The people in the bar were just one small group of friends, who had a crazy idea. It's not clear in the writing, but they didn't tell people what their idea was, when they started trying to fund a world-peace initiative. The alien ship just happened to be around at the time.
I wouldn't say "took advantage" of. The gist is more like, "Oh hey, primitive species. Wait... what are they... oh no. You didn't. Not in OUR galaxy." *zap zap zap* "Try again when you learn how to be civilized."
“Akiendor is a figure in Korlissean legend. He made a pact with the Sky Gods, in which they would give him the freedom to explore all the stars in the heavens, in exchange for his wealth of earthly knowledge. However, once he had told them all he knew, they tricked Akiendor, leading him under a great mountain where he was imprisoned. Furious at their deception, he destroyed the mountain, spewing fire and ash into the sky to punish the Sky Gods.” David nodded. “So Akiendor is a volcano, then?” Gray chuckled. “That would be the obvious conclusion, wouldn’t it? But no, as it turned out, he was a philosopher and scholar of his era - and a lunatic. The caves his village eventually sealed him in were part of a military bunker, left from the previous civilization who inhabited our world. He activated one of their devices and blew the mountain apart. The resulting ash cloud caused an ice age over the northern hemisphere that lasted for nearly a century. Korlisseans use it as a cautionary tale about the importance of keeping your word.”
The phrase "knocked back to the Stone Age" has oft been misused to imply mankind would suddenly find itself bereft of the technology and trappings of modern life. In actuality, it would not be our knowledge that is lost, but our focus. When each day becomes a struggle for survival, man can ill afford the luxury of intellectual pursuits. He cannot think his way out of starvation - he must act. It is this regression to a more primal, hunter-gatherer state that defines the term. To imply mankind would lose all accumulated knowledge and ingenuity is incorrect.
We would not lose the knowledge, but we would use the ability to apply it. Master computer coder? Too bad, we don't have electricity. You can build a car from scratch? Sorry, we can't make new parts now. Even if we could solve the food problem we lack people who can forge metal or even proper machines to do it without gas or electricity.
Eh, it was just one of those random thoughts I had a month or two back and forgot to jot down here. I don't pretend to be any kind of authority on post-apocalypse anthropology. I do think the term's been misused, though.
"Why do you hate us so much, Ward?" Her tone had none of the usual bite to it, no snide bitterness or smug arrogance he'd grown used to. In its place was only honest curiosity, and maybe a hint of sadness. It has to be a trick, Ward told himself. She'd never spoken to him like this before. It would be so simple to just say "I hate cats" and leave it go at that. But that isn't the truth, is it? "I don't hate Rathans, Farah." A deep breath, then, "And I don't hate you." The admission shocked her nearly as much as it did him. "But everything you've said, what I've done to you..." "Maybe I did, at first. You were the enemy. A nameless, faceless beast who had to be killed. It's so much easier to kill someone if you don't think of them as a person." Ward sighed heavily and glanced up, meeting her eyes. "I know better, now." The Rathan stared curiously at him, all trace of yesterday's hostility gone from her expression. "I thought the same, you know." "I understand. Maybe better than you realize." The war had been raging on for several years now, but the news that sparked it was still fresh in his mind. "You destroyed the Orion, an explorer vessel with over two thousand men and women aboard, but barely a single gun to its name. Then you attacked the cruisers we sent to investigate. So we set up a blockade - and you hit that, hard. And that was when we decided 'the Rathans aren't going to stop. They'll just keep coming, until we're destroyed, or they are.'" For the first time in his career, Ensign Daniel Ward felt regret for his years of service. For his part, however small, in the conflict that was slowly grinding both their races into stardust. "But I finally get it. The Orion was your 9/11, times a thousand." Her tail lashed. "Is that a human term for a call to war? Nine-eleven?" Ward tried to remember what he'd learned in History. "It's a date in our numerical calendar. Ninth month, eleventh day. Near the start of the millennium - about two-hundred years ago - a small group of religious fanatics attacked my home country. A lot of innocent people were killed and a couple of our more significant landmarks were damaged or outright destroyed. We didn't lose a whole city, like you, but it was enough." He closed his eyes, recalling the archived news vids. "Buildings can be rebuilt, and they were. Families grieved for their loved ones, and moved on. But it left scars on my people. They were hurt, angry, and afraid. They wanted a face to the evil, so they could go kick its teeth in. They lashed out in their pain, did a lot of damage, a little good, and historians are still