Tuesday, January 26, 2010
A Scene I'd Love to See in the Next Star Trek Movie
INT. - BRIDGE OF THE STARSHIP ENTERPRISE
CAPTAIN KIRK sits at his chair.
SULU and CHEKHOV man their stations, as do UHURA and SPOCK.
McCOY stands beside Kirk.
Behind Kirk, the turbolift door opens and SCOTTY enters the bridge, followed by another male crew member whose face we do not see.
KIRK turns his chair to face SCOTTY.
In the background, we see the other crew member wandering around the bridge, looking at various pieces of equipment and their displays. He has yet to turn towards the camera. For the first time, KIRK seems to notice him.
JJ Abrams, I'm looking at you here! Because, of course, it's highly unlikely you're looking at me.
CAPTAIN KIRK sits at his chair.
SULU and CHEKHOV man their stations, as do UHURA and SPOCK.
McCOY stands beside Kirk.
Behind Kirk, the turbolift door opens and SCOTTY enters the bridge, followed by another male crew member whose face we do not see.
SCOTTY
She'll be ready to go any time you are, Captain.
She'll be ready to go any time you are, Captain.
KIRK turns his chair to face SCOTTY.
KIRK
Thank you, Mr. Scott.
Thank you, Mr. Scott.
In the background, we see the other crew member wandering around the bridge, looking at various pieces of equipment and their displays. He has yet to turn towards the camera. For the first time, KIRK seems to notice him.
KIRK
(quietly)
Spock.
End of scene. Of course, John DeLancie would be the right guy for the job. Less than a minute, somewhere near the beginning, I'm thinking.(quietly)
Spock.
SPOCK looks up from the display he has been watching.
KIRK points at the crew member and stands.
Now everyone on the bridge is paying attention, watching KIRK and the crew member.
SPOCK walks over to stand near KIRK.
By now the crew member has walked back towards the turbolift, back still turned to the crew and to the camera.
As KIRK approaches him the lift doors open and he steps in.
Just before the lift doors close, the crew member turns and smiles widely at KIRK, revealing his face.
Q disappears in a flash of light before the lift doors can close.
KIRK points at the crew member and stands.
Now everyone on the bridge is paying attention, watching KIRK and the crew member.
SPOCK walks over to stand near KIRK.
KIRK
(still quietly)
Does his behavior seem a little... strange to you?
SPOCK
(eyebrow arched)
Almost everything humans do seems strange to me, Captain. But yes, in this instance I can perceive no reason for a member of the crew to be on the bridge and acting this way.
(still quietly)
Does his behavior seem a little... strange to you?
SPOCK
(eyebrow arched)
Almost everything humans do seems strange to me, Captain. But yes, in this instance I can perceive no reason for a member of the crew to be on the bridge and acting this way.
By now the crew member has walked back towards the turbolift, back still turned to the crew and to the camera.
As KIRK approaches him the lift doors open and he steps in.
Just before the lift doors close, the crew member turns and smiles widely at KIRK, revealing his face.
Q
(brightly)
I like what you've done with the place.
(brightly)
I like what you've done with the place.
Q disappears in a flash of light before the lift doors can close.
JJ Abrams, I'm looking at you here! Because, of course, it's highly unlikely you're looking at me.
Labels: science fiction, screenplays, Star Trek, writing
Monday, January 18, 2010
How to Read SF
Jo Walton at Tor.com does an excellent job of laying out how to read science fiction and fantasy, and why some people just don't get it. This is a good article to read, for SF fans, of course, but more so, I think, for people like my wife, who normally don't read the stuff.
Labels: fantasy, reading, science fiction
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The Relationship Between Kirk and Spock
And no, I don't mean in the slash sense. Instead, here's a very good essay about how that relationship developed and what we see of the beginnings in the new and excellent Star Trek movie.
Labels: movies, science fiction
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Me, Talking About YA SF
Follow the link to SF Signal, with this week's Mind Meld, and see not just what I have to say, but also Ellen Datlow, Steven Gould, and others.
Follow the link to SF Signal, with this week's Mind Meld, and see not just what I have to say, but also Ellen Datlow, Steven Gould, and others.
Labels: publishing, science fiction, writing
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Derryl Makes Another Sale
This was an interesting one for me, because of the time frame involved. It started when I was at WFC in Saratoga and Claude Lalumiere approached me and reminded me that he was editing Tesseracts 12, and that this anthology would consist exclusively of stories between 10,000 and 20,000 words in length. Since I had previously sold him a story in this range ("More Painful Than the Dreams of Other Boys" in Open Space), he suggested that I ought to submit. Actually, he pretty much insisted.
I came home and started to think about things, and eventually decided to write another story in my "Magic Canada" series, which up to now includes "Cold Ground" from Arrowdreams, "Northwest Passage" from Realms of Fantasy, and "Over the Darkened Landscape" from Mythspring. (Told about this, Jo immediately smelled blood: "Sounds like you have a collection in this!" Yup, that is eventually the plan.) Unfortunately, the first story I started working on stalled, and it stalled only after I had done reams of research and a fair amount of writing. And so I scrapped it, quite late, and got to work on one of my backup ideas.
The new story, "Ancients of the Earth," is a little less research-intensive than some of the other stories - both written and conceptual - because it is based on an urban (rural?) legend. That said, it still took me almost to the bitter end to get the thing written, including about 7000 words in the last three days, four thousand of those in the last ten hours or so. In spite of the rush, I was quite pleased with the final result, and I'm glad to see that Claude was as well. I still have some fixes to do this weekend, and Claude will likely have some specific requests, but we have a story, coming out this autumn.
This was an interesting one for me, because of the time frame involved. It started when I was at WFC in Saratoga and Claude Lalumiere approached me and reminded me that he was editing Tesseracts 12, and that this anthology would consist exclusively of stories between 10,000 and 20,000 words in length. Since I had previously sold him a story in this range ("More Painful Than the Dreams of Other Boys" in Open Space), he suggested that I ought to submit. Actually, he pretty much insisted.
