MCM's Blog, page 15

Help! I'm using an outline!

This is a message to my fans.

You have to help me.

No, I'm not going to roll out some plea for retweets or facebook likes. This is serious business.

I need help, because I've been ensnared in a conspiracy that could shake the very foundation of fiction writing. The impact reaches far beyond household names like Stephen King, JK Rowling or Greg X Graves and all the way down into the lives of regular work-a-day writers like Neil Gaiman and George RR Martin.

1889 Labs forced me to use an outline for Freedom Beer.

I was outraged but, you know, the miserly overlords at 1889 Labs are the ones who sign the checks for my six dozen yachts. Being over a barrel is nothing compared to being over a gem-encrusted carbon fiber ship's wheel.

At first it was a friendly suggestion.

"Oh, hey, Greg, it'll help you maintain consistency. Serials are hard. Lots of characters to keep track of."

I received that email while I was jumping a yacht over one of my other yachts, so they thought that I was blowing them off.

Then they started pleading.

"Please, Greg, use an outline. Here's an example. They're very simple. Think of your editor."

I couldn't think of my editor right then, however, because it's hard to think about much when you're involved in illicit night time boat races against pirates who have bet their buried treasure against your solid titanium Rolls Royce with diamond-lensed headlights.

Then all of those penny-pinching Scrooges hit me below the belt in my money purse (woven of cashmere and gold threads).

"Listen, Greg, we have soaked our checkbooks in gasoline and are holding lit matches. Use an outline. Now."

At that point I figured that those pirates were a bunch of filthy-bearded seadogs that had lied through their fake gold teeth about their treasure, so I set down my shovel. I took a look at the sample outline that 1889 Labs sent over.

And how I wished that I was back digging holes in scorpions' nests on that island.

The worst part is that 1889 Labs claims that lots of authors use outlines! What kind of sick mind clutches our puppet strings in its wizened claws? What sort of evil lurks in the gaps between numbered chapters?

The devil is in the details and outlines give it a cloak of invisibility.

Spread the word!

Read any good webserials lately?

I'll bet that you have. There are so many to choose from.

Some are not connected in a linear form to create a story, they are episodic. Just as in some series we watch on television, the cast is the same, and we learn more about the characters as time goes on, but there is no narrative thread carrying us from one episode to the next.

If you like the idea of a series, you could go along to check out:

World: Common People.

100 Candles.

Or try The London Archaeologist. A photographic journey around the city.

On the other hand, if you love the anticipation of what will happen next, and you can't wait to join fictitious friends each update, the ongoing journeys in these might be for you.

I enjoyed Railroad Train to Heaven, by Dan Leo. It's one of those tongue-in-cheek stories I am always surprised and delighted to find, hidden away.

Or maybe With Earth In Mind by JE Turcotte, for sci fi.

There are, as I said, so many webserials to choose from. And yet our system has evolved, without malice, to support some and ignore others. While great stories get high ratings and multiple reviews in our well-known directories, there are many, many more that never get the attention they deserve.

Hunt around, you might surprise yourself.

Who do you recommend? Anyone, even your own site. Go on, spread the love.

Introducing Letitia Coyne… and Touchstone

I don't know how I first came across Letitia Coyne.

I knew of her, as one generally does in webfiction circles. I knew she wrote epic, character-driven historical romances. I knew she lived in Australia. That was about it.

Then we started working together on Ergofiction. I don't know if she approached me, or me her — all I know is that I was impressed by her hard work, dedication and persistence, all of which are essential qualities for a writer. So I set aside some time, and started reading Britannia… and an entire weekend disappeared lost in battlefields and romances.

And here we are, two years later. 1889′s first historical novel.

Introducing Letitia Coyne… and Touchstone.

* * * * *

A little about you, first: what kind of a writer are you?

