Collaborative Writing Project Re-start

[chrispenycate]

I've got lots of new stuff written, but have yet to type it into the computer.

And I strive to integrate your "melding" into the Pacific module.

Why don't you post yours? (Ah, yes, useless, you've already read it…)

 

[Moonbat]

Hi,
I have been wanting to write more but I am busy with other projects, but just to keep things ticking over and for the benefit of HJ.

It's not great and was done quickly, I may re-write but just a story I was inspired to by something in this week's New Sceintist. It may need a different title. But enjoy.


Knock! Knock! Who's There? Love!


The Heinlein had arrived several hours earlier to a curious welcoming party, after some initial security checks the first contact party left the relative safety of the Heinlein and jetted down to the surface. This was a proper welcome, not like some of the worlds they had visited, these people really welcomed them as fellow human beings.
Erik had been a little perturbed by the apparent cohesion in their society, but any worries he had were quickly dismissed when he met, and spoke in length to, the historians of the world logged as D14E. The first contact party were treated like visiting royalty and were more than a little impressed with the extravagant luxury that seemed to await them at every turn.
After the brief welcome speeches and the exchanging of innocuous gifts, the crew were taken to a secure building, a scientific laboratory in the heart of what would have been France back home, here is was given some sort of emotionless number/code that specified where it was and what its main functions were.
The building they entered was one of the most impressive they had seen so far, it even rivalled the Rothschild’s home that Danny was trying desperately to forget. Erik had noticed some very distinct variations in the architecture of the building and kept his barrage of questions up all the way through the long and winding corridors, he was still asking questions when they were lead into a smaller room with lots of serious looking equipment dotted about and a large one-way mirror covering one wall.
‘I know that the designs were created by Looft, but there are extra bits, more twirls, more Frone like adages. When did they get added?’
‘I am very sorry Mr Cerner but I cannot tell you any more than I already have about the design and construction of this building, you have already exhausted my limited supply of knowledge on this subject, I will request that some historical architects are brought forward for you to talk to.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, it’s just that the architecture has become a very powerful method of discerning timeline splits, obviously you have witnessed the great wars, or two of them at least, but where and when you split from our timeline is of great interest to us.’
‘And we will endeavour to answer all your questions in time professor, but please if you could desist from this line of questioning I would appreciate it. I am somewhat of an expert on music.’
At this Danny Mayfield stepped forward ‘Really? What do know about Michael Jackson?’
‘Michael Jackson, ummm, not much. He was a little before my time you see.’
‘Ok, not to worry it was just a hunch, so what is this room for?’
‘It is a scanning room, right now we are scanning all the frequencies related to brain waves, we are checking you for any signs of instability or corruption.’
‘Excuse me, hi, I’m Cletford, what do you mean by corruption?’
‘Any corrupting brain waves, we have made great advances in our technology and our society because of our ability to correct dysfunctional brains.’
‘Correct dysfunctional brains?’ The entire FC party replied in unison.

The man that had led them deep into the building, the man that had patiently answered every one of Erik’s intensely boring questions chuckled slightly at their worried looks.

‘Don’t worry it’s completely painless, and will foster greater co-operation between you and you colleagues.’

‘You’re talking like you are going to attempt to correct any dysfunctional brain patterns that you find. But I know you wouldn’t attempt to do that to us, would you!’
Danny’s face has lost all sign of appeasement, his body language was one of dominance and his eyes never left those of their guide.

‘Well of course we will, don’t you want to be fixed?’

‘Listen pal, we have a saying, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it, and as far as we’re concerned our brains ain’t broke.’

‘Ah but, you would say that, you can’t see just how broken your brains are because they are broken. Would you let a terrorist blow himself up along with innocent children just because he was certain it was right?’

‘I think we shall be leaving.’ Danny turned to Le Roux with raised eyebrows, even though Mayfield was the security chief and had veto over anything he felt was unsafe to the crew of the FC party, it was always going to be Le Roux’s decision as the chief FC negotiator. Le Roux hesitated before turning to their still very affable guide.

‘You must understand that just because you say our brains are broken we cannot take your word for it. Any attempt to force a fix upon us would be construed as an act of aggression and would be dealt with as such.’

