Geoff and the Ice Planet

*This is the start to a new piece I'm working on. We'll see where it goes. Hopefully you'll enjoy it.*

The globe hovered in its berth, rotating slowly with a holo of the Traxis in geosynchronous orbit. Geoffrey leaned on the desk, chin on his arms, as he watched the model of his ship float around the small ice planet.

The Traxis had arrived in outer orbit two days before with orders to examine the world and determine its validity for colonization. From the preliminary scans, Geoffrey saw nothing worthwhile about the rock. All of the water on the crust was locked in ice that reached hundreds of feet deep in the poles. It was a barren desert.

He really didn't want to risk any of his crew sending them down to the surface. The weather patterns were some of the strangest he had seen on any planet, with continent-wide storms whipping up in a matter of hours that scoured the ice shelves until they shone like mirrors. It gave the world a luminous quality, a pearl suspended in the dark depths of space.

The door beeped at him, announcing a visitor to the captain's quarters. Geoffrey checked the chronometer, saw it was nearly time for the ready team to leave.

“Enter,” he called.

The door slid open with a quiet hiss and the ready team leader, Burkley, entered to stand at attention.

Geoffrey looked him over, considering the new protective gear his engineers had developed to protect his people from the extreme cold. Probes had shown surface temperatures, even near the equator, never rose over -50° Celsius. They had retrofitted a few of the spacewalking outfits to handle gravitic movement and while they hardly looked comfortable, Burkley seemed comfortable enough.

“Report.”

Burkley stood at ease, had difficulty putting his arms behind his back, and decided to stay at attention.

“Sir, the ready team will be prepared for surface exploration on schedule. Six spacewalking outfits have been outfitted to handle surface conditions, including the likelihood of storm activity. GPS locators, extra carbon dioxide scrubbers, heat generators. Francos and Hedrick will collect a few core samples to determine crust composition. Klu and Opoitos will search for any organic materials on the surface the probes may have missed. Genaro will focus his attentions on the ice composition to see if it would be practical to use this planet as a water source.”

“And your role, Burkley?”

Burkley smiled at the familiar question. “As always, sir, my role is to get everyone back to the Traxis alive and well.”

Geoffrey nodded. He took one last look at the globe on his desk, a strange feeling tugging at the back of his mind, before standing.

“I'll see you off, Burkley.”

The captain and his ready team leader entered the hallway and stepped onto the transport belt. They waited in silence while they were carried to the shuttle bay in the belly of the ship, which was alive with last-minute activity. Crew members went over final checklists preparing the two drop ships that would depart planet-side. The ready team stood to one side of the hangar, going over the new additions to their suits with Traxis engineers who assured them repeatedly that if anything changed in the suit, they would be waiting at the comms to help.

It was a regular sight for the surveyor ship and one Geoffrey had participated in and overseen countless times in his twenty-five years of spacefaring. He had explored dozens of worlds for the Human Continuum's constant expansion and none had been nearly as remote or devoid of discernible life as this one.

The chronometer above the bay doors clicked down toward the mission start time. Crews pulled back from the dropships as they ran through initial system and engine checks. The ready team boarded their ships, Opoitos piloting one, Burkley the other. Comms flared to life as the dropships communicated readings to each other, overheard by the engineers who were receiving the same information on remote terminals.

Everything was ready on time, as Geoffrey knew it would be. His crew was experienced and dedicated to each other. The captain stood on the flight deck as the dropships engaged thrusters and descended into the bay airlock. The comm unit on Geoffrey's hip squawked once.

“Permission to sortie, Captain.”

Geoffrey brought the comm to his mouth. “Permission granted, Burkley. Eyes open and get back soon.”

“Tell the chefs to hold dinner for us.”

Alarm klaxons sounded as the airlock depressurized and the outer doors opened. Geoffrey watched on a terminal as the dropships slipped out of the bay doors and descended into the upper atmosphere. For the moment, they had a clear path and no storms were brewing. The captain hoped it stayed that way but he had seen how quickly they could develop.

“Engineer Kriston, did you prepare the ships with de-icing equipment and protocols?”