arguing over whether it was worth it in the end." She turned away from him, staring at the blank wall of their shelter. "Rath'latra can't be rebuilt, Ward. That crater will remain radioactive for many generations." Ward gritted his teeth. "Farah, I don't know how or why the Orion crashed into the middle of Rath'latra. I don't think it even matters at this point. I can't change what's happened. All I can do is say I'm sorry - and I am. I finally understand what you Rathans are going through." Farah made a small noise, and began to shake. Hesitantly, Ward stood and circled their small fire pit, making his way to her side of the cave. Every part of him screamed this was a bad idea, but it didn't matter. There's nothing she can do now that hurt worse than when I was on that frigate, he told himself. His hand settled gently on her left shoulder. The Rathan whirled at his touch, jerking sharply away as she faced him. Dark lines streaked the fur below her eyes, where tears had soaked in. "I DON'T WANT YOUR GODS-CURSED SYMPATHY!" she screamed at him, baring her teeth. "I just... just want-" Whatever anger had sustained her outburst collapsed in on itself. She buried her face in her hands and wept openly. "I just want my family back," she choked out between sobs. In her mind's eye she could still see the flaming hulk of the Orion as it fell, straight into the heart of her city. Two million dead in an instant, and no one even knows why.
There are places in your mind where even ghosts are afraid to tread. Dark shadows lurking in the back of your thoughts, bloated with all the regret and guilt and pain you tried to bury. They grow, over the years, feeding on memories, turning them a cancerous discolored sepia. If you're not careful, they'll eat you alive from the inside out, until all you see in the mirror is a stranger, shoulders sagging from the burdens you've heaped on them. How do I know? I'm that stranger. I'm the one who carries the weight of your misery, all the failures and shortcomings and might-have-beens you'd rather forget. The road you didn't travel is the one I walk instead, dragging the worst of you along with me. It's a hell of a way to live, but it is a way. Because sometimes those paths intersect, merge, become one again. And though you just keep facing forward, leaving the broken debris in your wake, I pick it all up behind you, add it to the pile. One day you'll walk a little slower, and I'll catch up. I'll show you what you don't want to see. What you left behind. What you used to be. And that will be your weight to carry.
After being stuck on Chapter 5 for the last two weeks, I'm pleased to announce my novel is moving forward once again. Here's a little piece of it. “Kenba, take a seat please. David, Zee, a moment?” From his breast pocket, Gray pulled out two pen-sized objects. David gripped his crowbar menacingly. “If you even think the word ‘probe’ I’m breaking your kneecaps Gray.” “Oh for Core’sake.” The Korlissean rolled his eyes, sighing with exasperation. “This is a neurally-implanted translation chip. It will interface with your cerebellum and provide near-instantaneous translations of Galactic Standard, as well as a catalogue of English-to-Standard words and phrases. I am not,” he added with finality, “going to insert anything into your rectum. I have no idea how that silly idea ever got started.” “Translator, great. Neural though?” David lowered the crowbar warily. “You’re putting a chip in my brain?” “Subdermal, base of the skull. And before you ask, yes it will hurt, but only briefly.” Gray made a spinning motion with his finger. “Now turn around and tilt your head down please.” Reluctantly, David slipped the crowbar back into his belt and turned, looking down as Gray instructed. He felt the tip of the object press against his head, at the soft divot where his spine and skull met, and then a sudden quick sting. He was just beginning to think that wasn’t so bad, when a new, intense pain blossomed in the back of his skull. “Mother of shit!” he cursed, clapping a hand to his head. As quickly as it came, the pain was gone again, leaving only an aching throb in its wake. “Jesus, Gray, what the hell?” he muttered. He’d only been drunk enough for a hangover once, but the experience felt all too familiar right now. “I’m sorry,” Gray apologized sincerely. “If it lasts more than a few minutes, I may have painkillers that will work for you.” He turned to Zee, a guilty frown twisting the edge of his mouth. “Your turn I’m afraid, my dear.” Zee stood wide-eyed and fearful, ears flat against her head as she looked from Gray to David, still clutching his skull, and back. “No please,” she said, shaking her head emphatically. “It’ll be alright Zee,” David assured her, straightening up slowly. “Hurts like hell for a minute, but it passes quick.” He was being honest - even the ache was starting to fade. In the face of Zee’s reluctance, Gray looked even more unsure. “Well, I won’t force you, but you’ll have to learn Standard on your own soon enough.” “Can manage. Rah’li learn quick.” Her hands closed around Gray’s, pushing the translator implant gently away. “Have learning cards?” The Korlissean blinked, clearly puzzled, and glanced at David. “Cards?” “I used