Danny smiled, Le roux really did know how to phrase things, Danny would have just started swearing and physically threatening people, but Le Roux, with charm had just batted the guide’s own reasoning back at him and loaded it with a definite threat. The guide’s smile faltered for a moment, before he relaxed,
‘Of course not. We would never be so presumptuous as to force a fix upon those unwilling to be bettered. We were under the impression you were here to trade in information for the sole purpose of bettering yourselves and your understanding of the nature of life and love.’

‘That is close, but we are here to trade for information to better our understanding of the nature of the universe, love is not part of it.’

‘Again you show obvious signs of dysfunctional thinking, love is the answer to all questions.’

Le Roux signed, he nodded to Danny; a sign that they would be leaving shortly. Danny in turn nodded to Clet who began fiddling with the periph. Le Roux continued,
‘We have found that love is not the answer to all questions, no one thing is the answer to all questions, otherwise it would be the answer to what is black and white and red all over? And why did the chicken cross the road? And we know that it isn’t.’

‘Love IS the answer to all RELEVANT questions. This has been proven here on Earth.’

‘Even if you have proved such a theory here on Earth D14E that doesn’t necessarily mean that it will transfer to our Earth, Earth A.’

‘When your dysfunctional brain patterns have been eliminated you will see the truth.’

‘That the chicken crossed the road because of love?’

‘I fail to see the importance of this joke. Love is the answer to peace, to answer to our great questions, the answer that has brought about an unrivalled co-operation amongst the peoples of our world, Earth D14E as you call it.’

‘Love, or the removal of dysfunctional brain patterns?’

‘Both, I am very sorry but you must remain here until our tests have isolated all your dysfunctional patterns, then we can move you to the surgery and begin to apply the cure.’

‘Cure?’ Danny was furious, he balled his hands into fists and would have probably head butted the smarmy guide had Tania not stepped directly in front of him with a look of disbelief in her eyes. The guide seemed pleased at this sign of anger and aggression.

‘You see, your so called security chief is full of pent up anger and narcissistic rage, this could be a thing of the past if you would let us cure you.’

‘Chief Security Officer Mayfield’s personality traits are what make him a great security officer, we have a mathematician on board that could be considered mildly autistic, but we wouldn’t have her any other way. These personality faults, or dysfunctional brain patterns are what make us ourselves and we will not submit to your cure, however utopian your world seems. I apologise for the break down in negotiations but we must now return to our ship.’

‘I can’t allow you to do that, you must be cured, it is of upmost importance.’

Le Roux nodded to Cletford but could see only worry in the engineer’s eyes, he turned swiftly back to the guide, resuming the argument. Mean while Danny Mayfield edged over to Cletford and whispered.

‘What’s wrong, why are we still here.’

‘They brought us deep into this building and it has thick energy dampening walls, I can’t lock onto the Heinlein.’

‘well what about the flyer?’

‘Nope, can’t get that either.’

‘Dammit, I didn’t want to fight my out, especially not against such a bunch of permissive pansies. Oh well, breaking this one’s nose will make me feel better.’
Danny moved alongside Le Roux and gave the FC negotiator a little pat on the shoulder to signify his intent. Le Roux held up a hand, he was determined to negotiate their way out of here.

After ten more minutes of theological and philosophical debate Le Roux gave Mayfield the nod, Mayfield then gave their guide a serious thrashing.

 

[Hilarious Joke]

Ha! Terrific!

I didn't mean to nag with my post, I just wanted people to know that I enjoy reading this.

Chris, I didn't mean to stick a spanner in your works with my 'melding' idea, if it's too tough, just ignore it. I was just having a bit of fun .

Anyway I'll put up my first bit based on the Oceanic ship that Chris has done some great work on (but I don't think has posted).


