Busy busy

In case you haven't heard, I've been busy. My Geology 410 class is a massive demand on my time, and I've had little free time. In addition, I've lost much of my will to edit my current Writers of the Future draft, but I'm trying to finish the edits.

It's mostly the critical side of my brain ends up dead after so much work and I have little desire to edit anything, and instead wish to work on other projects. Given that I'm a completionist, I have to finish this project and only then can I move onto other stuff. I suppose the desire to work on my complete overhaul of Architect of Legends will motivate me to work faster.

Feel free to look by my blog for some writing that I have done in the meantime. I hope to finish this WotF draft by the end of this coming week, but given all likelihood, expect it the week after that.

In the meanwhile, Landon, I know you were wanting to read that second draft of Illusions of Control so here it is.

https://docs.google.com/leaf?id=0B24LU75HbwPPOGNhNTk5MGEtZmNkZi00ZmIzLThkMDEtYmY1Y2YyNzU4MjU4&hl=en&authkey=CNqOh5AB

Everything you need to know about making a spaceship

Howdy folks,

Just thought I'd post a link up right here to the Atomic Rockets website that gives lots of technical information about spaceships and space combat. Its a sweet site, very informative, but only if you're interested in writing science fiction that leans more to the "hard" (read: plausible) side of the spectrum.

Later . . .

WotF Outline - Three if by Air

Alright, people have probably noted that I haven't been submitting stuff. This is not due to boredom on my part, but due to me working on outlines and worldbuilding. Here is the outline for my next WotF entry.

Firstly, this is an outline, not writing. It is present tense, third person omnipotent. It gives the story synopsis in telling format. It is not meant to be entertaining, but is to give the dynamics of the story and tell the plot, characters, resolution, etc.


Questions:

1. Did you see any plot holes? Put another way, do I raise questions and never answer them? This isn't about world building questions, but actual plot resolution.
2. How are the characters? Are they interesting? Do they seem invested in the plot, in each other?
3. How does the setup sound? Do you see any logical pieces missing? This means questions like "Why don't the characters just do X" or "Why are they doing X when it won't work?
4. Anything else. This is an outline, so I don't care about the actual writing. I'm looking at content.



Three if by Air Outline 2

Background

April, 1775. The colonies are at an uneasy standing with Britain as the Crown levies more unfair taxes and treaties against the unruly Colonials. Boston is held under military rule by General Gage, as he tries to destroy the hotbed of revolutionary activity taking shape in the Americas. The Patriots, the leaders of the opposing faction, have fled to Pennsylvania, leaving only Samuel Adams and John Hancock in Boston.

Fearing tyrannical British ordinances, many colonists have stockpiled weapons, preparing for the fight they see as inevitable. The British are wildly unpopular. General Gage, knowing that Sam Adams and John Hancock are in close proximity, discovers the colonists are hording weapons outside of Boston, in the city of Concord.

With this knowledge in hand, Lord Gage orders the Regulars to seize the weapon caches as well as arrest Adams and Hancock if the opportunity presents itself. The Patriots are also aware of British orders to march, and messengers await the sign that the British have mobilized and are marching.

Unbeknownst to the British, the Benjamin Franklin currently in Britain, is not the real Ben Franklin. The real one along with several Patriots setup a workshop in Massachusetts, near Concord, away from prying eyes. Franklin is building a new mechanical armor, one that doesn’t require a man to operate. His hopes and the hopes of the people helping him is that the weapon will be a deterrent and the British will back down. Unfortunately for Franklin, the British have become aware from a loyalist spy that the Patriots have a workshop somewhere in the forests near Concord, where they are making something dangerous.

Characters

Montgomery McCullough

Monty has been a business partner with John Hancock for some time, dealing with the smuggling in Boston, under the nose of the British. Born an urchin on the streets of the same city, he worked his way into the docks business. He was able to succeed largely because of his discerning ability to find patterns and know the right thing to say at the right time.