I came home and started to think about things, and eventually decided to write another story in my "Magic Canada" series, which up to now includes "Cold Ground" from Arrowdreams, "Northwest Passage" from Realms of Fantasy, and "Over the Darkened Landscape" from Mythspring. (Told about this, Jo immediately smelled blood: "Sounds like you have a collection in this!" Yup, that is eventually the plan.) Unfortunately, the first story I started working on stalled, and it stalled only after I had done reams of research and a fair amount of writing. And so I scrapped it, quite late, and got to work on one of my backup ideas.
The new story, "Ancients of the Earth," is a little less research-intensive than some of the other stories - both written and conceptual - because it is based on an urban (rural?) legend. That said, it still took me almost to the bitter end to get the thing written, including about 7000 words in the last three days, four thousand of those in the last ten hours or so. In spite of the rush, I was quite pleased with the final result, and I'm glad to see that Claude was as well. I still have some fixes to do this weekend, and Claude will likely have some specific requests, but we have a story, coming out this autumn.
Labels: fantasy, publishing, science fiction, writing
Saturday, February 02, 2008
An Interesting Experiment (And a Place to Find Some of My Stories)
Anthology Builder is a new site that takes story submissions (reprints, naturally) from authors and then offers them up to the public so that readers can, as the name suggests, build their own anthologies. This is a smart use of POD technology, I think, a way for people to find the stories that they want and to format them as desired (provided they want dead tree product, instead of digital). As the site grows I worry that it may grow a tad unwieldy, but right now there aren't too many stories up.
The pay is low, of course. It's a tiny percentage of each book, and not paid out until it passes the magical $20.00 barrier, which, unless I suddenly become remarkably popular, is a long time from now. But I'm cool with that. My name gets out to a few people, and stories that are currently not available anywhere else (or not too much, anyhow) get a new airing.
I have two offerings right now, and will roll a few more out soon, I think. Check them out here.
Anthology Builder is a new site that takes story submissions (reprints, naturally) from authors and then offers them up to the public so that readers can, as the name suggests, build their own anthologies. This is a smart use of POD technology, I think, a way for people to find the stories that they want and to format them as desired (provided they want dead tree product, instead of digital). As the site grows I worry that it may grow a tad unwieldy, but right now there aren't too many stories up.
The pay is low, of course. It's a tiny percentage of each book, and not paid out until it passes the magical $20.00 barrier, which, unless I suddenly become remarkably popular, is a long time from now. But I'm cool with that. My name gets out to a few people, and stories that are currently not available anywhere else (or not too much, anyhow) get a new airing.
I have two offerings right now, and will roll a few more out soon, I think. Check them out here.
Labels: POD, science fiction, writing
Friday, February 01, 2008
Peter Watts Posts a Fiblet
And it's a doozy. A fiblet, according to Peter, is a niblet of new fiction. It's just a tiny little piece, but damn, it's got me wanting a whole lot more.
And it's a doozy. A fiblet, according to Peter, is a niblet of new fiction. It's just a tiny little piece, but damn, it's got me wanting a whole lot more.
Labels: science fiction
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
At Last, World Fantasy Convention
After years and years of wanting to attend, I finally made it to WFC this year. Held in Saratoga Springs, New York, this was apparently the largest-ever WFC, with something like 1200 members. Funnily, it often didn't feel that large, I imagine mostly because the facility was not itself terribly large. One could sit near registration and watch the world go by quite easily. And yet that number certainly showed in the number of people attending who I didn't see at all, or at best only briefly saw.
And seeing people seemed to be the order of the weekend.
The con started for me in the line for the train at Penn Station in New York, where I joined Esther Friesner and Ellen Asher for the ride up. We had a great visit along the way, a very pleasant ride. Esther I've talked to before, but that was the first time I'd had the opportunity to talk with Ellen (who, incidentally, won a World Fantasy Award that weekend. Yay!).
As for the con itself, I attended no panels, and only two readings (one was most of Guy Kay's, the other for Ellen Datlow's new anthology Inferno, in order to finally meet Elizabeth Bear,who could have sworn we had met before. Nope). I also did a reading myself, but that was a fiasco; initially to be scheduled, and then the ball was dropped and I was offered 8:30 Thursday (opening) night, and then that was screwed up and I got 10pm the same night, unadvertised. I'm afraid I wasn't at my best when I read.
Sometime after the reading, my roomie Bill Shunn finally arrived, and we hung that night in the bar. From there on, it was a blur of people I met, chatted with, partied with, hung with, or nodded at ever-so-briefly in the halls. Below I attempt to recreate that list, knowing full well my aging mind will drop some names:
Guy Gavriel Kay (of course, being one my my best friends in the biz; we sampled many single malts together), Jack Dann, Dena Bain Taylor (and now, alphabetically, since that makes more sense), Daniel Abraham, John Joseph Adams, Lou Anders, Eileen Bell, Judith Berman, Gary Blog, Jae Brim, Charles N. Brown, Joseph Bruchac, Eileen Capes, Steve Carper, Amy Sterling Casil, Jeanne Cavelos, Ted Chiang, Carolyn Clink, Bruce Coville, F. Brett Cox, Kathryn Cramer, Julie Czerneda, Nick Di Chario, Christine Cohen, Tom Doherty, Andy, Dave, And Hal Duncan (none related), Carol Emshwiller, Craig Engler, Charles Coleman Finlay, Jamie and West Flanagan, Alan Dean Foster, Amanda Foubister, Jim Frenkel, James Alan Gardner, Bev Geddes, Laura Anne Gilman, Ranaan Graff, Gavin Grant, Kim Greyson, Peter Halasz, Gay and Joe Haldeman, Vaughne Hansen, David Hartwell, Teresa Nielsen Hayden, Peter Heck, Matt Hughes (who was our roomie for Saturday night), Jane Jewell, James Patrick Kelly, John Kessel, John Klima, Nancy Kress, David Kyle, Jay Lake, Claude Lalumiere, Margo Lanagan (and her husband, whose name escapes me), Jeremy Lassen, Kelly Link, Andre Losier, Karin Lowachee, Nathalie Mallet, Nick Mamatas, Randy McCharles, Terry McGarry, Victoria McManus, Yves Meynard (who kindly gave me a ride back to Montreal, from where I flew home on Monday), Lee Modesitt, Darren Nash, Kim Newman, Garth Nix, Patrick O'Leary, Josh Pasternak, Karen Perry, Tim and Serena Powers, Fleetwood Robbins, Barbara and Christopher Roden, Alan Rodgers, Diana Rowland, Cliff Samuels, Robert J. Sawyer, Ken Scholes, Darrell Schweitzer, John Silbersack, Janni Lee Simner, Michael Skeet, Melinda Snodgrass, Ian Randall Strock, Liza Groen Trombi, Jean-Louis Trudel, Den Valdron, Gordon Van Gelder, Sean Wallace, Rene Walling, Sheila Williams, Walter Jon Williams, Gary K. Wolfe, and Jane Yolen.