LC: Until recently I was a compulsive writer. I loved compositions at primary school, and when commuting was a common occurrence later in life, I would tell my friend unflattering stories about fellow train passengers to amuse us for 4 hrs. In terms of process, I read, edit, write. Every time the words stop flowing [after I make yet another cuppa] I go back 1000 words and read, edit, write. It's a constant process of writing and rewriting. I see stories unfolding like watching a movie. Once I know my characters well enough to feel what they are feeling, they take over the story and I try to keep up with the words. Once upon a time I chain-smoked, and nothing makes me miss my sweet sweet fags like writing.

You seem to have a passion for historical fiction. Where does this interest come from?

LC: I loved the TV series I, Claudius in the 70′s, and the fascination with history, especially Imperial Rome, grew from there. I studied religion for 6 yrs, [independently but obsessively] and that was mostly a study in ancient history, too. Then I had an inexplicable emotional blowout when I first saw Vindolanda – I wanted to lie in the mud and cry. Who knows why; I was simply overwhelmed by a sense of loss. Now, if I watch telly it seems always to be programs narrated by Tony Robinson, Terry Jones, Neil Oliver, or Griff Rhys-Jones as they traipse across the green and pleasant land. If I imagine the people who lived in the particular historical period described, their stories begin to unfold inside my head.

What is the most unusual fact you've ever researched for your novels?

LC: Unusual? I'm not sure. The most upsetting was to learn only recently that Celts did not [nor did any other warriors in history] carry their long, broad-bladed swords over their shoulder as widely shown in movies and TV, and indeed often incorrectly repeated in fiction. The length and weight of the blade would make it impossible to draw freely over the shoulder, and the action leaves the entire chest and stomach open to attack. My big bad.

The worst thing is I had once questioned, in my own mind, how they could pull the blade free, but having apparently seen it done in many reconstructions, I thought my doubt was unwarranted. Note to self: if it seems unlikely, it's worth double checking.

Moving on to your latest release, Touchstone — in one sentence, what is this novel ultimately about?

LC: Touchstone explores the tragedy of pursuing an imagined, idealised happiness at the risk of losing all that we already have.

Where did the title come from? Does it hold special meaning?

LC: A touchstone is a little piece of rock which is used to test the purity of gold. Figuratively, it allows you to see the value of something/someone. Stone, in its various forms, features strongly in the story, too. It represents certainty and stability, an unbending reality, unsympathetic exposure to the harshness of life, and, when it fails, the catastrophic collapse of everything built upon it.

How does Touchstone compare to your previous novels?

LC: This is the first time I have let go of some well established storyline expectations. With Touchstone, I wanted to express a vision closer to my own perception of life and love. Too often, in striving and struggling toward that which we think will make us happy, we ignore all the joy that is right at hand. I think life truly is about the journey, not the destination. Otherwise, when we get there, what then?

What kind of reader is likely to enjoy Touchstone?

LC: Touchstone is a short, light read with all the ingredients we enjoy in historical fiction: a bit of love, a bit of muscle, sweat, and swordplay, a bit of sex, and a bit of sadness. Anyone who enjoys character driven storylines should like this one. It is my hope, as with all of my stories, that it leaves the reader with a little bit more to think about than they'll find in the average novella.

How would you feel about being categorised as a romance author? Does the suit chafe?

LC: Not at all. At the end of the day, category romance is the single most popular and best selling genre on the stands, both digital and print. The only rub comes when romance writers begin to think they are writing Literature, or when the Literati judge romance writers as lesser creatures. There are two completely different sets of skills at work, like painting in watercolour or painting in oils. Not all art is the same and that is a good thing. If they satisfy their readers, any author has achieved a lofty goal.

Let's finish off with three pearls of wisdom from you, on writing. Go!

LC:

Watch people. Comedians are a great source of insight into humanity and the way we interact.
Write until your own voice emerges. Be careful which books you read while you are writing; the styles and word plays that you enjoy will filter through your subconscious and onto the page.
Write the first chapter last. [Awkward if you're writing web serials!]

Actually, let's finish off with your favourite paragraph from Touchstone.

