Tag: writing

Becoming: Sublime 10

Change is a part of life. While it is natural to resist change, one cannot do so without creating yet more change.

Perhaps the greatest pain is to be changed against one’s will. This is a concept I had been exploring at length when Sublime was my primary project. By now, many of the influences for it are likely obvious, and I cannot call it a perfectly original work. Indeed, when writing it, I had become entranced by a particular season of one of my other hobbies, a trading card game.

Having read Dante’s Divine Comedy, I was familiar with the concept of a layered Hell, in which each layer embodied the just punishment for a particular sin. In Magic the Gathering’s presentation of Phyrexia: All will be One, I found a new, hungry interpretation of inferno, populated with machines seeking to make more machines out of those who are not. It is a particular type of horror, centralized on the fear of forced change, and it appealed to me greatly, and inspired me to make my own.

In light of this revelation, I seek to highlight some key differences. In doing so, it is necessary that I reveal information about this world I have constructed, including spoilers for the story, and information that is not meant to be known during the initial reading. It particularly includes details about chapters not yet released. You have been warned.

Firstly, and most distinctly, the story does not take place in some other world. The world of Sublime is our own, though changed beyond recognition.

Secondly, the change inflicted by the world of Sublime is not so simple as becoming machine. Indeed, at key points, the ideal form is machine, but each layer of this hell has its own idea of purity. The surface seeks to create ideal scavengers, and to create such oppressive fear that it’s denizens are inevitably coerced down, deeper. The second layer worships hybridization as it’s pinnacle, seeking to apply the benefits of both flesh and metal. Below is a layer the story explores only briefly, but one that carries the greatest difference: a world that seeks the greatest experience possible, that pursues the purity of sensation itself. This layer was most inspired by the Hellraiser movies and book.

A final key difference I wish to convey is the true nature of the reality I created for Sublime. It is one of impossibility. The scale of the world is one that exceeds natural limits, and defies physical constraints. Each layer is separated by distances measured in lightyears, and yet can sometimes be traversed in seconds. Change is the very nature of reality, and what is does not stay that way for long. An unfathomable power rules this place, and governs it’s relentless reconfiguration. If I were to write a sequel, the world of Sublime would be nearly unrecognizable in it. Very little withstands the urge to change and become other.

In closing, I will speak on the future. Indeed, I have considered a sequel to Sublime, and have a few fragments of writing to that effect. Whether it finds place in public view remains to be seen, as I have not touched these fragments in nearly a year.

I worry over reception of my work. I worry that I may be designated too derivative, though the primary work I derived my ideas from- Dante’s Inferno– is old enough that it rather escapes copyright infringement. Indeed, I have peopled this world with my own creations, but one can never overestimate the designs of a corporate claim. Is it enough that my work draws on so many inspirations that no one can lay a full claim to being the origin?

In time, all things end. All things give way to others. Even the light put of by the sun will one day become a different color, and then fade out. Endings are a thing I do not love, but I have come to accept their necessity. Else I might be suggesting that a world like Sublime‘s should come to pass.

The future is the present changed. Perhaps this is why it is so frightening.

10: Substrate

As the red searchlight of the porcelain maid’s eyes sweep above my hiding place, I stare at my left hand, seeing my unbelieving face reflected in the sleek white surface. The places where the prosthetic has been attached are still raw and inflamed, but no pain accompanies them. I yearn to call this a dream, to rouse from sleep in my bed, a bed I still cannot clearly recall.

“Come out, come out now! We’ve hardly begun!”

Her voice is almost playful, but I cannot look past the stifling in it I now know comes from her vocal chords fighting their artificial environment, being dampened by the dry rubbers that surround them. My own flesh she would replace to be alike to her gleaming surfaces and false skin.

“Mother will be very sad to see you go, still so soft and imperfect…”

The thought of her mistress is enough to propel me from my hiding place through the open door in front of me, though it leads to an ornate bone staircase that spirals downward into what must be the cellar. Light here is sparing, but the eager footsteps following me mean the maid has heard my flight, mean she is keen on my scent. I rush towards a square opening in the wall, and clamber over the edge to find myself crouched at the top of a slick slope of ceramic leading down into darkness. Even now I can feel the “ichor” doing its work in my stomach, if I still have one, rather than a plastic bag or rubber bellows. I want to puke, but that facet of my bodily function has already been stolen from me. The sight of dismantled maids lining the closet still burns in the back of my mind, tunneling around the sight of a sparse few organs untouched by the converting process: A brain encased in glass, nerves and bones delicately spliced to flexible hydraulics. I even remember the welcoming expression on the face of one, frozen like a statue, facing me as though she could see me in her disassembled coma. Pausing to think what may have been done to me while I slept is paralyzing, and I reject it the moment I see a harsh red glow descending the stairway, as I glimpse the sleek white legs.