Whew.
Y'know, writing that list was actually quite useful for me. I'm appalled at just how many people I missed, now that I've had a closer look at the membership list. People I know online but have never met, like Meg Turville-Heitz and Neile Graham, people I've always wanted to meet, like John Crowley, or people I've met before but haven't seen in some time, like Gene Wolfe.
Meals were great, always with wonderful company, and yes, some business was done. Hopefully I'll be able to update everyone on some of that business soon, but for the moment I don't want to spill on stuff that isn't final.
Again, pictures will soon follow, once I get over to the other computer.
After years and years of wanting to attend, I finally made it to WFC this year. Held in Saratoga Springs, New York, this was apparently the largest-ever WFC, with something like 1200 members. Funnily, it often didn't feel that large, I imagine mostly because the facility was not itself terribly large. One could sit near registration and watch the world go by quite easily. And yet that number certainly showed in the number of people attending who I didn't see at all, or at best only briefly saw.
And seeing people seemed to be the order of the weekend.
The con started for me in the line for the train at Penn Station in New York, where I joined Esther Friesner and Ellen Asher for the ride up. We had a great visit along the way, a very pleasant ride. Esther I've talked to before, but that was the first time I'd had the opportunity to talk with Ellen (who, incidentally, won a World Fantasy Award that weekend. Yay!).
As for the con itself, I attended no panels, and only two readings (one was most of Guy Kay's, the other for Ellen Datlow's new anthology Inferno, in order to finally meet Elizabeth Bear,who could have sworn we had met before. Nope). I also did a reading myself, but that was a fiasco; initially to be scheduled, and then the ball was dropped and I was offered 8:30 Thursday (opening) night, and then that was screwed up and I got 10pm the same night, unadvertised. I'm afraid I wasn't at my best when I read.
Sometime after the reading, my roomie Bill Shunn finally arrived, and we hung that night in the bar. From there on, it was a blur of people I met, chatted with, partied with, hung with, or nodded at ever-so-briefly in the halls. Below I attempt to recreate that list, knowing full well my aging mind will drop some names:
Guy Gavriel Kay (of course, being one my my best friends in the biz; we sampled many single malts together), Jack Dann, Dena Bain Taylor (and now, alphabetically, since that makes more sense), Daniel Abraham, John Joseph Adams, Lou Anders, Eileen Bell, Judith Berman, Gary Blog, Jae Brim, Charles N. Brown, Joseph Bruchac, Eileen Capes, Steve Carper, Amy Sterling Casil, Jeanne Cavelos, Ted Chiang, Carolyn Clink, Bruce Coville, F. Brett Cox, Kathryn Cramer, Julie Czerneda, Nick Di Chario, Christine Cohen, Tom Doherty, Andy, Dave, And Hal Duncan (none related), Carol Emshwiller, Craig Engler, Charles Coleman Finlay, Jamie and West Flanagan, Alan Dean Foster, Amanda Foubister, Jim Frenkel, James Alan Gardner, Bev Geddes, Laura Anne Gilman, Ranaan Graff, Gavin Grant, Kim Greyson, Peter Halasz, Gay and Joe Haldeman, Vaughne Hansen, David Hartwell, Teresa Nielsen Hayden, Peter Heck, Matt Hughes (who was our roomie for Saturday night), Jane Jewell, James Patrick Kelly, John Kessel, John Klima, Nancy Kress, David Kyle, Jay Lake, Claude Lalumiere, Margo Lanagan (and her husband, whose name escapes me), Jeremy Lassen, Kelly Link, Andre Losier, Karin Lowachee, Nathalie Mallet, Nick Mamatas, Randy McCharles, Terry McGarry, Victoria McManus, Yves Meynard (who kindly gave me a ride back to Montreal, from where I flew home on Monday), Lee Modesitt, Darren Nash, Kim Newman, Garth Nix, Patrick O'Leary, Josh Pasternak, Karen Perry, Tim and Serena Powers, Fleetwood Robbins, Barbara and Christopher Roden, Alan Rodgers, Diana Rowland, Cliff Samuels, Robert J. Sawyer, Ken Scholes, Darrell Schweitzer, John Silbersack, Janni Lee Simner, Michael Skeet, Melinda Snodgrass, Ian Randall Strock, Liza Groen Trombi, Jean-Louis Trudel, Den Valdron, Gordon Van Gelder, Sean Wallace, Rene Walling, Sheila Williams, Walter Jon Williams, Gary K. Wolfe, and Jane Yolen.
Whew.
Y'know, writing that list was actually quite useful for me. I'm appalled at just how many people I missed, now that I've had a closer look at the membership list. People I know online but have never met, like Meg Turville-Heitz and Neile Graham, people I've always wanted to meet, like John Crowley, or people I've met before but haven't seen in some time, like Gene Wolfe.
Meals were great, always with wonderful company, and yes, some business was done. Hopefully I'll be able to update everyone on some of that business soon, but for the moment I don't want to spill on stuff that isn't final.
Again, pictures will soon follow, once I get over to the other computer.
Labels: fantasy, friends, science fiction, travel
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Amateur Night in Canada
As some folks here may recall, my collection Wasps at the Speed of Sound was released in 2005. A little later down the road, I was asked by someone on the Sunburst Award committee to sit as a judge for 2006. Owing to not having anything explained to me at the time, I accepted, and afterward discovered that "2006" meant I would be judging books released in 2005. Alternatives were presented:
And so #3 was it. I didn't come up with that one, but was told it would happen. And what the hell, I figured, it meant I wouldn't have to compete against Holly (last year's winner), although I knew it meant I would be up against Peter Watts. And sure enough, it's great to see that Blindsight is a finalist this year. Indeed, if I were a judge this year I would have wanted his book on the shortlist.