Bill stared blankly at the bubbles in his beer.
Tiny.
It was the wrong hour to be drinking. He could hear footsteps from probably most of the rest of them upstairs, stomping around busily.
Billions of dollars, he thought idly, and they can’t even get soundproofing between floors.
He sighed. This was Bill’s eighteenth jump. It was amazing how quickly it got old. He felt like sinking through the grimy tiles and oozing slowly into the ocean. He felt like strangling himself. He felt like a beer, damn it!
As he drank, his receiver began to flash. Bloody Liesel again. He turned the thing off. This is a good beer, he realised, licking his lips. Must be Japanese.
He went to place the mug back on the dirty counter. The glass hit the surface with an almost deafening crash. He looked it wide-eyed. Then he looked up.
“Jones!” Through his somewhat addled brain Bill realised a few things. First, he realised the bang had being the saloon-like door (that marked this, the dingiest of the on-ship bars) slamming against the wall. Second, as the period it took for his eyes to focus testified, he was quite drunk. And third, Captain McGregor was standing right in front of him, hands on hips. Behind him Liesel had her arms crossed and was chewing her lip, her face a mixture of indignation and worry. Bill tried to look around the captain’s other hip for the diminutive Junko.
The side of his face was cuffed to one side, almost causing him to fall off his stool.
“Jones! Listen to me!”
Bill realigned himself with some effort and tried to focus on the captain’s lined face.
“You hit me!” He whined and rubbed his face for extra effect.
“Jones!” the captain said for the third time, and there was a hint of desperation in his voice, “For God’s sake, pull yourself together! We need you to meld. This sheaf’s a blank, no satellites, no radio, no –“
“Oh no,” Bill turned back to his beer, “I’ve done my bit. Melding’s not easy you know, especially when you set the sheaf –“
“Damn it, man!” Captain McGregor grabbed the mug out of Bill’s hand with such force that some of its contents splashed out and landed on Junko, who, it seemed, was standing slightly behind Bill the whole time.
“Oh...hey Junko.”
“Hello Bill.” Unfazed, the young woman took out a handkerchief and dabbed the beer off her blouse.
“What do you propose we should do then, Bill? Drift around for a while, until you’re in the mood? Steer blindly into the nearest port, and hope to God that we’re in a friendly sheaf that just happens to have no global communications?” Bits of spit flecked Bill’s face with each explosive consonant.
“I know what we should do,” Bill snatched the mug back from the captain with startling quickness, “We should all have a drink!”
Liesel stifled a laugh. Captain McGregor clenched his now-empty hand into a heavy fist.
“Look Bill,” Junko spoke now, warning the captain with her eyes to take a step back. “Just come up with us, meld for half an hour, and then you can spend the rest of the trip down here.” She looked around distastefully. “Though I don’t know why anyone would.”
Bill finished the beer he was drinking as she talked and plunked it down on the counter.
“Oh alright, but you owe me one, Cap.” He announced and stood up dizzily from his chair.
“I owe you one alright. I owe you a foot up the –“
“Alright, Captain, let’s go. Come on Jones. And Liesel, what are you doing here anyway?” Junko turned on the much taller girl, authority rolling off her in waves.
“I, uh, well...”
“Get back to your station. And tell Honeycut I want life-form reports for all biology found in a kilometre radius within the hour!”
“Yes sir,” Liesel bowed her head and tore off down the corridor.
“Right,” said Junko, “Let’s go.”
As the pair followed her down the corridor, Bill turned to McGregor and whispered loudly into his ear.
“Bit of a firecracker isn’t she?”
“Shut up Jones.”

 

[chrispenycate]

Got some typing time in. There's a lot more to transcribe, though.

Kate​

"I am going to make a prediction"

Everyone looked up; this was probably the first time Kate had said something in one of these conferences without being asked a direct question since they had been convened.

"If, from here, we take one transit of half charge, JJ223, AF017, GC504 and follow it with a sixty-three percent AL552, BC087, EF324 we will detect the beacon we left two transitions ago, and I will get a Nobel prize."

"You've solved it?" The captain was up and moving towards her immediately, but his intended hug was thwarted by Penny getting in first.

"No, captain, I have not 'solved it'. I have developed an equation of the fourteenth order that, in certain circumstances allows for a solution. This happens to be one of those circumstances and, if it works out, we will be able to plan our transits so as to remain in them in the future, and always have alternative return paths. Not the great revelation they've been waiting for, but significantly better than nothing. And, obviously, I could be completely wrong."

A thousand races of sheave travellers had sought the philosopher's stone, and her voice betrayed no more excitement than at a medical examination. Surely she must feel something?

