Lynda Williams's Blog: Reality Skimming, page 5

B01.5 – Creamy Dreamy Ranar

Ann is into Ranar. But focuses on the embroidery studies when embarrassed to discover he’s not available.

“I don’t like the idea of you risking your life on the strength of that one’s grip,” Lurol told Ranar when Thomas had strutted off to entertain himself, “let alone his good intentions. He’s a dozen trips shy of a medical discharge.”

“I know,” said Ranar. “But he won’t be psych profiled or evaluated.”

“Part of your agreement,” Lurol muttered. She thrust her big hands in the pockets of her silly lab coat.

“It is my life to risk,” Ranar said. He turned to Ann, “And yours.”

Creamy hot chocolate, Ann thought, gazing appreciatively at Ranar. Well, maybe a little cooled off, but still rich and warm.

“Let’s find somewhere more congenial to talk,” Ranar said, suddenly, to Ann.

Ann thought, I’m all yours!

They picked up refreshments from a self-serve bar on Second Contact’s promenade and sat down together at a table with morph seating that conformed to their respective preferences. Ranar talked about Gelackology’s unfortunate tendency to be dramatised in shoddy synthdramas. He blamed romanticised ideas about Sevolites, in particular, for the dismissal of his work by serious-minded Reetions.

“Whereas real, ordinary, human Gelacks,” he insisted, “must be what’s left of Earth’s population. A beta colony that explored in another direction after our jump to Earth collapsed a thousand years ago.”

“I thought Earth got trashed in the collapse,” Ann said, hoping to sound knowledgeable.

“We don’t really know for sure,” said Ranar. “In the absence of reliable observations it is impossible to know which maths apply, let alone compute the range of the space-time disturbance on the other side.” He went on about the difficulties while Ann listened with her chin propped in her palms.

“I thought you were an anthropologist,” she said, during a pause. “You sound more like you study space science.”

“I did.” He smiled, self-consciously. “When I was a boy.”

Ann scowled. “If you are so smart, how come you took up a subject as obscure as Gelackology?”

“Ah.” He sat back, loosening up for the first time since she had met him, as if he was laughing at himself now. “If you really must know, I think I had a crush on Ameron, the Gelack’s Ava.”

“Ameron?” cried Ann. “But he’s a man!”

“Is something wrong?” asked Ranar.

“No! No, I, uh — are you homosexual?” Ann asked.

“Is that a problem?” Ranar asked, puzzled.

“No. I, uh, no! Of course not.” She scowled. “Do you think I’m some sort of retro nut case or something?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You just seemed…” he lifted a hand in a gesture of uncertainty, “upset,” he concluded.

“You’re the genius,” she told him narrowly. “You figure it out.”

He did, but it took a moment. Then he said, blandly, “Oh. I’m sorry. I hope a, uh, romantic interest in me wasn’t a factor in your acceptance of the mission.”

“Hell, no! You think meeting sword-wielding Sevolites isn’t more exciting than doing time in a group home?”

“Swords?” Ranar echoed, in a disappointed tone. And pinched his nose. “We know Gelack politics are — or at least were — neo-feudal,” he admitted. “Fencing might be an elite sport, or swords may be religious symbols. There are ample explanations that fall well short of dueling from horseback in hard vacuum!”

Ann blinked at his vehemence.

He exhaled with force. “I am sorry. But I am sick of people fixating on the damned swords. If the Gelacks are a threat to us, it won’t be because of the swords.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know!” Ranar lost his temper, which upset him more than it did Ann. “If I knew,” Ranar told her stiffly, “I could write it up for the record and go home.” He excused himself.

Ann sat alone a moment, then went back to her quarters to brood.

B01.004 – Opinions About Sevolites

Thomas says Sevolites are just space-chewed, marginal spacers. Ranar has other opinions.

“I take the Second Contact mission seriously,” Ranar explained to Ann. “It ought to be self-evident that the black market is an ill-advised way to reopen relations with another human culture. Especially a potentially dangerous one.”