A house fire some years back severely burned his left hand, and he now keeps the maimed digits wrapped in a bandage. The house fire claimed the lives of both his wife and young son of six. Or at least so he thought. During the fire he was injured trying to go back in after them, and was held back by concerned neighbors. The son was rescued by another man who ran in to help.

The tremendous blaze destroyed several buildings, and in the confusion father and son were separated. Monty thought the boy dead, and the boy was given to the orphanage when no father could be found. Subsequently adopted, Monty only found out the son lived five years later. He has begun watching the boy, giving him gifts or helping him behind his back. He doesn’t want to break the emotional wounds open. His son already lost his father. Regaining him would be just as bad.

With problems like that, Monty has less patience for the Patriotic fervor of his friends. He is in the business to get money, and though not dishonest, he does have a reputation for being financially tight-fisted. He is neither loyalist nor patriot, but he has a growing dislike of the British with each new tax making it harder for him to do his job. He is a man respected by his peers, known as someone who keeps his word, and does the work asked of him. He is also a very well known gambler, and has an enviable lucky streak.

Monty finds himself pushed into a cause that was someone else’s, and is forced to find just whose side he is on, and whether he is simply staying away from his son for his son’s sake, or for his own.

John Hancock

The smuggler (it is not blatantly stated, but implied) and patriot is a man who is unashamed of what he believes in, and forceful in speaking and personality. He has money, and he has contacts. He is someone who knows what he wants and then pursues it for whatever he can get out of it.

He is remaining near Boston largely because he refuses to be kept out of the fight. He is a man who is not afraid of getting into the thick of things, and almost has a fearless edge to his personality. He is with Samuel Adams, planning issues against the British when the Regulars leave Boston.

He is zealous and good mannered. He is unafraid and yet knows fear. He is charming in his own way, yet he has a personality which beckons to mind someone who will get what they want every single time.

Benjamin Franklin

The Renaissance man who is Benjamin Franklin is one who is calm and collected, yet becomes a dragon when upset. He is always quipping when he speaks, and has an overbearing personality that will blow people away. He gets his head lost in his work sometimes, but he is no bumbling scientist.

Under the guise of going to England to negotiate treaties and fair treatment for the colonies, an imposter was appointed to pretend to be Franklin. Instead, the real Franklin with the blessing of rich Patriot patrons began work in a lab near Boston on a machine.

The strength of the British has always lied in their disciplined soldiers, as well as in their Lion Knights, the soldiers wearing the mechanical armor and act as Britain’s heavy guns. Franklin plans on achieving a true automaton Lion Knight, that will tell the British that the colonies can take care of themselves as well as leave a Damocles sword over the Crown so that they know the colonists will not be backed into a corner.

His work is nearly completed, and soon he will have made the world’s first automatic soldier, a being who does not fear, needs no food, nor rest. With it, he hopes to create a new revolution and create a utopia for men. He is not aware that the British are coming, and when they find it, they’ll have their own purposes for the automaton.

Plot

Montgomery McCullough sits in Charleston holding the keys to an iron horse. He repeats the mantra, “One if by land, two if by sea, three if by aAir,” awaiting the signal from the Old North Church to signal the departure of the British. Everyone suspects the British to travel by air, but some think they might try sneaking their soldiers out via land or sea.

He is there not out of any sense of patriotism, but because he was asked by Paul Revere. Revere knows that Monty is a man of his word, and called in a favor owed by Monty to wait for him Charleston while he crosses the bay on a normal horse. Monty sees the signal. As expected, the British are traveling by air, hoping to catch the Patriots off guard.

Monty sees a boat crossing the bay. He knows this is Revere, trying to sneak past HMAS Somersat which sits moored nearby. Just as Revere is about to make it, the Somersat spots him, and, under orders to open fire at any messengers, shoots at him. Revere stumbles ashore, bleeding out. In his last moments, he convinces Monty to take his place and warn the countryside. He tells him to head to a certain address at Lexington and he’ll find people who can help him.