Well, I didn't make the shortlist this year. No harm, no foul, I say. Each year there are plenty of terrific books released, and I didn't write the damned stories with an idea to winning prizes. Curious, though, I clicked over to see the list of books that had been considered for this year's prize.
Oh look. My book isn't on the list.
I'm not sure why this should take me by surprise, considering the gong show scenario I was presented with when I was first asked to be a judge. And I shouldn't let it bother me, since it's an award I was pretty sure I didn't stand a chance of winning, to say nothing of the fact that awards are really not that big a deal to me (I'll be the first to admit to the mercenary belief that $1000 would mean something, though). However, I am somewhat of the mind that a promise made should be a promise kept. My editor sent five copies of the book to the committee, and if I'm in a generous frame of mind, those books are languishing in a box somewhere.
When (if) my next book comes out, I'll be curious to see what my mindset is at that time, if I'm willing to trust to the process again. Certainly any future goodwill regarding being a judge again has been burned beyond all recognition (perhaps for other awards as well), as has any inclination to contribute to fundraising for the Sunburst.
As some folks here may recall, my collection Wasps at the Speed of Sound was released in 2005. A little later down the road, I was asked by someone on the Sunburst Award committee to sit as a judge for 2006. Owing to not having anything explained to me at the time, I accepted, and afterward discovered that "2006" meant I would be judging books released in 2005. Alternatives were presented:
- I would drop out of the judging
- I would allow my book to remain in contention, but recuse myself from discussions about it
- I would pull my book from contention and it would be held back for the year and allowed to be considered for 2007 as a 2006 title
And so #3 was it. I didn't come up with that one, but was told it would happen. And what the hell, I figured, it meant I wouldn't have to compete against Holly (last year's winner), although I knew it meant I would be up against Peter Watts. And sure enough, it's great to see that Blindsight is a finalist this year. Indeed, if I were a judge this year I would have wanted his book on the shortlist.
Well, I didn't make the shortlist this year. No harm, no foul, I say. Each year there are plenty of terrific books released, and I didn't write the damned stories with an idea to winning prizes. Curious, though, I clicked over to see the list of books that had been considered for this year's prize.
Oh look. My book isn't on the list.
I'm not sure why this should take me by surprise, considering the gong show scenario I was presented with when I was first asked to be a judge. And I shouldn't let it bother me, since it's an award I was pretty sure I didn't stand a chance of winning, to say nothing of the fact that awards are really not that big a deal to me (I'll be the first to admit to the mercenary belief that $1000 would mean something, though). However, I am somewhat of the mind that a promise made should be a promise kept. My editor sent five copies of the book to the committee, and if I'm in a generous frame of mind, those books are languishing in a box somewhere.
When (if) my next book comes out, I'll be curious to see what my mindset is at that time, if I'm willing to trust to the process again. Certainly any future goodwill regarding being a judge again has been burned beyond all recognition (perhaps for other awards as well), as has any inclination to contribute to fundraising for the Sunburst.
Labels: awards, science fiction, writing
Friday, May 25, 2007
Thirty Years Ago Today
Yeah, I was at Star Wars on opening day. I was 14, it was at the Meadowlark in Edmonton (glorious big screen there), and my idiot friend Don Jessop didn't tell me he was going to skip school to see the afternoon showing. So there I was, alone, not really sure what I was going to see, and the first ship crossed the screen from top to bottom, being shot at, and I thought, "Yeah, that's cool," and then the second ship crossed, and crossed, and crossed, and I, along with everyone else in the theatre, went nuts.
It's still a defining moment in my life of movie geekery.
That said, I can't help but agree with most of what John Scalzi has said about Lucas and the whole Star Wars pantheon. Yeah, we own all the DVDs; the kids love the movies. But they (and more specifically, VI, I, II, and III) were a major letdown. The man got rich using a few sleights of hand and some smoke and mirrors, not with any significant storytelling skills.
Yeah, I was at Star Wars on opening day. I was 14, it was at the Meadowlark in Edmonton (glorious big screen there), and my idiot friend Don Jessop didn't tell me he was going to skip school to see the afternoon showing. So there I was, alone, not really sure what I was going to see, and the first ship crossed the screen from top to bottom, being shot at, and I thought, "Yeah, that's cool," and then the second ship crossed, and crossed, and crossed, and I, along with everyone else in the theatre, went nuts.
It's still a defining moment in my life of movie geekery.
That said, I can't help but agree with most of what John Scalzi has said about Lucas and the whole Star Wars pantheon. Yeah, we own all the DVDs; the kids love the movies. But they (and more specifically, VI, I, II, and III) were a major letdown. The man got rich using a few sleights of hand and some smoke and mirrors, not with any significant storytelling skills.
Labels: movies, science fiction
Monday, April 23, 2007
International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day is Here!
And I'm late, dammit! But, better late than never, I give you "Last Call," originally published way back when in On Spec, and (insert drum roll)...
...which is soon to be A MOVIE!
Yes, "Last Call," the story that reduced editor Jena Snyder, artist Robert Pasternak, wife JoAnn Murphy and countless others to blubbering pools of tears, is being made into a movie. A short movie, mind, but a movie nonetheless. More details will follow soon.
Oh, go here to see others doing the same thing (lots and lots to read), and http://papersky.livejournal.com/318273.html to see why Jo Walton announced such a day.
And now, the story:
The phone rang. Jackie rolled over and peered at the clock, eyes blurry and trying to make out the numbers. 4:25.
Her eyes flew open and she reached for the phone. The baby chose the same moment to practice soccer with her bladder, and she grimaced, pressing her free hand to her belly. Shefound the handset and brought it up to her ear, hit the button to answer. Dreading the voice she might hear on the other end.
“Hello?”
A soft clicking, and then an impersonal voice. “Mrs. Ferris, this is the operator. Please stand by for a call.”
What the hell? More noises, and then another voice, hollow and sounding far away. So unexpected it took her a second to realize who it was.
“Jackie. Sorry about the time, love.”
With some effort she rolled over onto her back, lay there with her free hand still on her belly, feeling the baby’s motions. “Allen. My God, honey, the phone ringing so early scared the hell out of me. You haven't come down already, have you?”
A moment’s silence, and then a small chuckle. “No, love, not quite yet.” A few loud breaths, and then, “How’s the baby?”