“Yes sir.” The answer came immediately but Geoffrey caught the concerned look that flashed between the engineer crew. “Thrusters have been outfitted with external heaters to prevent ice buildup. The crews also have torches to clear the wings if they see buildup there. Officers Burkley and Opoitos were briefed on the protocols.”

Geoffrey nodded. He had read that in the mission pre-report. This survey, though...

“Thank you, Engineer. Keep me apprised of the mission status.”

The engineers saluted. Geoffrey returned the salute and left the bay. He hopped back on the transport belt and let it carry him to the bridge. His instincts whispered to him but he had faith in the abilities of his crew. Hovering about would not be benefit anyone.

He reached the bridge. His senior officers saluted from their positions and Geoffrey took his place in the captain's booth. The seat conformed around him and the visor dropped over his eyes, locking into place with a snap onto the adapters implanted in his temples.

Immediately, the ship's systems appeared in his mind, a glittering collection of readings, displays, and controls. Geoffrey took a moment to examine everything, letting his mind filter through the wealth of information that now flooded his cerebrum. Though each of the systems could be accessed from terminals on the bridge, his booth gave him control of everything with only a thought.

It was an older system, one that had required a decade of training and teaching. Several had died during the neural transmitter implant procedure. It was quickly replaced, the Continuum deciding it was impractical to require that much training for one person to captain a ship and what should happen if he or she was incapacitated or killed.

Geoffrey had had the system installed on his ship in addition to the standard stand-alone terminals. It gave him an intimate knowledge of the ship, as if it were an extension of his own body, that he would not have given up for anything. Even if he were to die, the crew could still pilot the ship, but he could do it faster and with greater dexterity in his booth.

He tuned into the ship's sensors that were following the dropships. They had broken through the upper atmosphere without incident and were on course for their LZ. A quick meteorological scan detected a light wind from the southern polar region that could be the harbinger of a storm. Geoffrey set the ship's systems to alert him should a pressure system develop from it.

Fallen Warrior Character Description

This was a character description I wrote when I was trying to convince a friend to draw for me. I never did see a sketch for him, but I enjoyed this brief scene. Hopefully, you do, too.

The light has faded on the battleground, leaving it amassed in semi-darkness, a twilight wasteland. A light rain falls, shifting with the shadows, blanketing the still form of the warrior. His dark hair is unbound, the ends cut ragged, the leather thong that secured it lost in the fray. He is slumped forward. Blood seeps through his tattered leather jerkin from a wound beneath his ribs. He leans heavily on his elbows, pushed forward on his knees. The broad muscles of his back and arms are slack, exhaustion draining his fabled strength as the rain and his wound did the same for his life. The sword that spared his life barely rests in the limp fingers of his remaining hand. The once bright blade no longer shines and new notches and mud steal the killing edge. The shifting darkness reveals his face for a moment. Hot, living tears cut through the blood and dirt that cakes his cheeks, adding salt spilled for friends, enemies, and himself to the grime.

Millennial

It's been a number of years since I tried my hand at poetry, and I must admit I read The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel T. Coleridge before penning this. That is my favorite epic poem and put me in the mindset to rhyme. My favorite line from the poem is:

"They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
It had been strange, even in a dream,
To have seen those dead men rise."

Of course, the first time I read those lines was as the flavor text on a Magic: the Gathering playing card. Skeleton Warrior, I believe. Anyway, here is my attempt at poetry.

Millennial

One thousand years I passed my day,
One thousand years I wandered,
One thousand ways I learned to say
One thousand years I squandered.

Until the day I meet a lass
Until the day I find her
One thousand years alone I pass
Until the day I find her.

One thousand stories have been told
I heard them all by heart
Of Love lost and found and bought and sold
But never did it part.

That tale I heard again and more
From high and low and every voice
Until my mind a burden bore
A thousand ways to make a choice.

One thousand years I've lived alone
One thousand years I've watched.
One thousand ways I must atone.

One thousand years is long enough.

Bind Me with Whiskey

"There she was, standing alone, a blossoming rose..."