Revere asks, “When was the last time you saw your son?”

Monty says, “Three days.”

“You should talk to him. A son should know his father,” Revere says and then he dies.

Monty, having made a promise, gets on the iron horse, a familiar steed, and tears off into the countryside, arriving at Mystic. There, he awakes the commander for the militia, and gives the warning out. Already, the British movements are becoming obvious as the great airships fill the sky. The militia warned, Monty continues towards Lexington.

On his travels, he encounters a patrol of British regulars (two men), who immediately discern he is a messenger. They try to detain him, but he breaks away, relying on his own knowledge of the terrain to escape. He warns every house he comes across until he hits the main road near Pierce’s Hill. He finds he is behind William Dawes, one of the other riders, and so he heads straight for Lexington, passing by roused Militia.

Upon arrival, he seeks the address Revere gave him, and knocks at the door. He is pulled inside at gunpoint, and asked to identify himself. He tells and there is murmured discussion before he is allowed to see his captors. Monty is surprised to discover himself among the presence of Samuel Adams, John Hancock (his business partner), as well as the other main rider, William Dawes.

Monty finds the group is preparing the militia to resist the British, even as the sounds of airships fill the air. The Patriots were initially under the impression the British were to arrest them, but they realize that the amount of manpower deployed is too great to just arrest them, and the Regulars must be after the weapon cache in Concord.

“Or worse,” Hancock says, as he casts an uneasy gaze at Adams.

They tell Monty that whether he wants to or not, he’s now officially part of the conspiracy.

“Welcome aboard. Membership fees are due in a week!” Hancock laughs.

Monty is told that things are better left shown than told, as to just what could be worse. Hancock was already adamant about being close to the action, so they agree for Adams to head to another safe house, while Dawes and Prescott continue to Concord. Hancock is instructed to take Monty to “the project” since there needs to be a warning there as well.

While they are riding, the two reminisce about old times together, smuggling different supplies past the British during the past few years. Hancock talks about Monty’s son, and tells him he really needs to talk to the kid. Their conversation continues for a moment until they run into another blockade of British Regulars, these ones mounted on iron horses rather than real ones. The blockade forces them to stop, and their owning two iron horses raise more than one suspicious eye.

As they are awkwardly answering questions by the Regulars, Hancock gives Monty the signal, and they both bolt for freedom. The startled Regulars give chase, realizing that the two are messengers.

A sudden gap in the trail, and a swift Regular force the pair to split up, and Monty finds himself in a desperate chase through the forest with two Regulars hot on his trail, trying to subdue him. They fire their guns at his horse, trying to damage the machine and dismount him.

((Find some interesting way to shake off his pursuers? Either through mechanical knowledge, or knowledge of the environment?) He finished the chase, having lost his pursuers. However his iron horse, long since having lost much of its fuel, collapses.
Monty gets up, and realizes he doesn’t know where he is. He sets off to find the road, which he does, and follows it in a westward direction.

He sees a barn and stops there to check and look for directions as well as warn the inhabitants of the regular’s procession. The dirigibles are still some distance behind him. He knocks, and the door opens to reveal John Hancock. Hancock seems unsurprised to see him, and pulls him inside.

“What have you brought me this time?” a voice from inside the workshop calls out. The voice is Benjamin Franklin. Monty is surprised, since it is common knowledge that the statesman is in England. Franklin picks up on this immediately and informs Monty that the Franklin in England is an imposter to throw the British off.

“You wanted to know what was going on?” Hancock asks.

Franklin gestures to a large statue-like creation in the middle of the workshop. It is an automaton, like the British Lion Knights, but unmanned. Franklin says he hopes to use it to coerce the British to ease up on trade restrictions, both as a deterrent, as well as proof that the colonies don’t need British protection.

Franklin is almost done, and he bemoans the poor timing of the British to march this night. He just has one last piece to tinker out and his final product is but several hours from completion. The object is a resonance manifold, a device used to direct power inside the automaton. Hancock stresses the danger, but Franklin says he only needs a few more hours and they can leave on their own initiative. He goes back to work.