I chance the chute. I slide slowly at first but rapidly pick up speed, such that the friction begins to warm the red robe I now wear. With a start, I realize a faint red light follows my vision wherever I look. The chute goes from square to circular, and begins to slow my descent as the material transitions from white porcelain and ceramic to stainless steel and brass. Abruptly, I am dumped on a pile of discarded maids, many with cracked faces and dislocated limbs. I raise painfully and look about, seeing a broad and well ordered warehouse but for the tangled mass of bodies I have been cushioned by. I climb to my feet and begin extricating myself, when a glossy hand grabs my ankle, eliciting a sharp gasp. I lower my gaze and see the broken face of the doll-like woman, whose unfeeling smile only serves to unnerve me further. Half of her face is leaking bright red blood from cracks, in some places it misses whole chunks, revealing the sensor-gridded rubber beneath.

“C-c-c-come back-ack-ack-ack! We’ll miss-iss you-you-you-you-youuu…”

The lights around her bloodshot eyes flicker and dim erratically, and she spits lubricant when I yank myself free of her grasp. Charging through the neat aisles, I catch only glimpses of my new environment; cranes hang from the ceiling, and racks upon racks of unclear machinery sit on shelves and beside conveyor belts, evidently awaiting some call to use. Ahead is a door, and I breach through it without hesitation. Another catwalk. At this, I am willing to slow, as my pursuer’s pace is surely affected by her poor condition. Below me is a factory fit to span whole city blocks, with cranes, smelters, lifts, belts, and assembly decks reaching so far that fog begins to cloud the horizon. The catwalk system on which I stand is linked to a series of rails with dangling hooks, on which hang the vacant bodies of hundreds of robots, each boasting some strange instrument for its left hand, and a series of six dark eyes above its ventilated mouth. As I creep towards a sort of way station at the end of my catwalk, I study the lifeless frames, estimating them to be intended for combat by the look of their armored carapaces and the number of firearms that litter the construction lines below. Another rail that comes up and runs parallel with mine holds a different sort of machine, a body beset with a number of dark panels coated in some sort of clear polymer. Drawing closer to the waystation, I notice a tower of some sort just below it, a dark circular pillar with rows of blinking indicators and yawning ports. A small screen above the pillar sports a timer soon approaching zero. I gauge this to be of some importance, and am relieved to reach the waystation before it has ended, slipping within with urgency. The station is composed of four walls with viewports looking outwards, and a number of screens, with a hatch leading down and a ladder leading up. As I reflect on the prospect of the ladder, a condescending and masculine voice with a metallic rasp emits from an unseen speaker.

“Power cycle complete. Reboot in five. Four. Three. Two.”

All at once, the lights in the factory flicker on, and the production resumes where it left off. Rails carry their frames off towards unknown destinations, assembly lines resume crafting their weaponry and metal limbs. More importantly to me, however, the screens of the waystation blink on, and project images of various locations. I approach the wall through which I entered and regard its screens with disdain, recognizing the marshland, the ruined city, and the labyrinth of subterranean rooms through which I have already passed. I think to consult the other screens as perhaps warnings of future trials, but am pulled from my thoughts by a sharp klaxon as the broken maid pushes through the door to the warehouse.

“C-co-co-come-come-come back-ack-ack-back, please-ease-ease…”

The masculine voice recurs from above.

“Acquisitions. Apprehend one- check- two faulty discards from Pathogen. Potential interference with productivity. Organics.”

The last word is projected with a degree of malevolence that speaks to hate, and prompted by the sight of two robots armed with rifle-like weapons jumping up to the catwalk from the floor, I begin to mount the ladder. I push through the hatch above as I hear an electric whine followed by porcelain shattering.

I have entered the latest of dimly lit hallways, and begin running towards a metal door with a blinking red light above it. A camera follows me as I get closer, and the voice comes again.