"I am essentially defining a plane cutting through a four dimensional overspace, and simplifying our transitions to remain within it. It was fortunate that our two previous transitions were in the same defined plane, so I worked out two more in the same surface. I predict that this way it will never be possible to return to a point of departure in fewer than four, and no more than twelve transitions without subloops. But we have to do the test first; it could be that my model does not correspond to reality.

Perhaps this dry, analytic tone was the equivalent of excitement for her. She'd already said more words than she normally managed in a total trip, and her voice revealed the tiniest tenuous trace of animation.

"Of course we'll do the test. Even if we weren't searching at random…" there was a cough from the historian, but he didn't contradict the captain "it would be worthwhile, and, as it is, we've got nothing to lose, and a lot to gain."

Penny was prised off, and cheerfully hugged others, squealing "She did it! Special case or not, she did it!" and everyone in the room was congratulating her.

"Easy, easy, must test it first. Is good mathematics but physics less certain." Her accent had thickened; she wasn't used to being the centre of attention in anything but mathematicians' conventions. "Maybe those clowns in Brussels not so stupid after all to say I should travel. But if this works out I can leave and you'll have space for another useful crew member."

"You want to leave?" It was Erik who spoke, but it could have been anyone there "Has anyone been suggesting that you don't pull your weight? If so this should prove to him that he is totally wrong."

"No, everyone has been very good. And I find I like being part of a team, even if the transitions are hard to enjoy. Is probable I would never have come up with this simplification if not actually aboard, if sat at home thinking. Penelope's readings were critical in mapping displacements, even if she don't turn out empirical route map. But once base equation is in computer, Penny can do the calculations well as I; any one can do, computer does work, operator optimises. No need for me, get someone who's good for ship, come and visit when you're home. I get bigger flat, 'nother cat, everyone welcome."

The chorus of "You're a Heinliner", you can't get away that easily", "You'll need us to push you into generating the general solution, otherwise someone else'll get the credit", "No way; you're one of us, now" and other, less coherent messages in the same vein washed over her like warm bathwater, relaxing and comforting.

She'd never been part of a community before; mathematicians don't team up like some other specialities. Most of those here didn't understand a word she'd explained, but they thought of her as one of them. And these were not stupid people; in their own fields they were top, and they thought of her as one of them. Was happy-making feeling, no? So why eyes leaking, why sniffling like first day at school?

They all stood back, slightly embarrassed except for Penny, who regained her role as official hugger. The ice-maiden melted, the machine feels; what more marvels would this trip bring?

 

[Moonbat]

Brilliant Chris,

So there is a way to get home without have to go through all the sheaves we passed on the way out?

This could have good consequences for one of my tales. But we don't want Kate to leave, do we?

 

[chrispenycate]

Nearly the end of the Pacific story. I've got the beginning, now all I need to do is join them together.


The Palace had it's own kind of magnificence. Though built out of stone it was draped throughout, mainly with silk, and carpeted, frequently in many layers,so your ears told you you were in some great tent rather than a rigid structure.


The guards gaudy uniforms were almost invisible in the multicolour patchwork of wall hangings and furnishings, but I was happy to see that all their weapons were more of the ceremonial variety than the breech-loaders and automatic firearms we had seen them with in the street. Still, you were as dead if you were stabbed by a sword (or brained with a flint hand axe) as with the highest tech killing machine, but this suggested they weren't setting out to make trouble.


The music was uncomfortable, and conformed to no mode I had met, either in my homeland or the occidental culture I had been inhabiting so long and the juxtaposition of colours in the swathes of cloth hanging everywhere jarred my eyeballs, but my nose thought it had died and gone to paradise.


"Like an olfactory symphony." I hadn't been aware I'd said this aloud until the captain said "What?"


"It's like a symphony for the nose, ever changing and totally integrated. But it's like a symphony scored for an orchestra that uses none of the instruments we know, a whole new set of sounds we've never met before."


"I noticed it smelt nice, yes."


"Smelt nice? You...Australian. This is an art form, a flowering of sensual – oh, it's useless. You've got about as much appreciation for culture as Bill Jones."


The captain winced, and signalled a hit. Bill Jones' description of their send-off evening in the Sidney Opera had started 'I don't know why they don't just start with the thumbscrews.' and gone downhill from there.