Franklin barely gets to his worktable when the door is smashed open and a team of British Regulars storm inside. Monty recognizes one of his pursuers among them. They followed him here! The three are arrested and the automaton seized. The Regulars don’t understand what the automaton is, but they know they have to keep it out of the colonial’s hands.

A wagon is summoned to haul the automaton, and the three ride with it while the British march to Concord where the dirigibles are. The journey is taken in silence and they arrive to see the city fully in the hands of the British who moved quicker than the colonials could. The British didn’t have the space to take Lion Knights, so there are just regulars. The local militia is kept under armed guard while the British destroy the arms cache.

While their guards talk to their commanding officers, Franklin smuggles something into Monty’s hands. It is the manifold, completed. Hancock would never make it close enough, but Monty might, Franklin instructs. Monty is unsure for a moment. He could very likely be killed in the attempt. He sees a family being shepherded out from their house, the father blocking the British from pointing their weapons at his family. Willing to die for his son.

Monty makes his move. He slips towards the automaton and gets next to the machine. He activates the robot and prepares to attach the manifold, when he is spotted. The British soldiers immediately apprehend him and seize the manifold. They demand to know what he was doing. Monty gets an idea, and informs the British that he was retrieving the manifold, planning on denying them an essential piece, and planning on selling it. The British are not impressed with this avarice. One Regular reinstalls it, while Monty is forced, at gunpoint, joining Franklin and Hancock.

The manifold is installed, and the automaton awakens. The silence over the village is deafening as people look on in curiosity. The automaton turns to Franklin for orders. Franklin tells the robot to “drive the Regulars away!” The automaton attacks, blasting the Regulars with lightning cannons. The city is driven into chaos as the militia joins the attack.

Monty grabs a gun as well from a fallen British soldier and begins fighting. Franklin takes shelter under a building, keeping an eye on his automaton. The dirigibles use their mounted guns to fire down at the automaton, but are unable to pierce its armor. Franklin orders the automaton to attack the dirigibles. The automaton blasts a bolt of lightning into the sky and sends one dirigible down in a blaze of fire. Over the course of an hour of fighting, the British are forced from the city, and flee towards Boston on foot. The other dirigible limps away to its mooring towers.

Hancock is jubilant that they have won an important victory and the fight for liberty has begun. He asks Monty if he’ll join them. Monty pauses in thought for a moment before speaking.

“I will, but I need to return to Boston. There’s someone I need to speak to.”

THE END

Writing Helps: World-building checklist

A nice list of world-building necessities that I ran across here on the SFWA website.

I Am Not A Soldier 3

To my right, about two klicks from where I was crouched in the ash and hidden from view by a low, blackened ridge, a projectile battery of some kind was pounding away, firing in our general direction, but the shots were all passing high over my head with furious buzzing whines and I figured the aliens had panicked and started firing at the column of smoke ascending lazily from our pod.

            Raising my right arm, I launched a micro-probe from one of the magazines concealed in my forearm plate. The tiny ‘bot drifted up into the trembling air on a mini a-grav floater, twitching as it activated it’s guidance fans and I switched my main viewscreen over to its tiny cameras. For a half second my head spun as I tried to orient myself to the new vantage point—my body felt like I was suddenly ten meters in the air and rising. The ‘bots cameras gave me a sweeping view of the battlefield: a tumbled land of black, symmetrical ridges and tall needle-thin towers that looked like something you’d find in an oil refinery. A thin sheet of ice and snow dusted everything and stirred fitfully in the stiff breeze, obscuring the ground surface.

To the west another volley of missiles were rising from some sort of industrial complex—the arching vapor trails were graceful enough, but the launch site looked like it had been abandoned fifty years back. Maybe twenty klicks away on the northern horizon—the planet was a small one, much smaller than its gravity suggested, and from the ‘bots vantage point the horizon looked unnaturally close—crouched a higher mass of oddly angular hills. Those hills were our target.