“Gelacks aren’t dangerous.” Thomas lit a cigarette. “They’re pathetic.”

If he is going to smoke, Ann thought, he could at least offer me one. But Thomas did not.

Ranar ignored the rudeness of Thomas lighting up, although his nostrils seemed inclined to pinch closed. “Have you considered,” he proposed, “that the Gelacks you’ve met may be living on the fringe of their society, no more representative of their kind than you are?”

Thomas blew smoke at him. “I understand Gelacks better than you. I’ve traded with them. They’re spacers, like me. Without arbiters to make up rules they’ve got to live by.”

“Arbiters only implement our rules,” Ranar corrected.

“Whatever,” Thomas answered him languidly. Then he perked up and grinned at Ranar as if he had caught him out. “Hoping to find Sevolites, aren’t you? Real, live super-pilots who don’t wear out flying.” He let smoke drift past his stained teeth. “You’re dreaming.” He gave Ann a meaningful look. “Like some kid hooked on a synthdrama.”

Thomas paused to cough. “Sevolite is just some dumb title. I’ve met one and he looked worse than I do.”

“You met a Sevolite?” Ranar cross-examined him. “Why haven’t you mentioned it?”

“I did. He’s the Trinket Ring station master. My contact. I just didn’t tell you how he goes on about being ten percent Sevolite like I should be blown-away awed.”

“Ah, yes,” said Ranar. “This would be man who agreed to arrange for me to meet with Liege Monitum.”

“Yeah,” said Thomas. “After he stopped looking at me like I’d asked him for directions to Earth. I tell you, this Monitum character’s mythical.” He blew smoke. “Gelacks are always going on about their gods. There’s a whole pantheon of ‘em from some never-never land called Fountain Court. ‘Cept Gelacks don’t pray to them. They pray for them to leave ‘em alone.”

“Including Liege Monitum?”

“Yeah, well, they’ll tell you there’s been a Liege Monitum, lives on Fountain Court, since the world began.” Thomas extinguished his cigarette against a callused pad on his left palm. “Gelacks call themselves Sevolites to make out they’re related to these so-called highborns way, way back. You know, like Hercules being the son of Allah.”

“Zeus,” Ranar corrected.

“Whatever.” Thomas dropped his cigarette on the spotless floor and turned to Ann. “I hear this station’s got a recreational pool, and Reetion women have taken to swimming nude since I was last hanging around lawful citizens.”

“Only if they’re nudists,” Ann told him, still put out because he hadn’t offered her a smoke.

“I’ll go see if I can convince some of ‘em to take it up,” said Thomas and strolled out.

B01.4 – Opinions About Sevolites

Thomas says Sevolites are just space-chewed, marginal spacers. Ranar has other opinions.

“I take the Second Contact mission seriously,” Ranar explained to Ann. “It ought to be self-evident that the black market is an ill-advised way to reopen relations with another human culture. Especially a potentially dangerous one.”

“Gelacks aren’t dangerous.” Thomas lit a cigarette. “They’re pathetic.”

If he is going to smoke, Ann thought, he could at least offer me one. But Thomas did not.

Ranar ignored the rudeness of Thomas lighting up, although his nostrils seemed inclined to pinch closed. “Have you considered,” he proposed, “that the Gelacks you’ve met may be living on the fringe of their society, no more representative of their kind than you are?”

Thomas blew smoke at him. “I understand Gelacks better than you. I’ve traded with them. They’re spacers, like me. Without arbiters to make up rules they’ve got to live by.”

“Arbiters only implement our rules,” Ranar corrected.

“Whatever,” Thomas answered him languidly. Then he perked up and grinned at Ranar as if he had caught him out. “Hoping to find Sevolites, aren’t you? Real, live super-pilots who don’t wear out flying.” He let smoke drift past his stained teeth. “You’re dreaming.” He gave Ann a meaningful look. “Like some kid hooked on a synthdrama.”

Thomas paused to cough. “Sevolite is just some dumb title. I’ve met one and he looked worse than I do.”

