this damn town alive.”
December 8, 2013
Christmas break
Hey everyone. With the holidays and the fact my house has been without wired internet for the last two weeks, I can’t keep up with the podcast schedule.
So this is Christmas break. New podcasts are coming on the 13th of January. See you then. 
December 4, 2013
On revsion
Back in August I posted an example of my process of plotting and writing a scene in what was then chapter 10 of my unfinished novel, New Frontiers.
Now that the first draft of New Frontiers is finished, it might be edifying to go back and look at what happened to that scene in chapter 10, which is now a scene in chapter 15.
Yes, when it became clear my August manuscript (call it Draft 0) wasn’t leading up to the climax I wanted, I reviewed my notes, went back a couple of chapters, and started rewriting. This scene got mashed together with a scene I wrote back in May and became the new climax. See if you can spot the differences between Draft 0 and the new Draft 1.
“Stay where you are!” Shouts Pavić. “Stop moving and disarm yourself, terrorist.”
Jorge hooks his multibranched fingers into claws. “Make me, cannibal.”
Pavić’s face turns crimson. “We have a highly extensive protocol for to deal with extralegal entities armed with the alien technology.”
“The ones that worked so well last time? Or the time before that?”
The oonkhs suddenly smell nervous. P’whapm squeaks.
“If you know what’s in the Amazon,” I say very carefully, “then you know the likely repercussions of sending Junior to be debriefed by other beezles.”
“That depends on who is in charge of the debriefing,” Mr. Moore coils his trunk to indicate himself. “We will have to work quickly and unfortunately give up much to prove demonstrate our apologies. And our loyalty.” Moore’s eyes cut at Jorge. “Perhaps the gift of a large chunk of tropical real estate will buy our new masters’ forgiveness.”
“You have no authority over the Amazon,” says Zehra, “and you certainly do not have the authority to speak or make deals on behalf of all humanity.”
The Moores appear to consider. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it is time for me to take control of this planet overtly.”
“Guys?” says Plamen, “I’m getting something from Junior. Mostly swearing.”
“You are targeted by weapons you cannot comprehend,” says Pavić. “Stand down immediately or face destruction.”
“Pavić,” says Yamashita, but he keep right on yelling.
“I will protect the nucleus of the paradigm to come,” he says, “abrogating self-interest to uphold the higher imperative of transspecific mutualism!”
His English is suddenly perfect, down to a northern Californian accent.
I look in horror at Madison Moore, who shrugs under the weight of her husband. “I’m getting better with the helmet.”
“Fire,” says the man who was once Pavić, “on my mark!”
New Ambassador thunders, “What irresponsible nitwit racketeer has been supplying you creatures with real weapons?”
“You there,” P’whapm bleats. “You are aware you’re holding the Van der Waals accelerator upside down?”
“I hope you won’t resist when I take Junior with me,” say the Moores. “Your deaths would be tragic.”
“This has been your plan all along,” I realize. Hell, she even has a furry pet to stroke as she reveals her evil plan.
Mr. Moore cackles. “Actually, I just took advantage of an opportunity for global domination when it presented itself. Come out now, Mr. Junior.”
She doesn’t do anything that I can see that might wake Junior up, but the turquoise Christmas tree shudders. With a breathy puff, bugs rise into the air. The swarm is pitifully small, hovering close to the safety of Junior’s central body.
“What’s happening? How did I get here? Why am I so small? Help me, someone.”
“A good translation,” Moore nods at Plamen, “but you forgot to translate the part where he said…” the voice in my implant becomes Junior’s.
“Don’t let Jorge take me. Don’t let him make me a Little Friend.”
Zehra curses.
“Oh no,” says Moore, “did you want to keep secret the Amazonians’ genocide program?”
The Technology Liaison sighs out of her vent. It’s an almost human sound.
“Genocide?” says Jorge. “They invaded our home, and we made them serve us.”
P’whapm farts out of all his spiracles simultaneously. “You made a captive beezle population do what?”
Jorge ignores him, looking past me. His lips draw back. “Ah, you have your weapon out, Zehra. Now turn it away from me and fire at the beezle.”
“Zehra,” I spin around, “put the damn gun down.”
“Stand aside, Harry.” Zehra has her feet planted far apart, aiming her drache at Jorge.
“Interesting,” says Moore, “I don’t think I even inducted her.”
“Ready to engage,” Yamashita orders her people and raises her voice. “Stand down now and nobody has to get hurt.”
“I don’t want to shoot you,” Zehra tells Jorge, “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” He unfolds like razor-edged origami and his elongated hand wraps around Zehra’s wrist. His face a silent mask of determination, Jorge pulls Zehra past me, his hideous fingers scrabbling at her weapon.
Fire roars through the air and my legs kick. Before I realize what I’m doing, my body pushes me away from death by burning, and the woman I love. My clothes are barely singed, but Zehra is in Jorge’s clutches.
“Let go,” he growls, twisting her wrist. The column of fire swerves to the side, playing across the Moores and Junior.
Nothing happens. Engulfed in fire, figures remain standing, unburned and apparently unhurt.
“Please, Jorge. You think Junior wouldn’t install countermeasures after your little attack on his person last once?” Within the halo of fire, Moore, checks her watch. “Now, if you’re quite finished being foolish…”
“Why did you even bother to pack this thing?” Jorge lets out an angry breath. “I will make use of what I have, then.” His hand goes to Zerha’s throat. “Deactivate your weapons or I will—”
My vision narrows to a point and before I know it, I’m hurtling toward him. My hands rise to rip and tear, but with insectile speed he spins to swat me aside.
The still-burning beam of the drache spins with him.
I don’t see the horizontal hurricane of plasma strike the line of human soldiers. I’m reeling back from Jorge’s blow, my ears ringing with the word “fire!”
There’s no explosion of gunpowder, not even an electric whine or targeting laser, but the soldiers’ attack is unmistakable. The drache flies apart in Jorge’s hand. The fire winks out, and Jorge himself stumbles backward as if struck by a wrecking-ball.
Zehra cries out and her voice dopplers away as if she’s on a departing bus. She and Jorge redden, blur, and shrink, only to spring back into focus a foot to the side of where they were standing before.
“You think that little toy will work on me?” Dust swirls around Jorge, crackling with sparks, before it is blow away in a wind I can’t feel. The asphalt under his feet bubbles and the air around him crystallizes into rainbows of impossible color. And he still has Zehra.
I stop myself from leaping at Jorge again. If he doesn’t kill me, the crossfire will. I need to find some other way to protect Zehra, something I’m actually good at. I thrust aside mental images of dancing naked in front of the soldiers. Half of being a Kink might be weaponized seduction, but the other is getting help from the people you’ve already seduced.
“Oh, New Ambassador,” I shout. “Help me! I am in distress!”
There are already some things I want to change about this scene, mostly to make the narrator a more active participant, but that will wait until after the beta-readers have given their opinions and suggestions. Stay tuned.