flash cards to teach her the alphabet. She was reading books on her own the next day.” “Remarkable,” Gray said in awe, sliding the device back into his pocket. “Absolutely remarkable.” Kenba coughed loudly from his seat at the table, looking annoyed at having been forgotten. “Bother. Well David, I can’t continue to repeat myself in two languages. Will you please translate for Zee?” David nodded. “I can try. I’m still not really sure what this chip even does, though.” “You’ll understand now, I think.” He nodded again, then paused. The words had sounded something like “Alevistran moft irro kai,” but clear as day he’d understood what they meant. But does it work both ways? He tried to think of a phrase in Galactic Standard, and as soon as the language registered, a mental library opened up. He felt like he was trying to navigate a web browser-slash-dictionary in his head, moving at the speed of thought. How to say “Yes, I do?” he wondered, focusing on the words. A phrase came back to him and he tried to pronounce it. Gray was just sitting down, and nearly fell over as his head whipped around, doubling over with laughter again. “Oh my,” he gasped, struggling for breath. “What?” David demanded. “What did I just say?” “We’ll need to work on your pronunciation,” Gray advised, wiping more tears of laughter from his eyes. “I am quite certain you do not fornicate with fish.”
And you are not a world renowned writer because...? Where's your 'New York Times Best seller'? Where's your film based on your books xD
Dear Mr. Warwick, I must admit, it took me quite some time to realize what you'd accomplished. Not many could vanish from under the eyes of the constabulary the way you did. Convincing them afterward you'd died in the attempt was inspired. Part of me will always wonder what poor soul now lies under the tombstone bearing your name. I'm sure part of you wishes it was me. I say that with no malice however - we are professionals, are we not? We both know the stakes in this game. Next to this letter is the salary I promised. I am a man of my word, after all. There was no call for Christine's murder, though I understand you have a reputation to maintain even when the man behind it is supposedly deceased. That, I'm afraid, was tipping your hand. I am familiar with your particular brand of artistry. And therein lies the problem. While I found this path out of necessity, to put a semblance of order to the chaos around me, you sought it out intentionally as a means to disguise the chaos within. You attempted to hide your nature behind this mask, and while I must applaud the effort, there comes a time when every actor must take a bow and leave the stage. Your curtain call happened years ago, sadly, and your audience grows impatient with an encore they never requested. ~Sincerely, Carlysle PS: I prefer to see a man's eyes when he dies. Turn around now, please?
Brilliant orange embers floated high into the night sky, thrown there by the heat and fury of the bonfire below. A pair of deep green eyes watched in reverent silence as they faded out one by one into the darkness. As the last spark faded, a furred hand reached out, stirring the fires until a log popped and sizzled. More embers soared skyward- again, the eyes turned to watch their ascent into darkness. Once every month, this ritual was repeated, as the moon was swallowed by the world's shadow. On the night of a new moon, Sirius Taere would light a large bonfire and stare into the rising flames, trying to read the portents and visions they might bring. Never had he succeeded, until this night. Taere blinked, eyes narrowing down the length of his dagger. Though a week past, that night was still fresh in his mind. For the first time ever, the flames had revealed a destiny to him- and then the Empire's soldiers had come and scattered the flames. His vision was incomplete, and there was no guarentee he would see its end on the next ritual, if ever. The logs sparked and crumbled as the large hooves of an Impirial stallion ground his fire into the ground. Further proof that the beasts were stupidly fearless- no animal would run through fire in such a manner. Taere's main concern, however, was the mounted soldier now leveling a lance at his chest. "Sirius Taere?" a deep voice boomed out. The slitted visor seemed to look right through him, masking whatever expression the soldier wore. "I am he. Why should a soldier of the Empire care?" The soldier's lance point pressed against Taere's throat. "Your talents as an assassin have spread beyond Myst, cat. The Empire requests you put them to use." Perhaps he should have been afraid that night, but the only thing Taere ever felt was annoyance. His vision had been interrupted for a contract, and worse, he'd been forced to take it. No matter. When I've slain their demigod for them, I shall mount their heads upon my wall. He sheathed the dagger and stared into the night sky. In the distance, the clouds reflected the orange glow of a Union encampment. He doubted the demigod would be present, but it was a start in tracking down the man, this "Zavier." Fluidly, Sirius rose from his crouch and tucked his tail beneath the folds of his black robe. The night was half-gone, and he needed to keep moving...