LC: "The wind sucked at her hair and pushed up under her tunic, puffing and flapping it against her body. In a moment of inspiration she dropped to a squat. Her boots were soon unlaced, the breeches shoved down roughly and kicked off to the side. As she raised her bare foot to the rail, the wind wailed its encouragement and she pushed up, almost overbalancing, and stood, arms out in space against the wind.

Laughing, filling from her toes to her ears with bright joy, she caught the flapping tunic and lifted it up and over her head. Her blood had turned to quicksilver rushing through her, aching in nipples grown hard and greedy for the cold suck of the wind. Naked, laughing hard, laughing full into the moonlit void, she stepped out from the stone and flew."

Letitia Coyne is alive and well and living in Australia. She writes, paints, draws, sews, plays with old wooden furniture, revives jewellery and sings very loudly. When not doing any of the above, she watches endless movies, feeds multitudes of pets, wildlife freeloaders, and stray adolescents. Or sleeps.

* * * * *

Do you have a passion for historical fiction? Leave a comment telling us what historical era most appeals to you. Personally, I'm a fan of those groovy Greeks!

(Pssst! Are you on Goodreads? You can WIN a print copy of Touchstone – check out our goodreads giveaway.)

Announcing The Antithesis Book 3: Alpha

Fans of The Antithesis series will be saddened to hear we've recently released Book 3: Alpha.

Why saddened, you ask?

Because this is the penultimate installment of the five book series. (If you haven't yet had the chance to check it out, you should. Really. Right now. I'll wait.)

Perhaps I'm biased. Not only am I the editor of The Antithesis series, but prior to Terra Whiteman publishing her books with 1889, I was a longtime fan of her online serial. There is an addictive quality to the universe she has created; an essential humanity to her characters that sucks you in, even though you know, logically, that main character Qaira has killed thousands of people and is — in his own words — a monster.

You cannot help but root for Qaira, cannot help but empathise with his plight despite his swearing, murdering, addictions and attitude. That Terra Whiteman makes me love her characters so much is a testament to the power of their story.

And we all know a story is nothing without character growth.

The reason I love Qaira is not because of the terrible things he has done, but because of how he has grown throughout the series.

At the start of Book 1, Qaira (aka Alezair) has amnesia and knows nothing about his dark past. He is little more than a cardboard cutout of a character, a mindless doll following orders. But a chance encounter with female protagonist Leid sparks the first trickle of memories — and her whirlwind influence is what begins his self-discovery.

Book 2 (broken into Alpha and Beta) jumps back in time, to Qaira's dark past and the first time he met Leid. Here you see Qaira in all his blood-thirsty gory — but you cannot help being addicted, knowing that the entire story will end in tears.

And now here we are with the first half of Book 3. Picking up where Book 1 left off, Book 3 is set in the present and shows just why it was so important for Qaira to regain his memories. For without the knowledge of his dark, bloody past, he wouldn't be able to survive the war that lies ahead.

Neatly straddling the line between hero and anti-hero, Qaira is a masterpiece of character growth. What are you waiting for? Check out Book 3: Alpha today — and for those of you new to the series, start with Book 1 and hold on for dear life.

* * * *

The Antithesis Book 3: Alpha

A storm has swept across The Atrium; one that brings famine, fear and the desperation of survival. Hell has declared war on Heaven.

Qaira Eltruan has returned; chaotic, furious, and looking to take revenge on all those who have scorned him. But he soon discovers that his trials and tribulations are far from over. It will take both the cooperation of past foes and the help of new allies to achieve the annihilation of his new arch enemy; the only one who could ultimately destroy everything he's ever held dear…

Oraniquitis Loren, the Scarlet Queen.

Uncontainable!

By now you all know that Hank Rockjaw, star of the insurmountable Freedom Beer, is not simply insurmountable, but also incontrovertible, undefeatable, and also sometimes megalithical. But that's not all. No, that's not even half of all.

Today we are shocked — yes, shocked! — to announce that Hank Rockjaw's latest epic, the aforementioned Freedom Beer, is in fact SO exciting that the month of February simply cannot contain it all. We tried crow bars, duct tape, even magic shrinking rays… but no, nothing can squeeze it in. It's just THAT BIG.