She smiled, felt the motion as it rolled inside her like a dolphin trying to breach the surface. “Just fine. Must know that its daddy is calling, because there’s some sort of party happening down there right now.”
Her husband chuckled again. “Do me a favor, Jack? Put the phone up to your belly for a minute. I’d like to talk to the Worm for a couple of seconds.”
Jackie laughed. “Jesus, Allen. NASA must owe you some big if you can get patched through from building the station just to talk to a fetus.”
There was a knock on the bedroom door right then, and her mother poked her head in, a concerned look on her face. Jackie mouthed Allen’s name and shrugged her shoulders, smiling so her mother would understand it wasn’t an emergency. Then she pointed at the chair in the corner. Her mother sat, still looking concerned.
Something in Allen’s voice changed, took on the firmness that he knew got things done for him. “Please just do it for me, Jack. Go ahead and put it on speaker so you can hear as well, if you like.”
She frowned. “Sure, Allen. Mom’s in the room now as well.”
“Good. I’ll talk to her for a moment as well.”
“Oh-kay.” She dragged out the word. “Glad NASA’s paying the tolls on this one.” She pressed the button on the handset, held the phone above her belly. “Go ahead, hon.”
A few more deep breaths, now sounding somewhat hoarse over the speaker. “Worm? This is your daddy. I know you haven’t heard my voice for a few weeks. That’s because I’ve been working far away from home, helping build the new space station. Whatever you turn out to be, Worm, boy or girl, I want you to know in advance that your daddy is very proud of you. I know that whatever you choose to do, you will do it very well and with much joy.” He took some more breaths. “I love you very much. Please remember that.”
“Allen?” Jackie sat staring at the phone. “What the hell?”
“Just a second, love. Denise?”
“I’m here, Allen.”
“You’ll know what to do. I love your daughter more than life itself, you know.”
Jackie’s mother smiled slightly. “I never doubted it for a second, Allen. You were always more than I could have asked for.”
“Thanks.” He laughed. “You too, sometimes. Take care, Denise.”
Jackie switched off the speakerphone. “What the hell is happening, Allen? Are they keeping you up there for overtime? Because if they are, I’m going to phone Morris myself and let him know what I think about that. They promised you’d be down in time for the delivery.”
“No overtime, love. But-” His voice caught, and except for the echoing breathing, he was silent.
“But what? Allen, honey, you’re scaring me.” Jackie could feel tears coming to her eyes. “Please don’t do this. Just tell me what’s happening. Please.”
“All right.” She heard him sniff loudly. “Shit. Wish they knew of some way to wipe your nose inside a helmet.”
“In a helmet? Why are you in your suit, Allen? Shouldn’t you be talking to me from the living module or the shuttle?” She bit her lower lip and grabbed the blanket with her free hand, twirling it into a tight knot around her fingers. Her mother got up from the chair, came and sat on the side of the bed, put her hand on Jackie’s knee.
“There’s been an accident, love. Davey’s been killed.”
“Oh my God,” said Jackie. “Poor Andrea. Oh God. I have to call her.” She reached over to the night table and grabbed a tissue, dabbed at her eyes and then her nose.
“I was there too, Jack. With him at the time.”
“Jesus, Allen! What happened? Were you hurt?”
“No trauma to the suit, if that’s what you mean. But there were other problems.”
“Don’t do this to me, Allen! Stop fucking around and tell me what has happened to you!”
“I’m sorry, love.” More breathing. “I wasn’t tethered at the time, Jack. I had my MMU on, so that I could maneuver between where Davey was working and another spot on the solar array we were trying to fix. I was down beside Davey when something happened to the MMU – they figure it was hit by a loose screw that’s probably been in orbit for a few decades.”
Jackie closed her eyes, tried to remember what Allen had told her about his suit. Her eyes snapped open. “The MMU? The unit with the nitrogen gas you use for jetting around between sites, right?”
“Right, love.”
“Then what?”
“Just before they patched me through to you, Wesley told me they figure the screw was doing something like a hundred thousand kilometers per hour. It blew right through the MMU. The releasing gas sent me spinning.” There was silence for a second. “I guess it was me that knocked Davey into the path of the laser. Don’t know how or why he kept his hand on the dead man’s switch.” His voice was quieter now, more distant.
She took a deep breath. “Where are you?”
“About seventy kilometers away from the station right now, maybe even more.”
“Christ.” It was a whisper. Her mother reached out and took her free hand, eyes wide and fearful. “Please tell me they’re sending the shuttle to pick you up.”
Allen was silent, only his gasping breaths coming through right now.
“Damn it, Allen, tell me!”
“They tried, Jack. But Mission Control stopped them before they could even close up the airlock and push away from the station. There isn’t enough fuel to safely pick me up. They’d lose the shuttle and everyone on board as well.”
“As well.” Jackie repeated the words. A sob welled up from deep inside her, escaped before she could cut it off.
“I’m sorry, love. I wasn’t sure where this conversation was going to go once it came out, and there were some things I wanted to make sure I did. For your benefit as well as for the baby.” More distant breaths. “Shit. Only so much time and so much to say, I don’t want it screwed up by crying the whole time, making so much noise we can’t hear each other.”
Jackie closed her eyes for a moment, fought to regain control. She was an astronaut’s wife, damn it! Part of her had always been prepared for this.
She tried to speak but her voice choked inside her throat. She coughed, then said, “I’m all right now.”
“Good. I knew you could handle this. Wesley didn’t think this call was a good idea, but thankfully they called Morris. He cleared it right away. Man knows what’s important.”
A thought came to Jackie, of her husband floating through space forever, lifeless body wrapped inside his tomb of a suit. She bit her lip. “What’s the view right now?” she asked. She knew her husband could rave for hours about all that he saw when he was in orbit.
“Great.” Allen laughed. “A little unsettling, to tell you the truth. But still great. Just wish it was constant.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m spinning crazier than a top, love. It’s worse than the first time I jumped from a plane, when I forgot to arch my back. Earth-space-Earth-space-Earth-space, on and on. At least I had a chute to straighten me out back then.”
She smiled. “I remember that jump. I was so pissed off with you when you came home with that sprained ankle.”
A small laugh. “Only time in my life I’ve regretted being served my meals in bed.”