If I had a secret identity, don't you think I'd be keeping it secret and not writing about it? As most of my friends know, I don't like vampires. And I don't mean that in an "I hate the taste of brussel sprouts" kind of way. I'm talking more like a mindless, irrational, all-encompassing hatred from which there is no exception or escape. That being said, I found myself contemplating the Underworld series tonight, and in particular the hate-rivalry between vampires & lycans (werewolves). And other related stuff. So I wrote a thing. For the fifth time in as many minutes, Armand Delacroix wondered what he was thinking. And for the fifth time, he decided he simply didn't care enough to think about it at all. Squaring his shoulders, he tugged on the bar's door and slipped inside. He'd been to thousands of bars in his long lifetime, and each had a different personality. This one was thick and musky, and the scent of cigarettes was all but lost under the aroma of beer and those who drank it. The lights were dim, even by his standards, affording the bar's patrons plenty of dark corners to skulk in. Their eyes glittered in the shadow as they noted his entrance, followed him as he strode confidently up to the counter. They knew his kind. Likely, confusion at his brashness was all that kept them in their seats instead of attempting to tear his head off. Armand leaned over the counter, waving to the young woman behind it. "S'cuse me miss, pint of lager?" A large, dirty hand fell on his shoulder, spun him around. Even without Changing, the man would've been called a werewolf, he was so thick and hairy. His beard was rough, scraggly, and reeked of alcohol and cigars, both of the cheap variety. "We don't stand for your kind here," he snarled, leering into Armand's face. "That's quite alright," Delacroix replied nonchalantly. "I can't stand me either. Why some mornings, I can't even bear to face myself in the mirror." "That's cause you ain't got a reflection, vampire." He spat the word like a curse. Armand wrinkled his nose as a fleck of spittle landed on it, but a wide grin pasted itself across his face. "Ah good! You get the joke! And here my bloodsucking relatives think you're just mindless beasts." The wolf-man snarled and shoved forward, but Armand was quicker. In a flash, he rolled his shoulder and sidestepped to the left, ducking out of his assailant's grip and letting the man fall forward into the bar counter. There was a crash of breaking glass, and the bar went completely silent, but for the other man's shout of rage. Armand took another step back, gaining some distance. "But you're not at all, are you?" he continued loudly. "You're party animals! You know how to live!" "Havin' a pulse helps," another wolf snickered. "Put 'im back in the ground, Meat!" Meat wheeled from the counter, tearing a long chunk of the wood from its back edge, brandishing it like a spear as he closed on the vampire again. "Yes yes," Armand lamented melodramatically, "the heart has stopped but the beat goes on. Tragic, isn't it?" He gripped the edges of his button-down, sending the buttons flying as he tore it open, baring his pale chest to the approaching wolf. "Well go on, dust me then. I only came in for a drink, not a dance." As Meat's shoulders tensed, preparing to lunge, a hand closed on his makeshift stake and yanked it away. "Sit down and stop ruining my furniture," the bartender snapped, pointing to an empty chair near the back wall. When Meat hesitated, she reached out and cuffed him soundly behind the head. "Shift it!" The air crackled with unspent tension. Armand could feel the eyes of every other werewolf in the joint, boring into him, sizing him up, trying to decide if taking him apart was worth the ire of the bar's owner. To his surprise, most turned back to their drinks and smokes. "You too," she scolded, gesturing towards him with the chunk of wood. "Have a seat." The background chatter resumed as she returned to her post behind the counter. "So, lager was it?" "Indeed," he chuckled, claiming an empty stool. "Forgive me, I'm trying to decide if I'm grateful to you or not, for saving my... is 'life' the right word to use here?" "Hah! I like you, vamp," she smirked, pouring him a pint. "You hate yourself almost as much as we do, I think." "More, I daresay. I've had a few centuries to perfect the art of self-loathing." He took the offered beverage in one hand and extended his other. "Armand Delacroix, indebted."
