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.