“You met a Sevolite?” Ranar cross-examined him. “Why haven’t you mentioned it?”

“I did. He’s the Trinket Ring station master. My contact. I just didn’t tell you how he goes on about being ten percent Sevolite like I should be blown-away awed.”

“Ah, yes,” said Ranar. “This would be man who agreed to arrange for me to meet with Liege Monitum.”

“Yeah,” said Thomas. “After he stopped looking at me like I’d asked him for directions to Earth. I tell you, this Monitum character’s mythical.” He blew smoke. “Gelacks are always going on about their gods. There’s a whole pantheon of ‘em from some never-never land called Fountain Court. ‘Cept Gelacks don’t pray to them. They pray for them to leave ‘em alone.”

“Including Liege Monitum?”

“Yeah, well, they’ll tell you there’s been a Liege Monitum, lives on Fountain Court, since the world began.” Thomas extinguished his cigarette against a callused pad on his left palm. “Gelacks call themselves Sevolites to make out they’re related to these so-called highborns way, way back. You know, like Hercules being the son of Allah.”

“Zeus,” Ranar corrected.

“Whatever.” Thomas dropped his cigarette on the spotless floor and turned to Ann. “I hear this station’s got a recreational pool, and Reetion women have taken to swimming nude since I was last hanging around lawful citizens.”

“Only if they’re nudists,” Ann told him, still put out because he hadn’t offered her a smoke.

“I’ll go see if I can convince some of ‘em to take it up,” said Thomas and strolled out.

B01.003 – The Second Contact Team

The 2nd Contact mission’s team includes its leader, Anthropologist Ranar, and “brain mechanic” Lurol, who has history with Ann.

When she walked into the briefing, the next morning, Ann was greeted by an urbane young man. “Ann of New Beach, I am gratified that you accepted our offer. You are the best pilot Rire has on record!”

“Ranar, right?” said Ann, feeling better about the mission.

“Yes,” said Ranar.

He was handsome in an understated way, like an Oxford-educated Raja in a British Empire drama from the 20th century Earth repertoire of feature films that Ann indulged in for entertainment. His tunic fell from neck to thigh over matching slacks, a conservative style for Rire redeemed — in Ann’s opinion — by the exotic addition of a twisted braid motif for decoration. The pattern of the braid never repeated, but tumbled down his body worked in browns and reds evolving through a white phase into solid green dominance.

Ann snapped her fingers and pointed. “A Gelack motif!” she said. “Green is House Monitum’s color.”

“Uh, yes,” Ranar admitted. “This was copied from images we have of Liege Monitum’s vest braid. Of course, fashions may have changed in two hundred years,” he added, sounding wistful.

Lurol stood across from Ranar, dressed in the ridiculous white lab coat that was her hallmark affectation. Thomas sat curled up in a morph chair. The room’s central stage displayed an idle blue diamond interface.

“The first thing I want to know, Ann,” said Ranar, “is whether you can work with Lurol.”

Lurol stuck her hands in her pockets. She had a wide nose, thick lips and a lanky build with short, brittle hair that was perennially uncombed.

“My partner, N’Goni, did not give consent to be visitor probed,” Ann trotted out her prepared acceptance. “Therefore Lurol was right to withhold treatment.”

“But,” Lurol was ruthless, as usual, “I could have ruled N’Goni incompetent on the grounds of advanced spacer’s syndrome. I had the authority. But I truly believe he was of sound mind when he declined the visitor probe option. I had to respect his wishes.”

“And I did my best to break your face for it,” said Ann. “For my part, we’re done. You?”

Lurol shrugged. “You work with pilots, now and then you expect the odd assault.”

“Good enough,” Ranar decided.

“I like this guy,” Thomas told Ann, hooking a thumb towards Ranar. “He’s driven.”

B01.3 – The Second Contact Team

The 2nd Contact mission’s team includes its leader, Anthropologist Ranar, and “brain mechanic” Lurol, who has history with Ann.