Hmm.

I'm starting to think this piece is getting away from me.

Nevertheless! Freedom Beer is being extended! If you haven't started yet, there's still time! And if you have, there's also time! Time is not in short supply, due to the uncontainability of Hank Rockjaw! The only thing in short supply appears to be punctuation that is not exclamatory!

In summary: Hank Rockjaw is big. Read about him. In March, as well as February.

The Power of the Story

 

Some time ago I was reading a blog that described a party bore who was so sure of his artistic moral superiority he felt he could safely criticize another's work without ever having seen it.

As I understand it, he crafted his own art from sweat and blood; on parchment of living scrotum stretched over 'fretful porpentines'; using a fresh dodo quill for each new preposition, and all that only on the first wet day after solstice in Yobhel. Something like that.

I've certainly read text which might have been written by a man in such extremis. Someone perhaps who'd lost sight of their place in the space time continuum – I suffered for my art and now it's your turn — But he might have been an artist of truly rare talent.

James Joyce struggled for years with each of his novels, and won – eventually – garlands of praise from the literati, even as his successive works became perhaps less accessible to the average reader. Leonardo rarely ever finished a painting; Mona Lisa has had a dozen incarnations, layers of vision reconsidered. Vincent painted a masterpiece every day, too full of color and movement and the need to capture and express the world around him to agonize over the shadows in hair or the light in air. All brilliant. All a little mad.

I used to think all artists were dealing with mental illness of some sort. Then I realized all people were dealing with mental illness of some sort, only artists choose to channel their pain and their revelation and their joy into art. So maybe this party bore was a great artist who, sadly, had an asshole where his id should be.

Why people write seems to be fundamentally tied to what they write and how they write it.

Some people have a clear vision of who they are and what they want to say, and even how and when they want to say it. Organized souls can commit to a set period each day, a set word count, a codified set of interim goals and an overall outcomes-based protocol structure. For many, that works.

Some people are drifters. They drift from painting, to gardening, to cooking, to woodwork, to jewelry making or dressmaking. They have to create, but don't have a sense of order governing their time management. They maybe feckless or they may, when the spirit takes them, be absolutely obsessive. No food, no sleep, let the peonies wither.

Some authors use their art as therapy. Dramas and old traumas, love and death and sex, can get so tangled up in their words that their most brilliant expressions start to buckle under the burden of angst. I ache therefore I am. Others have poor boundaries, overly anxious to share their deepest selves. Look at me. LOOK AT ME, this is my soul. Others still will hide, burn or delete a huge part of their creation out of shame or feelings of inadequacy.

Some of us have consciences that are pure stand over merchants, which make us steadfast, stout, and self-disciplined. Some of us need external deadlines approaching like swarming killer bees to shake us out of the long, cool afternoons of 'she'll be right….' or G&T mañanas.

And then there is what we write. If you write shorts or poems or contemporary general fiction, your blank page can be filled with meaningful characters in neat lines with no more preparation than taking a seat with a cuppa at the side.

If you write historical fiction or high fantasy (where there is an established pseudo-reality) or non-fiction or science-fiction, there may be weeks or months of reading and note taking, cross referencing and jotting and more and more and more reading before you can put any more than sketches on a page. And chances are the first one hundred sketches you create for a story will be erased before the actual text begins to appear. Essential time and effort that cannot be measured or justified in word counts or deadlines met.

And how you write. Some are plotters who can catalogue out an entire card system which builds into complex storylines and character interactions. Some come upon a story like a chimney sticking out of the sand. You know what style of house it is, and generally where its pieces fit, but you dig away the dross and you don't know the final detail until it is completely uncovered.

And who you write for. Some people write for their writing group. It's chardy in the beer garden first Wednesday of each month, with a tight smile critique of each other's work and the smug satisfaction of a job better done than theirs and the grunt of delicious agony in the artist unappreciated.