Ah this is crap, I thought, letting my pen drop to the tabletop. I rubbed my eyes, scrubbed my fingers through my hair and looked back down at the paper before me. I always wrote better with pen and paper but for some reason I could not get this scene to work. It had started with a very sarcastic tone, the narrator annoyed at a friend. Then it had somehow morphed into a secret confession of long-held feelings and now I somehow had him waxing poetic. Reading over the passage again, I saw that I was all over the place. Not good for character development.

I sighed and reached for the pen again. Decided to crack my knuckles instead, thrilling as I always did at the pops that emanated from my joints. I looked at the pen, at the page, back to the pen, got up and strolled to the window. Autumn was underway and the array of burnt oranges, cherry reds, and golden yellows was much more interesting than my dismal scene. I watched some of the neighborhood kids playing roller hockey in the street and watching them scatter at the approach of any vehicle brought me a simple, wicked sort of glee.

Oh don't give me that look. It's called schadenfreude and you do it too. We all do. Fact of life. Now where was I?

Scattered kids, wicked glee. My mind made some writerly connection between the kids and the leaves they skated over but I threw it out as useless prose. I turned my thoughts to the scene I had been working on. What was I going for? Darkly humorous? Over-the-top romantic? Shakespearean dramatic? Clearly mixing all three just led to abject failure. It lost the entire voice of the character. He was all of those things but very definitely not at the same time, not unless he'd been drinking.

Considered for a moment adding a bottle of whiskey to an earlier part. Berated myself for trying to cheat the scene. I started waving my hands around trying to come up with some sort of idea of what I was going for, all the while looking quite the lunatic through the large glass window that took up an entire wall of my den. Maybe I could go for the "crazy in love" angle? No, that wouldn't work. Didn't feel right.

The ideas started rolling through my head like high-speed credits. Executive Producer: Sarcastic Prick. Director: Angry step-child. As seen in order of appearance: Raging Bear, Begging Sycophant, Uncaring Disbeliever, Damned Sinner looking to repent. Special thanks to Arrogant Jackass.

While my brain went into autodrive generating ideas, I moved over the sideboard and poured from that bottle of whiskey I denied my narrator. So I'm a hypocrite. I'm a writer. I write for what's called for. But by God and Jack Daniels do I love hypocrisy. Writers would be out of business if not for hypocrisy, the lies we tell others even as we demonstrate it. Do as I say, not as I do. No better material exists for us.

I smiled into the alcohol fumes. I had just found the binding for the scene. With a single quick gulp I sent my thanks to Mr. Daniels before resuming my position, pen in hand.

Ode to Ignoramuses

Their are certain personages in this world for whom there spoken language is merely a tool. An object to be used and discarded at will, with no farther thought for it's form and function. These are the people whom believe "irregardless" is acceptable, despite the implicit double negative. These people may argue that its commonly-used vernacular. It is unfortunate that they're point is valid. "Irregardless" and many of its fantastical cousins (refudiate, it's evil twin) are widely spoken in daily conversation. It is farther unfortunate that such words are often legitimized by the public at large (I am looking at you, American English Dictionary).

Without a doubt, language is meant to grow and evolve. It is intriguing to note that while the majority of humanity attempts to live above a state of nature, our languages continue to exist in one. English is an exquisite example of this fact. Our language borrows and lends to others worldwide. The phrase "OK" is the most widely used and understood phrase on the planet. Change is to be expected and often welcomed. Without evolution, we would not say "Internet" but rather "World Wide Web." Google would still be spelled googol and refer to a number. The growth and development of a language is a beautiful thing to behold at times.

Yet every evolution has its maladapted mutations. Words that have come into being through ignorance and stupidity and should therefore, in keeping with this evolutionary metaphor, fail to survive in the harsh world and die out. With wanton disregard for the beauty of the language they inhabit, they continue to be spoken, by the unlearned and the educated alike. It is enough to deem such words linguistic viruses, parasites that are easy to find but difficult to dispatch.

English is an exquisite language, complex and beautiful. It is eloquent and graceful. It is authoritative and harsh. You can belittle a man's heritage and intelligence and make it sound like a rare French vintage or describe the beauty of a rose and make it sound like a battlefield. It is a language of clarity and ambiguity, discernment and obfuscation, brevity and verbosity. It is contradiction incarnate, from its rules to its vocabulary.