When she walked into the briefing, the next morning, Ann was greeted by an urbane young man. “Ann of New Beach, I am gratified that you accepted our offer. You are the best pilot Rire has on record!”

“Ranar, right?” said Ann, feeling better about the mission.

“Yes,” said Ranar.

He was handsome in an understated way, like an Oxford-educated Raja in a British Empire drama from the 20th century Earth repertoire of feature films that Ann indulged in for entertainment. His tunic fell from neck to thigh over matching slacks, a conservative style for Rire redeemed — in Ann’s opinion — by the exotic addition of a twisted braid motif for decoration. The pattern of the braid never repeated, but tumbled down his body worked in browns and reds evolving through a white phase into solid green dominance.

Ann snapped her fingers and pointed. “A Gelack motif!” she said. “Green is House Monitum’s color.”

“Uh, yes,” Ranar admitted. “This was copied from images we have of Liege Monitum’s vest braid. Of course, fashions may have changed in two hundred years,” he added, sounding wistful.

Lurol stood across from Ranar, dressed in the ridiculous white lab coat that was her hallmark affectation. Thomas sat curled up in a morph chair. The room’s central stage displayed an idle blue diamond interface.

“The first thing I want to know, Ann,” said Ranar, “is whether you can work with Lurol.”

Lurol stuck her hands in her pockets. She had a wide nose, thick lips and a lanky build with short, brittle hair that was perennially uncombed.

“My partner, N’Goni, did not give consent to be visitor probed,” Ann trotted out her prepared acceptance. “Therefore Lurol was right to withhold treatment.”

“But,” Lurol was ruthless, as usual, “I could have ruled N’Goni incompetent on the grounds of advanced spacer’s syndrome. I had the authority. But I truly believe he was of sound mind when he declined the visitor probe option. I had to respect his wishes.”

“And I did my best to break your face for it,” said Ann. “For my part, we’re done. You?”

Lurol shrugged. “You work with pilots, now and then you expect the odd assault.”

“Good enough,” Ranar decided.

“I like this guy,” Thomas told Ann, hooking a thumb towards Ranar. “He’s driven.”

B01.002 – Thomas the Renegade

Thomas, the renegade pilot, is premature aged by reality skimming.

As a pilot, Ann disliked flying cargo. But it was the regulation way to cope with reality skimming if you weren’t actually flying.

She came around in the sick bay of Second Contact Station still feeling grumpy over discovering Second Contact’s chief medic was the same one who’d treated her ex-partner. The same doctor she’d attacked, leading to her stint of Supervision. Dr. Lurol the brain mechanic, who had refused to listen to her when she begged her to revive N’Goni with her experimental visitor probe.

But it wasn’t Lurol who was with her when she woke up.

“I don’t know why you let them fly you cargo,” said a bizarre-looking man, seated on the pallet beside her. “Any ship I fly in, I pilot.”

Ann ignored the comment beyond registering he must be a pilot. “Be useful,” she grumbled, “and help me up.”

His grasp was both strong and frail at once, trembling despite a bite that hurt her arm. He was dressed in stained beige pants with a vest worn over a narrow, naked chest and had piercing eyes set in a face that looked prematurely lined. His hands reeked of stale smoke.

“Thanks,” she said, when she was sitting up, and scared up some professional camaraderie. “My name’s Ann.”

He nodded. “Thomas. Thought I’d tell you in case you haven’t looked me up. Gather you don’t do your prep work.” He grinned. His teeth were stained and the gums had shrunk back.

Ann, whose many faults included an inclination towards physical beauty, was repulsed.

“You’re in pretty good shape for a pilot,” he concluded, looking her up and down.

“Can’t say the same for you,” said Ann. “Who the hell are you, anyhow?”

Thomas whistled. “You really are info resistant.”

The smell of stale smoke he left in his wake was enough to make her think about quitting, which reminded her she had not packed her cigarettes and the station wasn’t going to supply them. Piloting was life-threatening enough. Maybe the greater risks inherent in their occupation was why most pilots smoked, in defiance of a lifetime’s health education.