As a student I had a dear friend who was an artist. She painted. Constantly. She owned no article of clothing that didn't have paint blotches or turps stains; every cent she had went on canvas or brushes or paint. Ideas flowed out of her like a river of life. But we were poor students so she sold work. No one thought her a whore for producing what would sell – it was essential cause and effect, supply and demand, produce and consume. There was no danger the well of her art would dry up or rust from exposure to tacky commercial art. She had talent, she had skill, she knew her craft, she studied the processes; what she needed was filthy lucre.

Some write for Squees – and THAT my friend is the way to make cash. Kiddie conflict and otherworldly romances. Some write for a set audience – another well proven route to fiscal reward. Some write for themselves, and do not even know for sure, or care greatly, if anyone else ever sees their words. Writing them makes the invisible real in the same way as slicing an arm.

Who cares, in the end? Who, why, where, when, how or what is not important. It won't work as a gauge of skill. Even complete assholes with Sunday arty-farty pretentions can write beautiful words. Determined professionals can write crap.

Surely what works, works. Do it. If it doesn't work, leave it out. Life is short and full of shit. Better to get on with the journey you want to make, than to sit in the mud wishing the world worked differently. Tell your story, it is important.

I recently saw John Bell [of Bell Shakespeare] speak on the power of storytelling, from the democratic nature of Shakespeare to the Grimm respect for children's right to the truth in classical fairytales. He said, if he ever doubted the power of the story, who ever told it, he remembered a room full of noisy, hyped up, in your face children whose rabble roar blanketed the stage until the moment the lights went down and the narrator began to whisper.

And then you could have heard a pin drop.

The Power of the Story.

 

Some time ago I was reading a blog that described a party bore who was so sure of his artistic moral superiority he felt he could safely criticize another's work without ever having seen it.

As I understand it, he crafted his own art from sweat and blood; on parchment of living scrotum stretched over 'fretful porpentines'; using a fresh dodo quill for each new preposition, and all that only on the first wet day after solstice in Yobhel. Something like that.

I've certainly read text which might have been written by a man in such extremis. Someone perhaps who'd lost sight of their place in the space time continuum – I suffered for my art and now it's your turn — But he might have been an artist of truly rare talent.

James Joyce struggled for years with each of his novels, and won – eventually – garlands of praise from the literati, even as his successive works became perhaps less accessible to the average reader. Leonardo rarely ever finished a painting; Mona Lisa has had a dozen incarnations, layers of vision reconsidered. Vincent painted a masterpiece every day, too full of color and movement and the need to capture and express the world around him to agonize over the shadows in hair or the light in air. All brilliant. All a little mad.

I used to think all artists were dealing with mental illness of some sort. Then I realized all people were dealing with mental illness of some sort, only artists choose to channel their pain and their revelation and their joy into art. So maybe this party bore was a great artist who, sadly, had an asshole where his id should be.

Why people write seems to be fundamentally tied to what they write and how they write it.

Some people have a clear vision of who they are and what they want to say, and even how and when they want to say it. Organized souls can commit to a set period each day, a set word count, a codified set of interim goals and an overall outcomes-based protocol structure. For many, that works.

Some people are drifters. They drift from painting, to gardening, to cooking, to woodwork, to jewelry making or dressmaking. They have to create, but don't have a sense of order governing their time management. They maybe feckless or they may, when the spirit takes them, be absolutely obsessive. No food, no sleep, let the peonies wither.

Some authors use their art as therapy. Dramas and old traumas, love and death and sex, can get so tangled up in their words that their most brilliant expressions start to buckle under the burden of angst. I ache therefore I am. Others have poor boundaries, overly anxious to share their deepest selves. Look at me. LOOK AT ME, this is my soul. Others still will hide, burn or delete a huge part of their creation out of shame or feelings of inadequacy.

Some of us have consciences that are pure stand over merchants, which make us steadfast, stout, and self-disciplined. Some of us need external deadlines approaching like swarming killer bees to shake us out of the long, cool afternoons of 'she'll be right….' or G&T mañanas.