So, Khixan deserves some special recognition here for being my personal literary savior. I've been beating my head off the wall for the last two days or so, struggling with a chunk in my book I knew "wasn't working," and couldn't seem to figure out what it was. After some discussion tonight... Problem solved. Enjoy. “I just realized,” David muttered, looking up at the Korlissean. “What the hell do I even say to them? ‘Sorry mom, I’ve been abducted by aliens. Have dad get my things from the apartment in case they bring me back down’?” “I told you, David, I don’t monitor humans individually. Which are you more concerned about, leaving your belongings behind, or your family?” “A bit of both, I guess.” He paced the narrow confines of the bridge while Gray worked at the console to set up a connection his cell phone could use. “How long do you figure it’ll take for us to get to this Outreach place of yours and convince them Zee’s smarter than the average Rah’li?” “The nearest Outreach office is six jumps away - about two-hundred and forty light years, by Earth’s measure,” he advised. His fingers elicited a staccato chatter from the keys as he typed. “It takes twelve hours for a Transplacement drive to cool off after each jump. If I pushed my ship to its absolute limit, it would take two days G.S. to reach my home office on Astivelle. Since that would be risky and potentially damaging, expect closer to three. As for putting the case before Outreach…” He sighed heavily. “That, I could not begin to guess. Weeks. Months. Potentially years. My superiors would likely demand I return you to Earth well before the matter is resolved.” David nodded slowly, feeling a twinge of apprehension at the Korlissean’s words. Compared with years of alien bureaucracy, a career in graphic design didn’t seem quite so bad after all. “What’s this ‘G.S.’ stuff you keep using?” Gray looked up from the console. “Galactic Standard time runs on a thirty-six-hour day, with three-hundred sixty days in a year. The hours and minutes are a little different from Earth’s, but not significantly so. We base seconds on charybdenum decay - it’s a bit more reliable than the isotopes you use in your atomic clocks, since Transplacement jumps don’t accelerate its molecular breakdown. The difference is negligible though - an atomic clock would only desync from a charybdenum one by about one minute every hundred years.” “You realize I don’t understand half this technobabble you’re throwing at me?” “I know,” Gray smirked, “but I enjoy reminding you what a very deep pool you’ve dipped your toe into.” He pressed a few more keys on his console. “There. Try it now?” David nodded, checking his cell phone. “Huh. Yep, that did it. Four bars, plenty of signal.” He pulled up his contact list and stopped, looking at Gray again. “I still have no idea what to tell my parents.” “Hm. Well, ‘in for a penny, in for a pound,’ as the Earth saying goes, I suppose. May I speak to them?” “Hey, if you’ve got any bright ideas, be my guest.” He highlighted his parents’ number and hit the green “talk” button. “Little static, but it’s ringing,” he whispered. “Man, I do not wanna see the roaming charge for this.” He passed the phone to Gray, hearing his mother pick up as he did. “Hello, is this Mrs. Keating?” Gray asked. “Excellent. My name is Professor Grayson, I teach at your son’s university. Hm? Oh, he’s doing quite well, actually. We’ve had an opportunity come up - rather short notice, I’m afraid - and David will be joining us. It’s a humanitarian venture, something of a long-term commitment, and he wasn’t able to make proper arrangements before we departed.” Gray glanced up from the phone and gave David a sly wink. “Well I can’t be certain, but knowing young men, I suspect a woman probably had something to do with it. Yes, he’s here now, I’ll put him on for you. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Keating.” He covered the receiver as he passed the phone to David, mouthing a quiet “You’re welcome.” David fought the urge to laugh as he took the phone. His first impression of Gray had been that of a college professor, and the tall alien had played his role to the hilt. After a few embarrassing questions from his mother, he managed to reassure her that yes, he knew what he was doing and yes, he’d call whenever he could - though there wasn’t much in the way of reception where he was headed - and yes, they’d get to meet “her” if things managed to work out. He laughed at that last point, wondering what his mother would say if she knew the woman who’d gotten him into this situation was an alien feline.
This is definitely a late response, but for some reason I can imagine this being some sort of hardcore rap about the plague.