As Thomas walked away, she got a good look at the back of his vest and realized the embroidery was Gelack — the term First Contact people used for the everyone beyond Killing Reach, Sevolite or otherwise. The needlework depicted a sword in the grasp of a well-muscled arm.

At the door, Thomas turned back. “See you at the briefing tomorrow,” he said, with a grin. “I’m the one who will be teaching you the jump.”

Ann felt as if she’d been slapped. Learning how to navigate a jump was a very nearly mystical experience, or in space psychiatry terms a function of dream-like self-consciousness. In either case, it called for sufficient trust to let your guide take over your rel-ship’s phase-splicing envelope and essentially pilot for you. Not something a girl wanted to do with just any guy.

Thomas didn’t inspire confidence.

B01.2 – Thomas the Renegade

Thomas, the renegade pilot, is premature aged by reality skimming.

As a pilot, Ann disliked flying cargo. But it was the regulation way to cope with reality skimming if you weren’t actually flying.

She came around in the sick bay of Second Contact Station still feeling grumpy over discovering Second Contact’s chief medic was the same one who’d treated her ex-partner. The same doctor she’d attacked, leading to her stint of Supervision. Dr. Lurol the brain mechanic, who had refused to listen to her when she begged her to revive N’Goni with her experimental visitor probe.

But it wasn’t Lurol who was with her when she woke up.

“I don’t know why you let them fly you cargo,” said a bizarre-looking man, seated on the pallet beside her. “Any ship I fly in, I pilot.”

Ann ignored the comment beyond registering he must be a pilot. “Be useful,” she grumbled, “and help me up.”

His grasp was both strong and frail at once, trembling despite a bite that hurt her arm. He was dressed in stained beige pants with a vest worn over a narrow, naked chest and had piercing eyes set in a face that looked prematurely lined. His hands reeked of stale smoke.

“Thanks,” she said, when she was sitting up, and scared up some professional camaraderie. “My name’s Ann.”

He nodded. “Thomas. Thought I’d tell you in case you haven’t looked me up. Gather you don’t do your prep work.” He grinned. His teeth were stained and the gums had shrunk back.

Ann, whose many faults included an inclination towards physical beauty, was repulsed.

“You’re in pretty good shape for a pilot,” he concluded, looking her up and down.

“Can’t say the same for you,” said Ann. “Who the hell are you, anyhow?”

Thomas whistled. “You really are info resistant.”

The smell of stale smoke he left in his wake was enough to make her think about quitting, which reminded her she had not packed her cigarettes and the station wasn’t going to supply them. Piloting was life-threatening enough. Maybe the greater risks inherent in their occupation was why most pilots smoked, in defiance of a lifetime’s health education.

As Thomas walked away, she got a good look at the back of his vest and realized the embroidery was Gelack — the term First Contact people used for the everyone beyond Killing Reach, Sevolite or otherwise. The needlework depicted a sword in the grasp of a well-muscled arm.

At the door, Thomas turned back. “See you at the briefing tomorrow,” he said, with a grin. “I’m the one who will be teaching you the jump.”

Ann felt as if she’d been slapped. Learning how to navigate a jump was a very nearly mystical experience, or in space psychiatry terms a function of dream-like self-consciousness. In either case, it called for sufficient trust to let your guide take over your rel-ship’s phase-splicing envelope and essentially pilot for you. Not something a girl wanted to do with just any guy.

Thomas didn’t inspire confidence.

How Do You Start an Epic?

For me, the Okal Rel Universe teemed with story and characters … but one has to start somewhere.

Starting to serialize the Okal Rel Saga, I felt bad about giving artist Jeff Doten so many “talking heads” to illustrate. The truth is, a lot of the first chapter introduces characters and setting.

Most writers’ workshops would dump all over so much set up. But with 30 years of private and semi-private creation to unfold, layer after layer, I had to start somewhere intelligible. Rire seemed the best place, with Ann as the rebellious, attention-deficit action character and Ranar playing the role of the intellectual adventurer visiting a strange new culture.