“Check, second subject is only partially processed, still 85% organic. 84.5%. Estimate process halt at 79%. Subject will maintain a strong sense of self. Requesting new orders.”

The sound of the hatch bursting open behind me does not cause me to look, though I am compelled. I slam into the door and pass through, closing it behind me and jamming a bar through the handle. I turn and make ready to run, only to stop dead as I come face to face with a towering robotic humanoid. Standing at seven feet tall, the chrome frame boasts efficient armor and intricate hands- one of which is extended almost gingerly towards my face. The voice now comes from his skull-like face, pronounced by a ribbed speaker set where the mouth might have been.

“Curious. Pathogen took a liking to you, then. And you managed to avoid all of Tower’s silly little hybrids?”

The machine leans back and lays its hand upon its chin as if considering me. The enforcers burst through the door, bending the bar, but their rifles are no longer raised in aggression, and I can see no other exit outside of the one through which I came. The machine man turns and faces a row of monitors through which streams of images flash faster than I can process. The gleaming ocular sensors within his dark sockets flick back and forth dizzyingly fast. He lifts his hand up and presses it to the side of his head as if nursing a headache. All the while, I study the sleek shell of his body, a wonder of engineering so perfect that the seams are only known when in motion. Finally, he turns to face me again, causing me to notice a bundle of wires that drape along his back and link to the floor.

“I see. You escaped the harvesters, the sleepers, the vivisurgeons, and even the indulgences. Perhaps there is a plan for you yet. No, there certainly is, else your progress would have stirred something already. Very well, I calculate a chance of one in nine to the four hundredth that you will pass unharmed to the core. Let us see if fate or her master so favors you to make it there. I imagine Pathogen and Tower both will have expectations. She in your favor, and he- well, no mystery there.”

He waves his hand in a motion highly dismissive of the importance of his words, and gestures with a lazy finger towards a panel in one of the walls.

“Carry on, then. I’ve no need to cleanse you, so long as you leave without further contaminating my plant.”

The panel pops open, and one of the enforcers shoves me towards it. I do not need further encouragement. I hurry over, and throw one last glance at the disinterested automaton that has thus far been the least involved in my struggle. He glances at me, and I sense a degree of contempt, or perhaps disgust in his stare.

“Hurry along. Do not mistake my impartiality for leniency. If you linger, I will add you to a biogenerator, and your end will be suitably messy and painful.”

I descend into the shaft, and the panel shuts above me.

On Incarnate 4

The science of politics in a dystopian future has no real hard and fast rules. Modern experience tells us that personal motivations can sway nations, if they come from one with enough influence. It takes little to imagine despotic oligarchs making selfish and short-sighted choices that the less fortunate must suffer the consequences of.

I often worry that I cut corners too readily, that I overtrim the fat from the meat, and end up with something so lean it has no flavor. I am ever grateful, spitefully, shamefully, for the popularity of pulpy media. It encourages me to write more freely when I see a successful work I, being as indulgent in my pride as can be tolerated, deem to be shoddy for one reason or another.

Envy and Pride. In my frequent efforts to control my relationship with the world, comparing myself to others never fails to catch me. Good enough is a curse, a phrase uttered by those who do not possess it, and shunned by those who do. If you call something good enough, it surely falls short of what you desire. Likewise, one often chases perfection whilst claiming only to seek ‘good enough’.

In the end, I think I am best served by a mantra that never fails to bring a smile to me. “What’s good enough for me, is good enough for me.”

In the end, we are our own debtors. Only I can pardon myself the sentence I have delivered. I, as a Mad God, have one hand upon the gospel of my own making, and the other drenched in the blood of shortcomings known only to myself. The fat is trimmed by my say so, and the culling is concealed in the production.

It is by my hand too, that butter finds it’s way into the pan, that seasoning is applied. If I am overzealous in my pruning, it falls to me to correct my course.

Finally, the dish must be sent away with whatever garnish is just. And it is up to the customer to make of it what they will; beyond the doors of the kitchen, it is out of my hands.

1. 4

Protocol requires that every major scientific installation possess at least one full outfit of troops in the case of attack. For front line installations, this requirement is tripled. In addition to the regular equipment rulings, officers are also expected to be armed even when off duty, and are so provided a sidearm. The AV Burst pistol is the weapon of choice in most instances. A plutonium battery provides a functionally unlimited reserve of ammunition, and a switch just in front of the trigger guard allows choice between high power semi-automatic and balanced burst fire modes. The projectile itself is a plasma bolt with an optimal range of two hundred and fifty meters.