And then there is what we write. If you write shorts or poems or contemporary general fiction, your blank page can be filled with meaningful characters in neat lines with no more preparation than taking a seat with a cuppa at the side.

If you write historical fiction or high fantasy (where there is an established pseudo-reality) or non-fiction or science-fiction, there may be weeks or months of reading and note taking, cross referencing and jotting and more and more and more reading before you can put any more than sketches on a page. And chances are the first one hundred sketches you create for a story will be erased before the actual text begins to appear. Essential time and effort that cannot be measured or justified in word counts or deadlines met.

And how you write. Some are plotters who can catalogue out an entire card system which builds into complex storylines and character interactions. Some come upon a story like a chimney sticking out of the sand. You know what style of house it is, and generally where its pieces fit, but you dig away the dross and you don't know the final detail until it is completely uncovered.

And who you write for. Some people write for their writing group. It's chardy in the beer garden first Wednesday of each month, with a tight smile critique of each other's work and the smug satisfaction of a job better done than theirs and the grunt of delicious agony in the artist unappreciated.

As a student I had a dear friend who was an artist. She painted. Constantly. She owned no article of clothing that didn't have paint blotches or turps stains; every cent she had went on canvas or brushes or paint. Ideas flowed out of her like a river of life. But we were poor students so she sold work. No one thought her a whore for producing what would sell – it was essential cause and effect, supply and demand, produce and consume. There was no danger the well of her art would dry up or rust from exposure to tacky commercial art. She had talent, she had skill, she knew her craft, she studied the processes; what she needed was filthy lucre.

Some write for Squees – and THAT my friend is the way to make cash. Kiddie conflict and otherworldly romances. Some write for a set audience – another well proven route to fiscal reward. Some write for themselves, and do not even know for sure, or care greatly, if anyone else ever sees their words. Writing them makes the invisible real in the same way as slicing an arm.

Who cares, in the end? Who, why, where, when, how or what is not important. It won't work as a gauge of skill. Even complete assholes with Sunday arty-farty pretentions can write beautiful words. Determined professionals can write crap.

Surely what works, works. Do it. If it doesn't work, leave it out. Life is short and full of shit. Better to get on with the journey you want to make, than to sit in the mud wishing the world worked differently. Tell your story, it is important.

I recently saw John Bell [of Bell Shakespeare] speak on the power of storytelling, from the democratic nature of Shakespeare to the Grimm respect for children's right to the truth in classical fairytales. He said, if he ever doubted the power of the story, who ever told it, he remembered a room full of noisy, hyped up, in your face children whose rabble roar blanketed the stage until the moment the lights went down and the narrator began to whisper.

And then you could have heard a pin drop.

Chapter 5p3 – Corpora-what?

The message that had showed up on Gord's PAI read as follows:

STATUS ALERT: TIC BOLTER BOUNTY

A spaceship belonging to corporate spy Tic Bolter has been spotted entering Haddockian orbit today. The exact whereabouts of the "Galactic Pelican" and its pilot are unknown.

Be alert for any sign of Bolter or his ship. He has been identified as playing a role in the smuggling of secret yeti repellent research belonging to Dunter Yeti Security. The illegal data theft of Bolter and his co-conspirators is estimated to have cost the company as much as 10 million litres over the past 10 years.

Bolter may be armed, and is likely dangerous. Approach with caution.

Bounty Upgrade: 250,000L awarded on delivery. Must be taken alive.

Milly looked down at Tic, who was sprawled across the floor with a strip of bacon hanging out of his mouth. She gave him a nudge with her foot. "Well, Tic? Are you really a corporate spy?"

"Corpora-what?" he mumbled.

Milly showed the message to Haglyn. The troglodytic woman read it through, her grin growing wider with each sentence. "Hope it's true. Serves Dunter right!"

"What kind of research could they be doing that needs to be kept so secret?" wondered Milly aloud.

"Yeti security is big money on Haddock."

"I guess… Still, it seems a little odd. Unless they're doing something illegal."