Believe me, I took many runs at other places to start the saga! I wrote and re-wrote the first book for at least a decade. My sanity was saved by remembering how long it took Tolkien to get going with Lord of the Rings. We spend a lot more time, there, in the shire, than I spent introducing Ann and Ranar before pitching them into the Sevolite empire. Yet another reason why I call myself “the obscure Canadian Tolkien”. Sometimes big stories need a little easing into.

The serialization of the ten-novel Okal Rel Saga, with artist Jeff Doten, will play out week by week with new installments. The story segments will be seasoned, here and there, with articles like this one, musing on a long history of creation or outlining in-world phenomena. I’m doing it here to troll for kindred spirits who’ll enjoy the journey.

Visiting Amel

Book 9 of the Okal Rel Saga begins with Sam, barely married, but separated from Amel by war.

This morning, preoccupied with work, grief and money, I did not want to get up and face my rel.

What is an author’s story in the post-published state? Why not leave Okal Rel as buried treasure — briefly enjoyed by a few thousand people — to fade like all works that miss the fame-train? This would make sense.

But then how do I get out of bed? Because Okal Rel has always been home to my second, better self. The one that processes, protests and motivates.

My publishing plans, meant to carry the banner, have been knocked back three months by my husband’s death, a nasty experience, a changing support cast, and paying work. They await my attention to enliven them.

But I woke up feeling like an overflown pilot at risk of a long night (see book 8).

I picked up Book 9: Holy War, because I’d promised myself I would the night before, and read:

Sam hesitated on the threshold, longing for Amel but afraid she couldn’t bear the sight of him grievously wounded. Her head buzzed and her stomach fluttered.

“Sam!” Amel’s voice shocked her with its vigor.

So I got in my flight leathers and will fly, again, today.

B01.001 – Pilots are Uncomfortable People

Ann is recruited for the Second Contact Mission to Killing Reach, to meet Sevolites.

“Contact?” Ann asked. “Contact with Sevolites?”

Grounded by her violent reaction to the medical treatment of her comatose partner, Ann was ready for any excuse to escape the house arrest her people call Supervision. An invitation to meet the mythical, lost branch of mankind called Sevolites sounded too good to be true.

“Contact, yes,” her recruiter admitted, “but not with the beings you might think of as Sevolites. Just ordinary humans.”

Ann didn’t believe it for a minute. But she played along. “So,” she said, “why are we so interested in ordinary humans on the other side of the Killing Jump, again after — what’s it been? Two hundred years? I thought we were pretty thoroughly out of touch.”

The recruiter countered her irreverent enthusiasm with pedantic seriousness. “Your job would be to work with the Second Contact mission: an anthropological mission of discovery. We know, of course, that some people of Earthly origins existed in Killing Reach at the time of the war, but First Contact was poorly handled.”

“Poorly handled!” Ann scoffed. “What would you call the Big Bang? A bit of a rough start?” She leaned forward in her deck chair. “We got kicked out of Killing Reach — by Sevolites!”

“There are no Sevolites,” the recruiter assured her, patiently. “Sevolites are mythological. The only remnants of the Gelack empire we’ve encountered —”

“What?” Ann interrupted; skin tingling as if she had been dunked in a cold bath. “Encountered? As in now?”

“Why, yes! It’s on the record.”

“I don’t like reading when I’m clinically depressed,” said Ann.

But she knew she was going to volunteer. She couldn’t pass up so exciting a chance to explore in territory the Reetion Space Service had never been.

“Second Contact is going to be an historic mission with the potential to make up for a missed opportunity. I wish I could be more confident your, er, personality was better suited to the job.”

Ann was no taller than her visitor and weighed less, but as she rose to her feet it seemed to her as if she towered over him in spirit. “You’re not recruiting me for my diplomatic skills,” she pointed out. “All you’re interested in is my pilot’s grip. So you’ll have to put up with the rest of the package.”

“You’re a very uncomfortable person,” he complained.

“I’m a pilot,” Ann said, with a shrug.