The doorbell rang. Denise got up to offer a hand, but Jackie shook her head vigorously, waving her towards the front door instead. “There’s someone at the door, Allen.” She pressed the heel of her free hand to her left eye, smeared at the tears that were starting to flow there, repeated the procedure on her other eye.
“Should be Morris and Sandra, Jack. He told me they were going to be heading right over. Just make sure you check before opening the door, confirm that it isn’t media. They shouldn’t know about this yet, but you can never be too sure.”
Denise headed downstairs, Jackie following slowly behind her. At the foot of the stairs she paused, watched as her mother let the former astronaut and his wife into the front entry. “It’s them, Allen,” she whispered. “But I’m not sure I want company right now.”
“Your mom will know what to do, love, don’t worry. Just go settle into your comfy chair.”
Sandra came over and gave Jackie a quick hard hug, looked her in the eyes with her own agonized expression, then turned and followed Denise into the kitchen. Already Jackie could smell the coffee brewing. She turned and went into the den, eased herself into the comfy chair.
"You know where the key for the safe deposit box is?" said Allen. Jackie held her breath a moment, willing herself to be strong for him. "On the rack by the back door."
“Yeah. There’s a video for Worm in the box, something I made a few days before launch. My will and a note for you as well.”
He waited for her to answer, breathing still sounding louder and more ragged than his voice. When she didn’t talk, he continued.
“Insurance and the pension should cover things nicely, and I suspect you can expect a decent payout from NASA. Spend something on yourself, put a bunch away in a fund for Worm for education. I’ll trust you to know what’s right to do with it.”
Jackie held the phone away for a second, blew her nose. “Damn right you’ll trust me, hon. I do the money stuff even when you’re home.”
“Ha. Right you are.”
They were both silent for a few seconds. Then, “Have I told you today that I love you?”
Before she could fight it off, a sob jumped from deep inside her. She pulled the phone away from her ear, biting hard on her quivering lower lip and squeezing her eyes against the new flow of tears. No matter how hard the day, no matter the time, Allen always found time to say that to her every day they were together. Even if it slipped his mind until the literal last minute, he would wake her up at a minute to midnight if he had to, just to tell her that.
But then she found a smile, small and sad, but still a smile. “Trust you to wake me up in the middle of the night to let me know. Couldn’t remember at a decent hour, could you?”
They both laughed, Jackie’s laughs quickly turning into a coughing fit to cover up the rising swell of sobs.
“Remember all our special walks in the woods, okay? And dinner at Packrat’s.”
She smiled. “Always.”
His breathing was more ragged now. “Seeing the Perseids together on our third date, and me lying in bed crying from laughing so hard when I read you things that you always managed to put up with, even when you hated them.” His voice caught. “Never forget.”
“Never,” she whispered. She closed her eyes and imagined she could smell him right now, his sweat and odor comforting her.
“I have to go now, love.”
Her eyes flew open. “Now?” Jackie heard the hint of a wail in her voice. “Why now? You phone to tell me you’re about to die, and then you hang up on me before I can get my head around the news!” The tears pouring down her cheeks were ignored now.
“Jack, I’m not heading off into some obscure orbit. The MMU kicked me down, straight into the gravity well.”
“Down.” Her heart stopped.
“Down. Guess you’d hear it from Morris or worse, on the news. I’ll be going out like a comet, love.”
“You’ll burn.” This much she remembered.
“I won’t feel it. Fat chance I’m going to wait around for my face to catch fire. Just don’t tell Worm, ‘kay? Let the little gaffer know that I went out in a blaze of glory, not in a blast of self-administered explosive decompression.”
More sobs. “Okay. It’ll - it’ll be our secret.”
“Right.” Breathing, sounding heavy and frightened, some background noises. “Jack?”
She caught her own breath, held it for a moment until she felt some semblance of strength return. “Have I told you today that I love you?”
Silence. Her voice caught in her throat and she was about to scream his name, but then he finally answered her. “Today and every day, love. Take good care of Worm.”
There was a click, and seconds later a dial tone.
The baby started to kick again. Jackie sat on the comfy chair, legs curled to the side, one hand on her belly and the other still holding the phone, eyes closed. The sobs started when her mother came into the room and put a hand on her shoulder.
And I'm late, dammit! But, better late than never, I give you "Last Call," originally published way back when in On Spec, and (insert drum roll)...
...which is soon to be A MOVIE!
Yes, "Last Call," the story that reduced editor Jena Snyder, artist Robert Pasternak, wife JoAnn Murphy and countless others to blubbering pools of tears, is being made into a movie. A short movie, mind, but a movie nonetheless. More details will follow soon.
Oh, go here to see others doing the same thing (lots and lots to read), and http://papersky.livejournal.com/318273.html to see why Jo Walton announced such a day.
And now, the story:
The phone rang. Jackie rolled over and peered at the clock, eyes blurry and trying to make out the numbers. 4:25.
Her eyes flew open and she reached for the phone. The baby chose the same moment to practice soccer with her bladder, and she grimaced, pressing her free hand to her belly. Shefound the handset and brought it up to her ear, hit the button to answer. Dreading the voice she might hear on the other end.
“Hello?”
A soft clicking, and then an impersonal voice. “Mrs. Ferris, this is the operator. Please stand by for a call.”
What the hell? More noises, and then another voice, hollow and sounding far away. So unexpected it took her a second to realize who it was.
“Jackie. Sorry about the time, love.”
With some effort she rolled over onto her back, lay there with her free hand still on her belly, feeling the baby’s motions. “Allen. My God, honey, the phone ringing so early scared the hell out of me. You haven't come down already, have you?”
A moment’s silence, and then a small chuckle. “No, love, not quite yet.” A few loud breaths, and then, “How’s the baby?”
She smiled, felt the motion as it rolled inside her like a dolphin trying to breach the surface. “Just fine. Must know that its daddy is calling, because there’s some sort of party happening down there right now.”
Her husband chuckled again. “Do me a favor, Jack? Put the phone up to your belly for a minute. I’d like to talk to the Worm for a couple of seconds.”
Jackie laughed. “Jesus, Allen. NASA must owe you some big if you can get patched through from building the station just to talk to a fetus.”