"We have to arrive soon. If we'd been walking in a straight line we'd have been in Tashkent by now."



We had an advantage over your run-of-the -mill visitor; our implanted inertial guidance systems , and a datalink to the Landcruiser, gave us a precise map of where we were walking, which had been far from the most direct route. We were now approaching the centre of the palace complex, where presumably the presentations were to take place. We had been skin-searched three times, politely but thoroughly, and the gifts we had brought had been analysed by a dozen different experts to be pronounced incomprehensible but harmless, so it had taken us most of a morning to get this far, but suddenly we were in the audience hall, under the eyes of the great Kahn of the Empire of the Centre.


The ceiling and its drapes rose into obscurity above us; no windows marred the security, but the lighting was by gas lamps rather than perfumed oil, and there was a constant breeze, implying some sophisticated ventilation system.


We'd rehearsed this as carefully as we could fron hearsay and tales. We all stayed together to the middle of the hall, where Lu and the security officer carrying the gifts stopped, and the captain and I kept going towards the platform. Half way there I stopped too, fell down to my knees and buried my face in the multi-layer carpet. Finally McGregor stopped at the edge of the stage, and gave his carefully memorised speech in Mongol. (they didn't have to know he had a recorder dictating it to him through his implants, did they?)


Despite the raised throne it was clear that standing, the Great Kahn would only come about up to the captain's collar bone. Nevertheless, he showed no nervousness and, when the mangled but sincere words drew to a close, waved forward those of us who had stayed behind (prostrated as I was I didn't see the gesture, and had to be collected by those coming forward, but this might have looked calculated.)


The portable DVD player had been adopted from one of the Koreans, against a promise to replace it and the discs with the latest version of solid state; it was brought forth, demonstrated and explained.


"After a quarter of a day of use it will become tired, and require half a day in the sunlight to recover. We had no films in Mongol, so we chose those with a track in Mandarin, though some have no need of words."


Lu was valiantly attempting to translate terms he didn't understand, in a social context he wasn't adapted to, but seemed to be keeping his head above water.


"Why do these two have no words, no colour?"


"These two, the Keystone Cops and Charley Chaplain were made before we could record sound, or film in colour." Let him make his own judgement as to how long it would take us to perfect this technology; in a static society such as this, he was likely to overestimate.


"And you, small lady. So silent; have you nothing to add to our speech?"


"It would not be fitting, Imperial Kahn, for this small female to intrude on the speech of her betters without first being invited."


He grunted something I was not intended to hear, but involved the group of wives and concubines behind him. When he spoke to me again he did not seem displeased.


"On your way in, you said something in your barbarous language to your companion. May I ask what you said?"


"His language, Great Kahn; you may have observed we have different origins. But yes, I commented on the art of your perfumer, an art that in long travel I have never seen rivalled, let alone equalled. If I knew how much you paid him, I would offer his apprentice the same to come and teach us the secrets"


"I had thought is something like this. Your face was not of someone making warning, or reassuring, but an artist contemplating the work of another. But why the apprentice? Would you not prefer the master?"


"The master would never travel, and has all he needs on hand, while an apprentice is thirsty for recognition, living in the shadow of all that ability. And you would never let the master go, anyway, so the question doesn't arise."


"Know then that the master has three apprentices, and one of them is myself. Much as I would love to travel to your lands, and see the marvels, and speak to its rulers, this will never be, but this very afternoon I will join you in the still room, and we shall talk of this. It may well be that one feels the desire to see new lands, search out new sensations to bring back."


The court was in ebullition over the Kahn's decision to speak directly to a foreigner, and a female one at that. Would he make an offer for me? An extra concubine would shift the subtle balance of influence, leave everyone struggling to keep up; but what else could direct conversation indicate? This hobby, it was a thing for artisans, for servants, not to be admitted to by a noble; and this foreigner, was she a princess, someone important enough to be taken into the household? I learnt all this later from Lu; at the time I was just triumphant at having found something that would make us money from this improbable sheave.

 

[Moonbat]

ohhh, interesting,

I look forward to reading the combined version.

M

 

[Hilarious Joke]

I'm not sure they are meant to be combined!