"Illegal?" said Haglyn. "By whose laws?"

"I don't know," said Milly. "Interplanetary law, I guess."

"Ah, well you can count on that, dearie."

"Like… kidnapping scientists, maybe?"

"Wouldn't put it past him. If you're so curious, why not just go ask Mr. Dunter directly?" said Haglyn, grinning impishly.

"You know," said Milly, "I think I will. But not too directly. I have a plan…"

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

Chapter 5p2 – What's Not To Believe?

Milly stared at Tic through narrow eyes. "Mr. Dunter is after you because you 'stole' his girlfriend?"

Tic shrugged. "He's the jealous type."

"I don't believe you."

Tic belched. "What's not to believe?" He crammed another fistful of bacon into his mouth.

Milly opened her mouth to reply, but apparently thought better of it.

Just then they heard the sound of a cash register dinging from the front of the shop. "My cash register!" said Haglyn, narrowing her eyes. She grabbed her scattergun from where it was leaning against the wall and stepped through the door to investigate.

Tic took another gulp of Saucy Wench and wobbled a little on his stool. "Wait a second," he said, wagging a finger at Milly. "You don't believe me because you don't think I could get a girlfriend, do you? I've had lots of girlfriends. Plenty of girlfriends!"

Haglyn popped back in through the door. "Oh hush, Bolter. You're drunk."

"Take her, for example," said Tic, pointing in Haglyn's general direction. "I could even get her as my girlfriend! Just watch!" He took another bite of bacon, turned on his stool, and tumbled down onto the floor.

Haglyn lifted his glass and sniffed at it. "Maybe I made his a little too strong…" She shrugged and downed the last mouthful.

"What was that sound?" asked Milly.

"Oh, here." Haglyn tossed Gord's PAI onto the counter. There was a spatter of blood on one corner. Haglyn dabbed at it with her sleeve.

The PAI had received an alert of some kind. Milly pulled up the message and began to read.

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

Freedom Beer, Part 8

A fireball erupted in the middle of the Sonoran desert.

An F-16 screamed out of the black cloud like an afterburning Angel of Death. Two needle-nosed missiles chased it out. The pair gained on the aircraft.

The F-16 farted and a cloud of flares fell out of the backside. They glittered and shimmered and tumbled down towards the ground. Delicate smoke trails traced their trajectories. The effect was dazzling, especially to the missile. It detected the infrared signature of the aircraft and so thought that it was about to do its job very, very well.

The million-dollar warhead detonated against the side of a fancy road flare.

In the cockpit, Hank relaxed.

Until he saw that the missile warning light continued to flash and the computer continued to squawk.

The two-million-dollar warhead continued on its path. The extra million had been spent to upgrade the infrared detection equipment. It ignored the flares, which burned much hotter than the turbojet, and focused on the heat signature of its dreams.

The needle tip kissed the tail fin of the F-16. Romeo caught up with Juliet at Mach 1 and never before had a tragedy been so pyrotechnic.

Hank watched the scraps of the wreckage plummet towards the desert far below. He followed behind, albeit slowed by the parachutes attached to his ejection seat.

The ejection seat landed with a thump and a small cloud of dust. The parachutes folded over him. They smelled like burnt baby powder and rocket exhaust. Hank pulled out a long knife from the sheath on his calf, slit the straps holding him to the seat, sliced through the parachutes, grabbed the two heavy satchel charges that he'd snuck into the plane for just such an occasion, and set off towards the dissipating black clouds from his attack.

He hadn't finished his business on his first pass.

He'd surveiled the large complex of buildings that interrupted the natural landscape. When the first dozen missiles had gone up, he'd been able to avoid them while he punished the missile emplacements that had been hidden amongst the buildings. They'd gone up in oily plumes that obscured his vision. The missiles chased him out.

Because of his knife and satchel charges, he couldn't cross his fingers, but he hoped that his distress signal had gone through to Colonel Josen.

Hank knew which building he would investigate first: the biggest. Big buildings held more things, including secrets. Especially secrets.