There was a knock on the bedroom door right then, and her mother poked her head in, a concerned look on her face. Jackie mouthed Allen’s name and shrugged her shoulders, smiling so her mother would understand it wasn’t an emergency. Then she pointed at the chair in the corner. Her mother sat, still looking concerned.
Something in Allen’s voice changed, took on the firmness that he knew got things done for him. “Please just do it for me, Jack. Go ahead and put it on speaker so you can hear as well, if you like.”
She frowned. “Sure, Allen. Mom’s in the room now as well.”
“Good. I’ll talk to her for a moment as well.”
“Oh-kay.” She dragged out the word. “Glad NASA’s paying the tolls on this one.” She pressed the button on the handset, held the phone above her belly. “Go ahead, hon.”
A few more deep breaths, now sounding somewhat hoarse over the speaker. “Worm? This is your daddy. I know you haven’t heard my voice for a few weeks. That’s because I’ve been working far away from home, helping build the new space station. Whatever you turn out to be, Worm, boy or girl, I want you to know in advance that your daddy is very proud of you. I know that whatever you choose to do, you will do it very well and with much joy.” He took some more breaths. “I love you very much. Please remember that.”
“Allen?” Jackie sat staring at the phone. “What the hell?”
“Just a second, love. Denise?”
“I’m here, Allen.”
“You’ll know what to do. I love your daughter more than life itself, you know.”
Jackie’s mother smiled slightly. “I never doubted it for a second, Allen. You were always more than I could have asked for.”
“Thanks.” He laughed. “You too, sometimes. Take care, Denise.”
Jackie switched off the speakerphone. “What the hell is happening, Allen? Are they keeping you up there for overtime? Because if they are, I’m going to phone Morris myself and let him know what I think about that. They promised you’d be down in time for the delivery.”
“No overtime, love. But-” His voice caught, and except for the echoing breathing, he was silent.
“But what? Allen, honey, you’re scaring me.” Jackie could feel tears coming to her eyes. “Please don’t do this. Just tell me what’s happening. Please.”
“All right.” She heard him sniff loudly. “Shit. Wish they knew of some way to wipe your nose inside a helmet.”
“In a helmet? Why are you in your suit, Allen? Shouldn’t you be talking to me from the living module or the shuttle?” She bit her lower lip and grabbed the blanket with her free hand, twirling it into a tight knot around her fingers. Her mother got up from the chair, came and sat on the side of the bed, put her hand on Jackie’s knee.
“There’s been an accident, love. Davey’s been killed.”
“Oh my God,” said Jackie. “Poor Andrea. Oh God. I have to call her.” She reached over to the night table and grabbed a tissue, dabbed at her eyes and then her nose.
“I was there too, Jack. With him at the time.”
“Jesus, Allen! What happened? Were you hurt?”
“No trauma to the suit, if that’s what you mean. But there were other problems.”
“Don’t do this to me, Allen! Stop fucking around and tell me what has happened to you!”
“I’m sorry, love.” More breathing. “I wasn’t tethered at the time, Jack. I had my MMU on, so that I could maneuver between where Davey was working and another spot on the solar array we were trying to fix. I was down beside Davey when something happened to the MMU – they figure it was hit by a loose screw that’s probably been in orbit for a few decades.”
Jackie closed her eyes, tried to remember what Allen had told her about his suit. Her eyes snapped open. “The MMU? The unit with the nitrogen gas you use for jetting around between sites, right?”
“Right, love.”
“Then what?”
“Just before they patched me through to you, Wesley told me they figure the screw was doing something like a hundred thousand kilometers per hour. It blew right through the MMU. The releasing gas sent me spinning.” There was silence for a second. “I guess it was me that knocked Davey into the path of the laser. Don’t know how or why he kept his hand on the dead man’s switch.” His voice was quieter now, more distant.
She took a deep breath. “Where are you?”
“About seventy kilometers away from the station right now, maybe even more.”
“Christ.” It was a whisper. Her mother reached out and took her free hand, eyes wide and fearful. “Please tell me they’re sending the shuttle to pick you up.”
Allen was silent, only his gasping breaths coming through right now.
“Damn it, Allen, tell me!”
“They tried, Jack. But Mission Control stopped them before they could even close up the airlock and push away from the station. There isn’t enough fuel to safely pick me up. They’d lose the shuttle and everyone on board as well.”
“As well.” Jackie repeated the words. A sob welled up from deep inside her, escaped before she could cut it off.
“I’m sorry, love. I wasn’t sure where this conversation was going to go once it came out, and there were some things I wanted to make sure I did. For your benefit as well as for the baby.” More distant breaths. “Shit. Only so much time and so much to say, I don’t want it screwed up by crying the whole time, making so much noise we can’t hear each other.”
Jackie closed her eyes for a moment, fought to regain control. She was an astronaut’s wife, damn it! Part of her had always been prepared for this.
She tried to speak but her voice choked inside her throat. She coughed, then said, “I’m all right now.”
“Good. I knew you could handle this. Wesley didn’t think this call was a good idea, but thankfully they called Morris. He cleared it right away. Man knows what’s important.”
A thought came to Jackie, of her husband floating through space forever, lifeless body wrapped inside his tomb of a suit. She bit her lip. “What’s the view right now?” she asked. She knew her husband could rave for hours about all that he saw when he was in orbit.
“Great.” Allen laughed. “A little unsettling, to tell you the truth. But still great. Just wish it was constant.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m spinning crazier than a top, love. It’s worse than the first time I jumped from a plane, when I forgot to arch my back. Earth-space-Earth-space-Earth-space, on and on. At least I had a chute to straighten me out back then.”
She smiled. “I remember that jump. I was so pissed off with you when you came home with that sprained ankle.”
A small laugh. “Only time in my life I’ve regretted being served my meals in bed.”
The doorbell rang. Denise got up to offer a hand, but Jackie shook her head vigorously, waving her towards the front door instead. “There’s someone at the door, Allen.” She pressed the heel of her free hand to her left eye, smeared at the tears that were starting to flow there, repeated the procedure on her other eye.
“Should be Morris and Sandra, Jack. He told me they were going to be heading right over. Just make sure you check before opening the door, confirm that it isn’t media. They shouldn’t know about this yet, but you can never be too sure.”