Chris?

 

[Nik]

OT: Collaborative Writing

I don't really like the story, but that's not relevant: I'm humbled by the quantity & quality...

I've tried collaborative writing, and it was a most unhappy experience. Happily, my co-author(s) parted amicably. I promised to try to place their input into Convention canon then, um, ran away...

 

[chopper]

i think part of the attraction here is that we have a very decent premise, along with a largish cast that provides a wide scope for doing what you want - so far we've seen backstory, culture clashes, technical pieces, and outright spy-thriller type fiction all based around the dirigibles. all very different, but all very well worked. it's what works for you, after all...

 

[chrispenycate]

I'm not sure they are meant to be combined!

Chris?

They will be combined.

I have an extra 1500 words that go between them, but lack the end of the naval engagement and the cross-country trip. For some reason, people keep wanting me to work, which is slowing down the process considerably.

 

[Moonbat]

Ok here's another one, inspired a few months back by a news story from Japan. I haven't read Shakespeare except his prose, it probably shows.

Titus Androidicus

Rhosyn looked like a heron, dressed rigid, but so awkward and gangly her body looked as though she was balancing her hair atop her head at an angle that looked just like it was about to topple. Johan had stared at it, twitching in jerky motions as if he was about to dive forward and save it. It had been weeks since she had been off ship, months since she had got dressed up and years since she had gone to see a play. Erik had been excited by the invite to the historical department until he realised it was an invite to attend a play. Captain Slak had insisted that someone attend and so Erik had delegated it to his second historian. Rhosyn had jetted down to the surface accompanied by Johan Glurbe, one of the security officers, it felt like she had her own personal bodyguard; even more so when Johan stood quietly behind her as she met official representatives, production company execs, drama queens and general arty farty types before they were lead into the playhouse.

The playhouse was red brick and old, she had seen similar traits in the architecture of other worlds and instantly recognised the Herbler shift. She relaxed a little, this would be an interesting night. They were lead along an aisle up towards the front of the balcony her seat was almost exact centre with a view of the stage bettered only by the front rows. She looked down to those front ten rows and saw groups of young men, young couples, and families, although the children had all reached puberty. It caused her great envy, why on her world were plays only ever seen by the wealthy or pretentious, here it seemed everyone enjoyed it.
Rhosyn was quite excited as she settled into her seat, a nervous Johan beside. Titus Andronicus wasn’t her favourite Shakespearean play but to have seen Shakespeare performed in another sheaf was worth credit in anyone’s artistic experiences. She was kind of an expert; she would notice any deviations from the Shakespeare she had grown up with. Johan wasn’t so keen, he had followed quietly staying close behind Rhosyn. He had noted the entrance, and the exits, he had realised quite quickly that this wouldn’t be a place that they could leave quickly. He had also seen the crowd, too many football hooligans for his liking, well, enough for a football match, but this was a play. Wasn’t it?

He leant in to Rhosyn,

‘So what’s this play about Doc?’

‘Just watch it and see?’

‘Oh come on, I don’t understand all that wordy stuff, I’ll be lost’

‘You’ll get the gist of it, you just have to watch.’

‘I’m here to watch alright, but not the play, I’m here to watch you, and all of them, I haven’t got time to concentrate on the play.’

‘Then don’t worry about it.’

‘Yeah but I want Mayfield to know I had some idea of what was going on. It’ll help if I get distracted or lost.’

‘It’s just the usual cycle of revenge between a Roman general and the Queen of the Goths.’

‘sounds gory.’

‘it is’

Then the lights went down, a hush settled over the audience and the first actors came on stage. Titus’ triumphant return home was somehow squeezed onto the stage with the help of hundreds if not thousands of extras, rushing off as quickly as they come on. She wondered if this play was considered one of Shakespeare’s greats because it was such a lavish production, the orchestral introduction filled the play house, the actors and costumes, the set designs everything was very impressive. Johan was unimpressed, a lot of nonsense language in tongue twisting monologues, he wasn’t convinced. Rhosyn on the other hand watched with an intent fascination, the actors were good, very good.