The architect of the complex had not included any chainlink fences, nor any minefields, not even a moat filled with the hundreds of scorpions that seemed to be endemic to the area.

Hank considered that lazy defensive engineering: just because Hank Rockjaw wasn't likely to infiltrate your base didn't mean that you shouldn't take sensible precautions. The architect probably enjoyed long walks on flat fields in raging lightning storms.

The biggest building in the complex loomed before Hank. The sand and wind kept the walls smooth and clean. A door squatted in an alcove along one side. Hank tried the handle. It wasn't locked and the door pushed open.

Hank sighed.

"Shoddy."

He shut the door, then kicked it in.

A black maw yawned in front of him. He held his knife at the ready as he stepped into the shadow. The doorway behind him receded like the surface of the water behind a deep sea diver. Before long he smashed his nose against a wall.

That's when something slid down over the doorway with a clang. It bounced, once, admitting a momentary sliver of light before it settled shut and trapped Hank in total darkness.

"Every damn time," he said.

Several rows of institutional lights turned on. Hank squinted in the glare and took stock of the room.

It was white. And tiny. The ceiling was low. Two entrances interrupted the walls: the one that he'd come through, now blocked by a sliding sheet of metal, and a regular steel door.

Hank considered using the explosives on the door and leaving the building but discarded the thought. The room was too small: he'd blow himself up with the door. He reached for the door handle but it swung open into his outstretched hand.

"This is too easy. I wonder if they have a cake waiting for me, too."

Then a thick mat of chest hair mashed into Hank's face. He stumbled backwards and took stock of the man that had come through the door.

He was burly, bald and bare-chested, with baggy, checked pants on his legs and no-slip black shoes on his feet.

"My name's the Chef, and you're fresh meat that needs to be tenderized."

"A fight! Finally!"

Hank slid his knife into its sheath, tucked the sheath into one of the bags containing the satchel charges, and set them down. Before he had finished, the Chef picked him up like a rack of beef and threw him into a corner. Then the Chef took Hank's knife out from the satchel.

"I don't have my butcher's knife with me, but this cheap piece of shit will have to do."

"That knife is not cheap!" Hank got to his feet. "But you sure are. You didn't fight fair."

"You should have kept your knife for the fistfight. You may have lived an extra second or two."

Hank rushed the Chef. The Chef grabbed him by the shoulders, twisted him around, and suplexed him into whatever harder-than-diamond floor had been poured. Hank bounced twice, rolled and was on his feet while the Chef slashed at him. Hank grabbed the Chef's hand and tried to wrestle the knife away.

The Chef headbutted Hank, who reeled. The Chef closed in for a stab to Hank's kidneys but Hank hadn't reeled for as long as the Chef had anticipated. Hank grabbed the Chef's hand, put him into a joint lock, and bent his arm so badly that an octopus would have tapped out. The knife clattered to the floor.

The Chef fell to a knee under the force of the joint lock. He reached into a pocket, pulled out a handful of sand, and threw it in Hank's eyes.

"We're not even outside and you threw sand in my eyes! That is bullshit!" Hank thought camel thoughts and blinked furiously while the Chef punched him in the face a few dozen times. Or it may have been a few thousand times. Hank couldn't really count after the first couple.

Still blinded, Hank fell over onto the one obstacle in the room: the satchel charges.

With the alacrity of an experienced fighter, Hank evaluated his resources. On the one hand, the Chef was susceptible to a good joint lock. On the other hand, Hank was blind, beaten up, laying down and didn't have his knife.

What he did have, however, was the detonator for the satchel charges in his jacket pocket. He thumbed off the safety. He'd wait until the Chef got real close so that they'd both go up. Wait for it, he thought, wait for those stupid, cheating fingers still caked with sand to grab him for the kill.

"Hank, don't!" A woman cried.

Zelphia!

Hank paused. The sweat from his fingertips condensed on the plastic button.

"Zelphia, is that you?"

"Yes, Hank, don't do it!"