This complexity is often sneered at. Only the super elite would appreciate it, snobs with their noses in the air who attended Ivy Leagues or Oxford. But who can't appreciate the deceptively simple approach Mark Twain takes toward language? Or Hemmingway? Works simply worded, but endowed with sarcasm, irony, humor, and a hundred other things. Emotions every person, pauper poor and super elite alike, can relate to and appreciate. Our language is a powerful tool, immensely powerful.

Doesn't it deserve some respect?

*It should be noted that the errors in the first paragraph are meant for irony and I am fully aware of them.*
*This was another piece I wrote for that same GWW class. The assignment was to write about something that annoyed you.*

The Window

Fog obscured the view, shrouding the world until it resembled a shadow realm, a fleeting impression of life beyond. The fog was composed of thousands of microdroplets, instantaneous condensation from the collision of humid breath and frigid glass, creating a kaleidoscopic view if you could only squint your eyes just so.

If you could, what would you really see? Would it be like seeing through the eyes of a fly, your human mind inundated by the sheer volume of information so your eyes go cross? Or would you see the world anew, each drop emphasizing a different part of the landscape, a natural observatory with a thousand telescopes directed at the surrounding world rather than the enveloping cosmos?

The window, like the fog, acted as a barrier between the viewer and the viewed. It created a depersonalization, a separation, between you and the object of your curiosity. So why? Why did you rub the fog away, subsequently ignoring the cold spreading from the damp spot on your sleeve? Why did you press your face up to the cold-radiating glass, unaware of the plumes of fog that billowed under your nose? What possessed you to forget the immediate world in favor of some separate dimension?

Only this: a pair of blue eyes, themselves windows, obscured by fog.

*This was a piece I wrote for a creative fiction class I took online through Gotham Writers' Workshop. Very good class.*

The Caterpillar

"The mind is an odd thing," said the Caterpillar, blowing smoke rings up toward the domed ceiling.

Edric said nothing. The Caterpillar was known throughout the Imperium ghostlands as a philosopher and many of his enemies had been found with obscure, pedantic references shoved down their throats. They usually ended up that way when their own opinions differed from the Caterpillar's and Edric had learned the wisdom of silence.

"Don't you think so, Ricky?" A cybernetic stalk swiveled in his direction.

Edric suppressed a grimace at the nickname. Early in his business relationship with the Caterpillar, the cyborg criminal had continually forgotten his rather old-fashioned name and dubbed him with a name nearly as ancient from one of the many 20th century television shows that played constantly on the holoscreens.

For once, the 'Pillar seemed to expect an answer from his associate. Edric shrugged, watching the robotically-elongated body for a reaction. The metallic segments writhed and spun around some arbitrary central axis until the full length of the Caterpillar was facing Edric. Four of the 'Pillar's eyestalks reached out toward him, the quicksilver irises eerily still, while his remaining three continued their wandering sentry duty. An eighth stalk also writhed, but it lacked its mercury orb, a constant reminder of the one man who had nearly toppled the Caterpillar from his underworld throne.

"Come now, my good fellow, surely you must have some thought on the matter. After all, the mind is the one thing we all share, human and cyborg alike."

Edric hesitated, thoughts of his predecessor preoccupying his immediate thoughts. Those four stalks maintained their vigil and he felt very uncomfortable under the close scrutiny.

"I think," he began, "that every man's opinion is his own, sir."

The Caterpillar stared at Edric a moment longer before the mercury irises began their slow spin again. It was a tell-tale sign that the Caterpillar was pleased, and one Edric had seen him use on several occasions to confuse his opponents.

"Every man is entitled to his own opinion, of course," said the Caterpillar, his eyestalks losing interest in their target for the time-being, absorbed by deeper thoughts and shifting shadows.

Edric followed the eyeless stalk for a moment, entertaining thoughts of criminal domination before the rippling sectors of the 'Pillar's segmented body and the real world shifted once more into view.