Johan was watching the play, but he kept glancing round the play house every few seconds, checking for people moving, or any possible threat. He had been keeping an eye on the play and knew Alarbus was about to get killed, but he wasn’t watching fully when the cry (a cry made by Coop in Afghanistan) that came from the actor playing Alarbus turned his head. He saw lots of blood, he had seen people die before but this was like some kind of torture show. His legs and arms were pulled off and thrown onto a fire, a stage fire, but one giving off an accurate burning flesh smell. Accurate looking fire too.
Johan concentrated on the death throws of Alarbus, no-one was moving this might be important, he was told to watch everything. Johan couldn’t take his eyes from the stage, the man was literally being sacrificed in front of them, this wasn’t fake, the spurts of blood, the fact that the Actor now had no limbs. He was watched for signs of trickery, some kind of tell somewhere. He didn’t catch anything.



The play went on for hours, almost every scene had blood in of some sort, there were beheadings, murder, conspiracy. At one point a woman came back on stage, her hands had been cut off, her tongue cut out and she was bleeding from, well everywhere. Johan again felt the urge to leap up on stage and stop this madness or better yet leave. They were killing people, for the re-telling of a five hundred year old Shakespeare play, and it wasn’t even his best. Johan was sickened, he began to worry, if they sacrificed actors on stage for dramatic effect what would happen to the captain and the crew when this world wanted something they were unwilling to trade. He looked across at Rhosyn her relaxed enjoyment of the show seemed to steady him. Rhosyn sensed Johan’s eyes and turned to look at him, the look of disgust, shock and fear on the big security guard’s face caused Rhosyn to smirk. She put her hand on his.

‘It’s ok Johan, it’s just a show.’

‘That’s not just a show Rhosyn, it’s real.’

‘Oh come on don’t be silly. Watch the crowd if you have to’

Johan settled back in his seat, Rhosyn was right, it was just a show, some kind of technology he didn’t understand. He began to watch to people, they were all very into the performance, some were crying, other’s were being sick. He noticed a few teens creeping away looking horrified. It was the angry men that worried him, he knew the types. The strong, dull and mean men that were enjoying the blood, revelling in it. Hooligans
Once more a piercing scream, a cry of pain turned Johan’s head toward the stage. Saturninus had just got some more bad news about someone dying in a pit, he had got a bit lost on the way. The pit was pretty gruesome though, he was glad when that was covered; although he was sure he could still hear the dying men rustling about beneath the stage somwhere.
This was too real for Johan’s liking. He had to get out. He began to feel enclosed. He couldn’t leave his seat without disturbing the people near him. He couldn’t sneak out the back for a quick breath of fresh air, this was combat. He began to assess the situation like a soldier and quickly reailsed he should calm down.

‘Doc, is it nearly over?’

‘Not long why, you need to toilet?’

‘No I’m just uneasy with all this killing!’ Johan gestured to the stage.

‘It’s a play, is it that real?’

‘You tell me!’

‘Well yeah it is good, but I know reality from fantasy.’

‘That’s a pretty realistic fantasy’

‘It’s just some technology, come on, you know, Hal briefed you too. So the effects are good. It’s not real.’

‘Effects? It is real, I know real blood when I see it, I’ve seen people die before and this is too real, either all these actors have spent months or years on a battle front having to watch people die so they can replciate it precisely or it’s real. And that’s all I’m going to say.’

Rhosyn scoffed and turned back to the play, it was culminating in the death of Lavinia and the eating of Chiron and Demetrius pie, but Johan’s sincerity had caused Rhosyn to question her own assured beliefs. Rhosyn looked closer, she could see the actors on stage, eating the meal that (supposedly) contained the remains of Chiron and Demetrius, she could even smell the food. It did smell good, very good. Rhosyn tried to identify the smell of the meat that was being used, but it wasn’t one she remembered; the smell was somewhere between chicken and beef, if only Arwen were here.

A shock of revulsion hit Rhosyn as Titus killed Lavinia in front of her father the emporer’s eyes. She had been looking keenly at Lavinia’s face as Titus struck the killing blow, she had seen the fear, the pain. She had wondered throughout the play how they had pulled off the impressive effects, but now she was getting worried. This was too real, the girl had spasms, her eyes were wide with fear, she made desperate attempts to flee, of course this was all expected in a show of this quality, but Johan’s comments had sown a seed of doubt into Rhosyn’s mind. What was happening, it was realistic, but the smell of cooked meat, and the screams of those dying. The dying actors, weren’t as dramatic as some deaths she had seen at the Royal Shakespeare company, but the little inflections in their last breaths, or their chocked gurgles as the blood drained (very realistically) from their necks began to grate on Rhosyn.