Nadia Beauvarde. 30. Unmarried. Marksman, Colonel of the fifty-seventh division. Top marks in long range combat aptitude tests. Current assignment: Redacted.

[My, quite the audience here today. Dignitaries, ambassadors, generals. Tim, I have to profess I’m rather curious as to the occasion.]

Tim and Janice share a look, but continue their final diagnostic, neither willing to so much as glance to the observation window, to see the faces of judgement. Tim coughs.

“Well Zen, it’s time for a real assessment. All those discs were called training for a reason, right?”

Silence. Another shared look. Zen is uncharacteristically quiet, his monitors freezing, then cycling through new code with no fanfare. He turns his head, and seems to make lens-contact with a camera in the middle of the crowd. His head dips slowly, then raises.

[I see.]

Janice picks up a tablet from her station and takes a deep breath, straightening her glasses and muttering before turning and giving a simple smile towards the onlookers.

“Alright, we’re ready to begin.”

Tim puts his hands on Zen’s cheeks in a manner that suggests he is checking some alignment in the sensors, but his eyes seem to suggest something different. Having waited for the crowd to settle and take up attention, Janice continues.

“As you know, the past three months have seen a lot of material demands and work hours in just one of the thirty-two labs allotted to this building. I’m sure all of you are a little anxious to see if your investment was worth it.”

A small chuckle ripples through the crowd, accompanied by a shift to a more relaxed stance in the less military attendees.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, it is my distinct pleasure to introduce you to ZN001, known to us as ‘Zenith’. Those of you who are familiar with the work of myself and Professor Reine will perhaps be a little skeptical when I say that our previous efforts are frankly dull in comparison to what Zen represents. In three months, he has demonstrated one fact over and over: that the greatest strategic mind in all the universe occupies this room.”

As hoped, this declaration produces murmuring and the squeaking of fifty some chairs as the bodies on them tense to lean forward. She releases a celebratory huff, and swipes a command on the tablet. The monitors in the observation chambers flicker on, and begin running highlights of the training programs. Behind her, she can hear Tim running his final diagnostic.

“As you can see, Zen has, at every turn, outperformed the Strategy AIs at their own game, even rewriting the programs to be more challenging. Upon examination, Zen’s key concerns in battle are efficiency, victory, and the preservation of his forces. You will note, I hope, that the latter concern is not one we initially imposed on him, but one he introduced when he found the first two to lack enough challenge.”

She flicks another command, sending a slew of performance data to the screens.

“This represents only the top fifty percent of Zen’s attention. In the background, he has been reviewing general strategy and weapon design, and presenting improvements, unprompted. Already, one of the other labs has tested three of his new weapon designs, and confirmed a minimum improvement of ten percent combat effectiveness, in categories ranging from firepower to ease of deployment. Some of you may recall the prototype released last week for a new orbitally deployable hard point. This was Zen’s design, with minor tweaks according to restricted data.

“But, it is one thing to tell, and another to demonstrate. With approval from the committee, today we will be providing Zen with a new sort of program: a combat prediction. We have created a sort of trial which will involve Zen making decisions in real time against a team of five Strategy AI. Each will have a section of an invading force whose combined ranking is rated at 50,000 points. Zen’s force is rated at 35,000 points, and must defend with limited resources. The win condition for the opposition is breaching the primary base and setting an explosive at the depot. For Zen to win, he must destroy one-hundred percent of the invading force.”

The resounding silence that follows brings an uncontrollable smile to her lips, and she swipes a third command.

“Without further ado, I will hand it over to Zen.”

[Thank you, Dr. Beckherd.]

All eyes turn to the monitors. The simulation loads. Janice takes the opportunity to walk out into the hallway, and into one of the stairwells. Being on the tenth floor, the stairs are nearly pristine.

Her arm shaking, she puts her hand over her mouth and suppresses a painful sob. Tears cloud her vision, and she leans against the wall, clutching the railing to fight her lightheaded weakness.

“Janice?”

She gasps, and wipes at her eyes furiously, turning her face away from the voice. Her cheeks burn.

“Yes, Ken?”