            The area between our position and the hills was lousy with fighting and half-obscured by rapidly spreading banks and columns of smoke and flame. From fifty meters up I counted another twenty battery positions like the one I’d just spotted and a few scattered sniper nests—well hidden, but the ‘bots infrared cam picked their locations out as nicely as coal on fresh snow. A dozen primitive flyers were rushing in from the launch area, helicopters of some sort that were hugging close to the ground. But not close enough. Some of our gang who’d landed closer to the launching zone opened up as the choppers passed overhead. Two of the birds just shattered in midair, spitting flame and metal in all directions and their comrades scattered in all directions like a flock of pigeons—but not fast enough. Three more blew apart before they’d slipped out of range.

            This was barely gonna merit the term “battle”.

            Switching the ‘bot to autonomous mode, I ducked low and cupped a hand over my ear—a useless gesture, encased as I was in armor, but old habits are hard to break. “Boots, do you copy?”

            “What’s the sitch, DA? Rogers is already moving.”

            I relayed what I’d seen, all the while scanning the flashing air above my head and trying to ignore the rapid chatter of the nearby emplacement and the whine of the bullets. That damn battery would not shut up!

            When I was finished, Boots began rattling off orders. “I’m joining Rogers and we’ll pave the way north clean so Westover and Tiang can follow us in with the zero-two-zero for support-and-cover—though why the hell Cent-Ops sent us down with the ‘Peater I’ll never know. Vlad will follow us in about two klicks behind—he’s got the Sabers and Apaches on the phone, but the other squads and the Gambler are giving him fits. Some type of cachanga jamming. You’ll cover our back sides, following behind Vlad; but first I want you to go serve that battery crew their huevos for lunch. Read me?”

            “Loud and clear, sir.”

            “That’s Boots to you, mierda, and don’t forget it. And remember DA, minimal casualties. We’re here to win hearts, minds and information, not lay this alien crap-shooters out in body bags.”

            “Copy that, Boots.”

            “Good hunting then. Chime in when you’re finished.”

            The line went dead and I sank lower, hunkering down in my suit. This was it then. A thousand lightyears of travel and five months of training and it all came down to this one moment. I wasn’t ready. I still wasn’t ready, even after all the drills and practice and endless hours of work. Somehow, deep down in the center of my gut, I knew that I would never be ready. Oh hell. I am not a soldier.

            It wasn’t that I was afraid to die. Not right then. My armor was too good, my weapons too powerful, and all this freaks could throw at us were metal bullets and a few nukes. It’d be a cake-walk. No, what I was afraid of was what I could do to them. I’d seen a lot of accidents during the first few weeks of training, bones broken, limbs torn off, heads stoved in—all because we hadn’t learned yet how to control the armor. I still had nightmares about those first hundred hours, when not a day passed without someone I knew dying.

            I didn’t want to do that to anyone, alien or human. What’s worse, I wasn’t sure if I could do anything like that. I’d never been a violent person, even back on Earth. What if, when it all came down to it and one of my mates’ lives was on the line, I didn’t—couldn’t—do what needed doing? How could I live with that?

            Thankfully, my orders right then and there were crystal clear—put the battery out of commission fast, and do it without killing. That much, I could do. Taking three slow breaths, I switched the VMR over to non-lethal rounds and breathed one last prayer before vaulting straight up into the pale sky.

            My armor-enhanced jump rocketed me up and past the steady stream of projectile fire—despite my suit’s constantly adjusting chameleon skin, whatever was manning the gun battery must have spotted something as I raced skyward, because the tracer-illuminated firing line spasmed unsteadily towards me for a half-second before settling back to continue shooting uselessly over the smoking ‘pod.

            Fifty meters above the ground the suit’s thrusters kicked in, kicking me higher still. Despite the shifting veil of snow obscuring the ground below, the air around me was perfectly calm, a frostbiting -40° C according to my suit’s thermometer. Higher still, the sky above me was a roiling mass of flaming clouds and expanding explosions—all that the Gambler had left of the second volley of enemy rockets.