Johan waited as people began to leave, watching Aaron starve to death might take some time, people began to leave, but some stayed, some even settled in with blankets and bottles of water. Rhosyn leaned over to Joahn.

‘I think we can leave now. It usually ends here’

‘Ok. Stay close.’

Johan rushed Rhosyn out of the play house and quickly into the car that had been arranged to take them to the airfield. They travelled silently and without incident to the awaiting Ivan in the small craft. Back on board the Heinlein they had a debriefing to attend.



I hope you enjoyed it. The rest of it isn't written so I hope you've all realised what is going on, the clue is in the title.

 

[Hilarious Joke]

I like it. You really hooked me in. A few things:

Can I ask why plays in this sheaf are so available to the "commoners"?

I don't understand this bit:

a cry made by Coop in Afghanistan

In my humble opinion, I don't think it's a good idea to go back and forth between the character's perspective. I think it slows the story down and seems somewhat repetitive. Maybe a break halfway through the story from Johan to Rhosyn or vice versa would work.

Or perhaps at this stage you should leave it for now and continue with the story, as I really want to know what happens next!

 

[chopper]

aha. i'm back. not that i have anything else actually written yet, but the idea is busy fermenting in a dark corner of my mind....
football jokes, heavy manufacturing industrys, pea-souper fogs, large beasties... and a world where Margaret Hilda Roberts built a successful chain of supermarkets....

 

[chopper]

everything's possible somewhere....

The powerful spotlights that the Heinlein mounted blazed down to illuminate the massive stadium, the pride and national home of English football, but even they could not drive through the thick swirling fog without being muted and diffused. Mayfield peered through the murk and could just make out the hoardings on the far side of the pitch.

Being advertised were a jarring blend of reassuringly normal brands alongside less recognisable - but still puzzlingly familiar - names peculiar to this sheave. It reminded him of being posted outside Europe, seeing Coke signs and McDonalds menus written in Arabic as two cultures clashed on the high street. Reebok, Adidas, Ford: all present and correct. Even Forgemasters was quite understandable under the circumstances. But Mayfield had no idea about Roberts' Supermarkets or GatesTech Inc, although the ice-cream cone-styled logo of the former and the bright primary colours of the latter made him itch and frown.

He turned on the spot and stared up at the vast banks of seating once more, still scarcely able to believe it. The stadium was an architectural triumph, more impressive than either the Nou Camp or the Maracana: built to celebrate a second World Cup win in 1994, it symbolised the huge geopolitical shift in power that this sheave had witnessed. And as luck would have it, there would be a game here tonight.

"Are you finished yet?" Kate sniffed miserably. "Because if you are, I would like to go back inside and stand next to a radiator for the rest of the night. My feet are numb."

Mayfield grinned at her. "Oh come on, liven up a bit. Soak up the atmosphere."

Kate shivered and wrapped her arms tight across her chest. "I am soaked. It's this damnable fog."

He took a deep breath and savoured the bitter tang of steel in the air. "Football's come home."

To Millmoor. In Rotherham.

 

[chopper]

ok, so it's light-hearted, but is it really so bad?

 

[Moonbat]

Chopper, I liked it, nice one, I'm sure you know that in '94 the world cup was in America and we weren't invited, or didn't make it, so in this sheave Graham Taylor decided that he didn't like the way England were playing and so made some changes, obviously for the better. Well that's one way to win the world cup.

Brilliant,

M

 

[chopper]

it's only the start - when i get around to it, the really big question will be: what's powering the furnaces of Britain's industrial Empire?

 

[Hilarious Joke]

Well what is powering the furnaces of Britain's industrial Empire?

 

[chopper]

boiled eggs and jammy dodgers.



more seriously, i'm stuck on something else at the moment, but this piece will happen. working title is Wings of Steel - so make of that what you will.....