“Is… Um, is everything alright? Something wrong with the demonstration, or-”

“No, Ken. It’s nothing. I just need a minute.”

She glares over her shoulder and catches sight of his blocky glasses, his messy bangs. There is a bite of vitriol in her voice, perhaps more than she intends. Ken raises his hands in defeat, and walks away, glancing back in a way that makes her stomach turn over. Her fingers flex, and she gulps air, smoothing down her hair.

~

“You’ve made quite the breakthrough, Dr. Beckherd.”

She accepts the outstretched hand and shakes it firmly, leaning forward slightly.

“Thank you, general. We couldn’t have come so far without your support.”

His dark eyes flash as he grins and shoves his hands into his uniform pockets, nodding to where Zen sits under the watchful eyes of various enthusiastic ambassadors, earnestly answering questions.

“How soon can we expect live tests? I’ve got a few fringe colonies in mind, high risk, low commitment. I think your boy could really shake things up.”

“Well, Professor Reine and I want to iron out a few more details before we ship him out, but if all goes well, he’ll be on a shuttle to Terra command within the year.”

Punctuating her pledge with a sip from her prosecco, she follows his gaze, and watches Zen raise an open palm, perhaps giving a philosophical answer to impress one of the guests. His head swivels, and briefly seems to point directly her way, tilting in that same, eerily sympathetic way, as if he has pierced through her facade: glimpsed the red tinges in her eyes, the elevated temperature of her cheeks; the moment is brief, and he shelters her from his own attention by showing some demonstration of his prowess on a monitor pointed away from her. She flinches as the general exclaims.

“Terra command! Then, the senators got to you first? He’ll be installed on earth?”

“Ah, I don’t mean to mislead you; his eventual posting will be kept under wraps while the situation is so delicate.”

The man’s expression becomes much more solemn, and he straightens his cap under his arm. He glances towards one of the senators, who is smiling quietly, standing in a group a moderate distance from any of the larger clusters.

“I understand. The Xalanthii representatives have been particularly accusatory recently, there is some suspicion of subterfuge. They levied a suggestion that we had created some kind of infold weapon that would give us an advantage over everyone else. Thankfully the Khanvrost matriarch at the summit was more interested in our mutual foe. Called the minister a ‘slime-brained coward more interested in gossip than loyalty’, shut him up nicely.”

He leans closer, his whisper smoky and hot.

“I think they’re hiding something of their own, to be so forthright. Some infiltration, concerned with your department. As a matter of fact, we’re currently investigating some unscheduled transmissions-”

He suddenly becomes silent, as the senator he was eyeing earlier approaches, and smirks, his cheeks blush with drink.

“General F’Touzehn, hoping to snatch up Dr. Beckherd’s next contract opening?”

He laughs, glancing at Janice in a clear message, which she shows her understanding of by bowing out, going to stand by Tim as he jokes with another scientist. Her eyes drift to look at Zen again, and she sees him engaged deep in conversation with one of the ambassadors. One of the cameras on his back, however, is focused directly on her. A distant ringing, like an overcharged battery, settles in the back of her skull. She feels she can hear his voice, deep and crackling, in the whine.

[My condolences, Dr. Beckherd. Today is two years, isn’t it?]

Bereft: on Sublime 8

In comes the new year. Looking back always tells me that I’ve changed with time, though I did not feel it happening.

This chapter is the first to arrive truly adjacent to the one that precedes it. It also seems to hold much more in the way of comfort. In my pursuit of variety, I ended up seeking to recreate the sort of atmosphere that appears when the protagonist of a war movie awakes in a hospital behind enemy lines.

Again I make use of dreams, which will occur with some frequency in this story. In this case, the dream sheds some light on a earlier, omitted period of time.

I am a little under the weather currently, so I will make this short. A lot of my time these days goes towards the fervent consumption of media: largely to moderate my mood, but also for the cause of inspiration. I struggle to read tragedy as much as I struggle to write it. A relieving catharsis invariably feels better than a sorrowful one.

But, the real danger when writing is that, as long as the work is unfinished, tragedy can be unwrit. Characters can be ressurected. The sentiment “No one stays dead” in popular fiction applies here. But the world can only seem so dark when only nameless characters are allowed to rest in their graves.

To counter the previous sentiment, life tells us that everybody dies. One day I hope my work will mirror that clinical honesty. I want my work to have readers on edge, knowing the other shoe is always waiting to drop.