            Scanning the ground between my dangling feet, I quickly spotted the gunnery nest. Wedged tightly into a crater that had blown a hole into the crest of one of the strange, symmetrical ridges that all seemed to radiate out from the compound Boot’s and the others were heading towards. My HUD highlighted the squad—little more than red-shaded dots at this altitude—leapfrogging down a deep defile between two of the ridges.

            The gun-battery was a joke. From where I was—still rising higher—it looked like we’d definitely managed to catch the aliens with their pants down. Besides the crater itself, a thin wall of rubble piled around the crater rim was the only visible concession to defense. Focusing on the crater I mentally locked the suit onto the nest and then let the nav-computer take over. The armor’s internal gyros spun me over so I was suddenly falling face-first towards the ground. For a moment everything was silent, except for the soft sound of the thin air whistling past my external microphones. Then my thrusters roared back to life and I was suddenly a one-man meteor shower streaking towards a cruise-controlled collision with the gun-battery.

            Two hundred meters above the gun nest my HUD started identifying targets—four smaller blips clambering over the gun emplacement and a fifth hostile that seemed to be directing the operation from the opposite wall of the crater. A smaller side-screen was projecting the course of my flightpath, and if things held steady for 0.2 seconds longer I’d bull’s-eye the crater dead center, landing right in the middle of the targets.

            One tenth of a second later the internal gyros kicked in again, flipping me right-side-up just as the thrusters gave a final blast, slowing my spine-shattering descent to a merely led-breaking fall—nothing the armor couldn’t handle.

            I landed in a crouch, legs splayed wide and balanced on one palm, VMR held high, dust and grit and snow kicked up from the thruster-fire swirling around me in a raging maelstrom so thick I should have been blind. Should being the operative word here.

            Snapping the VMR down into an active firing stance I whirled around towards the larger, final target my HUD had identified. The crater was still too choked with flying sand and snow to see anything on my own, but my suit’s infrared viewers painted the chaos with more than enough detail. My target was a weird gecko-like creature, glowing orange and yellow in the infrared and frantically trying to claw its way up the rubble embankment of the crater rim with at least eight pairs of limbs, shrieking in a piercing wail almost too high to hear. I snapped off a single round—a varient of rubber bullet designed for maximum non-lethal stopping power—and nailed the lizard what I guessed was it’s torso. The thing dropped immediately and rolled back down the slope towards me.

            Something slammed into me from behind, pitching me forward. My legs tangled in the lizard-thing’s mess of arms and legs and I went down hard. Something beneath me gave way with an audible SNAP and I bit off a hoarse curse. The last thing I wanted was to crush the lizard I’d already managed to drop.

            Using my own momentum, I turned my fall into a roll, the suit’s powerful steel muscles actually pushing me up the hill. The weight on my head and shoulders suddenly released and something—whatever had slammed into me—gave a strangled scream. I whipped my head around just in time to see my attacker slam spread-eagle into the crater wall and stay there, unconscious or dead. At the moment, I couldn’t find the energy to even care which it was.

            Lurching upright I jerked back around towards the gun, bringing my VMR up just in time. The final three targets were charging directly towards my, screeching with weirdly child-like voices. They were identical to the alien that had jumped me—some kind of weird bugs that looked something like what you’d get if you threw a shrimp, a praying mantis and a centipede into a blender. The smoke and dust had cleared enough for me to see them in the visible light—slug white bugs with translucent carapaces wearing some kind of primitive armor, almost like the Kevlar stuff old Earth SWAT teams used to wear. They were short, none of them standing any more than a meter tall, and I would have laughed at their attack if they hadn’t all been so obviously bent on killing me.

            I managed to pull off two quick shots before the bugs were on top of me. The first slug took the nearest alien clean in the chest from only two meters away, blowing it back against the gun battery with a sickening crunch. The second shot actually blew one of the second bug’s arms right off, but the thing just kept coming, barreling into me like a hammer; but this time, I was ready.