Denise headed downstairs, Jackie following slowly behind her. At the foot of the stairs she paused, watched as her mother let the former astronaut and his wife into the front entry. “It’s them, Allen,” she whispered. “But I’m not sure I want company right now.”
“Your mom will know what to do, love, don’t worry. Just go settle into your comfy chair.”
Sandra came over and gave Jackie a quick hard hug, looked her in the eyes with her own agonized expression, then turned and followed Denise into the kitchen. Already Jackie could smell the coffee brewing. She turned and went into the den, eased herself into the comfy chair.
"You know where the key for the safe deposit box is?" said Allen. Jackie held her breath a moment, willing herself to be strong for him. "On the rack by the back door."
“Yeah. There’s a video for Worm in the box, something I made a few days before launch. My will and a note for you as well.”
He waited for her to answer, breathing still sounding louder and more ragged than his voice. When she didn’t talk, he continued.
“Insurance and the pension should cover things nicely, and I suspect you can expect a decent payout from NASA. Spend something on yourself, put a bunch away in a fund for Worm for education. I’ll trust you to know what’s right to do with it.”
Jackie held the phone away for a second, blew her nose. “Damn right you’ll trust me, hon. I do the money stuff even when you’re home.”
“Ha. Right you are.”
They were both silent for a few seconds. Then, “Have I told you today that I love you?”
Before she could fight it off, a sob jumped from deep inside her. She pulled the phone away from her ear, biting hard on her quivering lower lip and squeezing her eyes against the new flow of tears. No matter how hard the day, no matter the time, Allen always found time to say that to her every day they were together. Even if it slipped his mind until the literal last minute, he would wake her up at a minute to midnight if he had to, just to tell her that.
But then she found a smile, small and sad, but still a smile. “Trust you to wake me up in the middle of the night to let me know. Couldn’t remember at a decent hour, could you?”
They both laughed, Jackie’s laughs quickly turning into a coughing fit to cover up the rising swell of sobs.
“Remember all our special walks in the woods, okay? And dinner at Packrat’s.”
She smiled. “Always.”
His breathing was more ragged now. “Seeing the Perseids together on our third date, and me lying in bed crying from laughing so hard when I read you things that you always managed to put up with, even when you hated them.” His voice caught. “Never forget.”
“Never,” she whispered. She closed her eyes and imagined she could smell him right now, his sweat and odor comforting her.
“I have to go now, love.”
Her eyes flew open. “Now?” Jackie heard the hint of a wail in her voice. “Why now? You phone to tell me you’re about to die, and then you hang up on me before I can get my head around the news!” The tears pouring down her cheeks were ignored now.
“Jack, I’m not heading off into some obscure orbit. The MMU kicked me down, straight into the gravity well.”
“Down.” Her heart stopped.
“Down. Guess you’d hear it from Morris or worse, on the news. I’ll be going out like a comet, love.”
“You’ll burn.” This much she remembered.
“I won’t feel it. Fat chance I’m going to wait around for my face to catch fire. Just don’t tell Worm, ‘kay? Let the little gaffer know that I went out in a blaze of glory, not in a blast of self-administered explosive decompression.”
More sobs. “Okay. It’ll - it’ll be our secret.”
“Right.” Breathing, sounding heavy and frightened, some background noises. “Jack?”
She caught her own breath, held it for a moment until she felt some semblance of strength return. “Have I told you today that I love you?”
Silence. Her voice caught in her throat and she was about to scream his name, but then he finally answered her. “Today and every day, love. Take good care of Worm.”
There was a click, and seconds later a dial tone.
The baby started to kick again. Jackie sat on the comfy chair, legs curled to the side, one hand on her belly and the other still holding the phone, eyes closed. The sobs started when her mother came into the room and put a hand on her shoulder.
Labels: movies, science fiction
Sunday, March 18, 2007
My Locus Article
I had thought I had put this essay up online, but a cursory search finds nothing, and so in response to this blog post, I thought I'd throw this out for you all to read.
The Stars Shine Bright North of the 49th
I had thought I had put this essay up online, but a cursory search finds nothing, and so in response to this blog post, I thought I'd throw this out for you all to read.
The Stars Shine Bright North of the 49th
I submit that there is no country, at least one not under the boot heel of military occupation, that is more susceptible to every shake and shimmy of its neighbour (note the Canadian spelling) than
Since
In a delicious dose of timid Canadian irony, however, not only Canadian authors who live in Canada are defined as Canadian: Geoff Ryman, John Clute, Cory Doctorow, S.M. Stirling, even myself for a short period of time, all of us live or have lived in another country, and each one of us steadfastly remains at least partly Canadian. If we refused, of course, the Canada Council has goons they pay to come ’round and tattoo a maple leaf to the left butt cheek, so the decision remains an easy one.
Canadians also embrace as their own writers who move here from other, invariably warmer, countries: William Gibson, Spider Robinson, Nalo Hopkinson, Dave Duncan and Élisabeth Vonarburg are members of the club. Even better, authors who were born elsewhere, moved here, and then moved elsewhere again are still considered Canadian, and so Sean Stewart will forever be trapped, like a mosquito in fossilized maple syrup.
This overwhelming inclusiveness is a typical Canadian response, a reaction to the fact that our neighbour is ten times our size, money and clout and personality all equally outsized. But the Big Tent has done something to the shy little beaver, I think, reduced (not wholly removed, though) its inferiority complex and showed it a way to present its own special self to the world.
And here’s the thing: turns out, the world is interested.
By golly, we can write about things and places that at one time we would have dismissed as too jingoistic. Even better, we don’t have to. After years of angst and almost terminal timidity, we’ve discovered that a Good Writer is a Good Writer, something that I suspect many editors and readers already knew. Yes, there’s a common belief that strong, individualistic characters are American and ambiguous endings are the property of what we call CanLit, and like any myth there’s probably a grain of truth to this. I would submit, though, that Canadians suffer from our own special propensity to individualism, or perhaps that Americans have found the wonders of ambiguity in equal proportions.
The borders have opened and we cross them freely these days. Not political borders, though, and none of this New Internationalization bunk. These are borders of the mind and imagination I’m talking about. The days where we Canucks worried we’d be ignored if we wrote about what was important to us are long past, and now we find that we have much to offer an interested world.
Labels: Canada, science fiction, writing
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