8: Subservient

I wake with a jolt, and experience all over again the heavy sensation of disorientation and soreness. I look out from the thick patch of shiny brown grass and watch another herd of the brutes stomp their way into the palace. I now know I can never enter this place, not until I have been eaten against my will and made a part of this terrible ecosystem. The shadow of the birds trace dizzying patterns in the marsh grasses, and I am compelled to attempt plucking some of the grass, to see if it is edible. I select a long strand and pull at it, but find that it is rooted firmly, and pulls much of the surrounding ground up with it, bending and not breaking. I relent and stare out across the alien vista, ignoring the grumbling of my stomach and the throbbing in my head. Sleep beckons me again.

My dreams are violent and familiar, painted with the sounds and sights I’ve digested since waking in the ruined city. First I dream that I am again being pursued by the stalking spider machine, with its lurid, contorted face grinning at me through eyeless, lidless sockets. Then I am hiding in the locker again, but the surgeon opens my door this time, and places me on a hook. Suddenly it is Julia, cupping my face in her hands and smiling, as something churns in my stomach, buzzing like flies. She whispers to me, and I gag as something with many legs crawls up my throat.

“Welcome home.”

I gasp and retch as I wake again, and claw feverishly at the wet ground, my torn shirt damp with sweat. I look up and see someone standing over me, a woman wearing a red robe. I pull away in fear, but she stays still, simply watching me. Her face is white, white as can be, and her eyes are red. She has dull, dark black hair flowing over her shoulders, and her hand is outstretched as if offering help. Her voice is soft, and sounds muffled leaving her mouth, as though her throat is stuffed up with cotton.

“Come with me.”

I shake my head and breathe with great difficulty, my body beginning to shut down all but the most essential functions in rebellion against lack of food and water. She insists.

“Come with me, the sentinels will permit you, so long as I am accompanying you.”

I attempt to refuse further, but am too weak to resist as she draws near and lifts me by my shoulders to my feet, making me lean against her. Her hand is cold and hard, and I dimly grasp that it is so pale because it is within a porcelain gauntlet. Perhaps her face is, too. She leads me gently, and together we cross the bridge unassailed by the sentinels.

Inside now, I feel weaker than ever, and barely notice as we cross carpets and pass monochromatic paintings. I feel myself being laid upon a bed with my chest upright, and a vessel is pushed to my lips. I attempt to object, but warm savory liquid passes my lips, and I must swallow it so as not to choke. Almost immediately my vision clears, and the throbbing in my skull fades. I look about me and see half a dozen porcelain women in red robes and dresses, each staring inquisitively at me, as though I am a strange specimen in a jar. The one who came and found me leans back, holding an empty bowl stained red.

“Now rest, and Mother will see you when you are ready.”

As though hypnotized, I feel myself sink down into the soft warm bed, and descend into dreams once more.

Gone are the nightmares, and replacing them are strange sensations with few accompanying images, as though I am first being carried aloft on many hands, then smothered in paint. I feel a sharp pinch, and am suddenly wide awake once more, with another red-stained bowl being pulled away from my lips.

“Enough ichor, or you may become worse.”

Holding the bowl and speaking with a familiar voice is a woman made of ceramic and something like silicone, with hair that flows in an invisible wind. She is wreathed in a red light, and her eyes glow crimson as she looks almost fondly at me. I look around the room, and gather that I am in the guest chamber of some wealthy castle. Paintings of inhuman battles and bizarre congregations adorn every wall, and a window bordered by purple curtains looks out into the marsh. The bed itself is central to the room, and hosts enough pillows to bury me. The woman sits in a chair to one side and sets the bowl down on a nearby table.

“I worried that we might lose you. You stank of Tower’s territory when you first arrived, so I expected to find some of your organs missing or worse- but it seems you were only dehydrated and starving. Both of which, the ichor has remedied.”

Looking at her, I begin to remember, and finally place her as the individual I saw from the catwalk after my brush with the surgeon. Her smile is calm, a work of curiosity allowed by the careful interplay of her flexible and inflexible sections. Much of her arms and legs are porcelain, as is most of her face, with silicone and black rubber providing the flexibility required of joints. Her torso is wrapped up in red cloth that forms a sort of draping skirt longer at the back, but what I can see of her body appears to be black silicone and rubber, as with her joints. Here and there I see tubing like IV lines carrying an opaque, metallic golden fluid throughout her body. She watches me as I watch her, then sits back and looks out through the window.

“Julia told me you would be coming, but until one of the couriers depicted you following it, I never suspected you’d come all this way by yourself.”

Hearing Julia’s name, I sit up and look about, remembering how I had left her at the mercy of another again. Seeing my agitation, the woman presses her hand to my chest and firmly makes me lay back down.

“Stay put. While I cannot harbor you here forever, you must rest a while longer. Your body has yet to finish intaking the ichor. Be assured, none of the vivisurgeons or scavengers dare enter my territory. Your pursuers have given up on you.”

Anticipating the End

Incarnate’s overall first draft is approaching completion behind the scenes.

There are parts in the middle I intend to thoroughly edit and rewrite, but the overarching narrative is largely in the last lap. I do already have ideas for sequel material, but they are currently half baked at best. I also don’t think the story needs a sequel or prequel.

I hope to avoid premature celebration, so I’ll ignore the temptation to reflect in a profound way, and instead take a general view of this stage of the process.

There comes a point in every process where you realize the end is in sight. There are impulses at such a time, to either rush through what remains or draw it out. Part of the draw of a serial format is the opportunity to indefinitely extend the lifetime of a work, to repeatedly introduce conflicts to resolve.

However, at some point, the characters must either cease to resemble themselves via growth, or experience a frustrating regression, if the story is to be truly indefinite. Furthermore, one runs the risk of alienating even the most devoted followers by wasting time. A story must have an ending, even if that ending goes something like “And then something else went wrong, ad infinitum. ” The original The Princess Bride book has a pretty noteworthy ending in that regard.

I really could extend this series for a very long time, I have a talent for perpetually expanding the universes I imagine. But I think that despite myself, I’ve come to appreciate the power of an ending. Besides, once I close out the draft, I still have many weeks of editing and publishing to keep me busy while my next big idea develops. Not to mention, I may yet release some of the more lighthearted work I make in the shadow of projects like this.

Not every ending is a new beginning. But every beginning deserves a satisfying ending. And if one thing is certain, it’s that I love starting sh*t.

On being Wretched

I believe my favorite book is and always will be The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. In particular, I have a fondness for a character who did not make the cut in my favorite film adaptation: Caderousse. Spoilers for that novel follow, and I do recommend reading it. It’s a bit long though.

For context, Caderousse appears at intervals in the novel, always on the wrong side of things. First, he drunkenly overhears a plot to condemn his friend, and is blackmailed into staying quiet. When he next reappears, he is the owner of an inn, with a wife who can best be described as sick in several senses. Here, greed and his wife control him, spurring him into murder over a small fortune. He reappears later, now a conniving thief, who finally dies at the hands of a villain he enabled.

Caderousse’s story is one of a man too weak to do what he knows is right, becoming wicked as he submits to bad influences. Throughout his first two major roles, he displays a significant sense of morality and loyalty, which are opposed by the company he keeps. His life takes a twisted path, and ends in a slow, terrified death, sweetened only by the presence of the man he failed to save.

I really love his presence in the story. He adds a layer of depth that cannot be denied. He is not outright a villain, but continuously acts out evil because he cannot find the strength to resist.

He is wretched. He suffers and becomes warped by his suffering. I frequently consider his contribution, wondering at the way a person can act against their own will.

I do not have much commentary on today’s addition to Incarnate, except to remark on how short it is. I considered tacking it onto the previous chapter, but felt that it would’ve been worse for it.

1. 3

The FNB satellite series is a covert operational tool used to transmit messages near-instantaneously across great distances, by using a jump drive to create a microscopic fold in space through which the data is then sent. This is only used when strictly necessary, as, while undetectable to all but the most sensitive and focused instruments, widespread use would surely reveal its existence and so deprive it of its unique usefulness. Being so unique, these installations are granted extreme priority, and great care is taken to protect the information they transmit. Misuse of this system carries a heavy penalty.

[You look tired, Dr. Beckherd. I hope you aren’t overworking yourself.]

It takes a full moment for her to register the statement and turn her face towards him, smiling half-heartedly.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night. But, how was your night, Zen?”

[Oh, business as usual, Doctor. I performed a few diagnostics, and ran fifty-thousand new iterations of each training session, then spent some time rereading King Lear. I must confess, I am eager for new material. I can only arrive at the same conclusion so many times.]

Tim coughs and adjusts himself in his chair.

“I can try to get approved for another library to be appended, would you prefer fiction or nonfiction?”

[To be honest, either would be fine. I spend so much of my time reading. I particularly like reading The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. It is rather poignant, and leaves just enough up to interpretation.]

“I don’t know if I’ve read that one myself, actually. I’ve probably read more textbooks than novels at this point.”

[I really recommend it.]

Tim shrugs and makes a small note in the corner of his notebook, before opening up a disc case and carrying its contents over to the input rack.

“Okay Zen, another batch of training programs today. Committee wanted to see how you handled ground conflict, so these should be a breath of fresh air.”

[Indeed? I wonder.]

The disc inserted, Tim turns to Janice and motions for her to follow him as he exits the room, leaving Zen to his new scenarios.

The door closed, he watches through one of the windows for a moment, then crosses his arms and juts his chin at Janice.

“Missed you this morning. Did you really have a rough night?”

“Yes, really. What did you want?”

Struggling to keep the irritation from her voice, she leans back against the wall and lifts her glasses to rub her eyes with her palms. Tim studies her for a brief moment, then speaks in a hushed tone.

“I reviewed the reports I mentioned, Zen didn’t just have any thought repeatedly, he revisited a four-thousand line string at even intervals throughout the day. That’s not even the strangest part.”

Janice stares at him, silent, waiting for him to make his point.

“Every time, he clipped and reorganized the string in different ways for twenty minutes afterwards. He dedicated almost a third of his attention to this. The tech who showed it to me said it was like if you or I sat down and wrote poems for ten days straight using only words we found in a sports article. He likened it to religious prayer.”

Janice frowns and closes her eyes, tilting her head back and pinching the bridge of her nose. A headache begins to nest in her forehead. 

“Okay, but… What does it mean for us? I mean, he’s expressed that he rereads books a lot, maybe he just, I don’t know, gets bored and rewrites stuff.”

“Ehhh. Maybe. It’s still unusual. There’s other stuff too, but even a twelve man team doesn’t have the resources to parse ten minutes of his unfiltered thoughts in a day. Unless we can demonstrate a real understanding of how Zen thinks, I’m not sure we’ll leave prototype.”

“I’m not sure we should.”

A tremor travels up the building, causing the lights too flicker. Sharing a look of discomfort, the pair part ways: Tim returning to the room, Janice heading for the stairwell. Her headache throbs.

Beguiling: Sublime 7

By now, some of the inspiration behind Sublime may be revealing itself. For instance, there’s a scene in Hellraiser: Hellbound that inspired the section with the things beneath the sheets early in this chapter.

On my mind right now, however, is the question of history. Specifically, omitted history. When performing the written equivalent of a jump cut, or intentionally creating a time skip, there’s a lot that the reader is left to interpret. And I am left to question if I should revisit later on.

Perhaps I decide that the scene in which a mentor and student cover a new subject adds nothing to the narrative that justifies the impact on pacing, and axe it. However, the student later uses something learned from this omitted lesson. How much do you clue in the audience to the source of this knowledge? If the effect is key to the narrative, then the scene likely would have been included, perhaps as a limited flashback. Is it enough to simply have the student proclaim their gratitude for having attended to their studies?

Consider the tragic backstory already contained in the term ‘orphan’. How much explanation is expected when they meet a parent, alive after all? Which are the questions better left unanswered?

Changing gears; the end of the holiday season is approaching. Having spent time with family and friends has been rejuvenating for my psyche, but potentially harmful to the mindset I cultivate for writing. I find that in some cases, I am suddenly being pulled to once again shy away from delivering the maximum impact.

I am a merchant of emotion, and therefore devote much time to controlling, or in some cases unshackling, my feelings. If I am to deliver catharsis of the highest quality, I must first lay the groundwork with great angst and want. If I become unbalanced and biased, I may become too cruel, or too lenient. It is for this reason that I space out the time between writing and editing, so that, in a sense, two of myself, in two different states of mind, must approve the work before it is published.

With any luck, I’ll be back to my typical level of self-inflicted distress. I may never be able to avoid seeming like a sadist/masochist, but my work will be the better for it, and that’s all that really matters. Satisfaction is worth all the struggle. I’m not really helping my case.