            By the time the third and final bug had slammed into my chest, I’d activated my suit’s electrostatic defense skin. A thousand volts arced across the surface of the armor, and neon-blue bolts of electricity curled around the two bugs, both of which went stiff as boards, jerking and twitching like puppets on a string until I finally powered the defense field down. Groaning and still twitching, but thankfully very much alive, the two aliens went limp and fell to the ground.

            My lungs burned like I’d just ran a marathon and my pulse was a thunderstorm in my ears. Sweat stung my eyes and more than anything I just wanted to lay down and sleep the next couple hours away.

            Instead I called in.

            “Boots, this is DA calling in.”

            A few seconds later the sergeant responded, voice crackling and skipping with static. “Copy that DA. What’s the word?”




Questions:

1. How was the action in this scene?
2. Any problems with blocking, or was the environment pretty clear?
3. I'm trying to reveal the nature of the planet slowly. Is it working, or do you feel like you still haven't scene enough?
4. The dialogue is my lame attempt at sounding 'military-ish'. How is it? Any suggestions?
5. Anything else?

I Am Not A Soldier 2

Ok, here is the second part to my sci-fi short story. It picks up right where the other one left off.
____________________________________________________________________

The drop-pod itself is like a gigantic onion—as it screams down, successive layers of braking flaps less than ten nanometers thick blossom open like flower petals. The atmospheric drag on the flaps is unbelievable—the things light up like Roman Candles on the Fourth of July and burn completely away in less than a hundredth of a second. Then the next layer of brakes flares open, and then the next. Bam. Bam. Bam. You get the picture. The bottom line is, by the time the drop-pod is five hundred meters above the surface it’s decelerated to about 1000 meters per second—depending on the atmosphere of the planet and some other stuff only engineers really care about.

At that point the ablative shielding on the pod’s nose has boiled away and the retro-rockets kick in, firing a magnetoplasma pulse for 0.01 seconds, slowing the pod down to a survivable speed and—coincidentally—frying anything within 100 meters of the target zone.

Now, nobody could survive any of this—not the gut-wrenching acceleration out of the ship or the spine-shattering deceleration half a second later—if it weren’t for the miracle of artificial gravity. A-grav is another handy bit of tech we inherited from the trash that pasted Earth—not that it makes up for losing our homeworld, but it does make life a little easier. A net of a-grav projectors ring the inner chamber of the pod, working like sixty during the descent phase to cancel out the g-forces rattling through the pod. The only problem is the computers running the projectors can only process so fast, so about one percent of the g-forces still make it through the null-field—and that one percent is enough to rattle your teeth out of their sockets. But at least you make it down the gravity well alive.

Of course, this whole process was theoretical. Nobody—at least, no human—had made a drop before. We, the spaceborne marines of the UFS Ruin’s Gambler were the first.

           

            The whole drop process, from start to finish, flashed through my mind as I settled into my cocoon between Boots and Rogers and snapped my VMR into the forward bulkhead

Rogers was already grumbling about his stomach but I tuned him out and tried to focus on the muted sound of the cocoon latching onto my armor. I hadn’t said a prayer in months—losing everything had kind of tarnished my opinion of the Big Guy upstairs—but I figured now was as good a time as any to pick up the habit again.

Please God, get us out of this alive. And help me not to puke during the drop. Amen.

Behind me, Westover had produced a fist of cigars and was passing them out to Bergstrom and Tiang.

“I saw this on an old movie once.” I could practically hear the nut grinning through the radio as he passed three more cigars forward to us. “Always gotta have a cigar for the victory celebration. Some crap about fat ladies and singers.”

“Bucha!” Boots’ faceplate popped open long enough for him to drag the cigar across his upper lip. Eyes rolling up, he sighed contentedly. “This is a Cubano! How’d you sneak these on board, basura?”

The question elicited a nasty chuckle from Westover. “I put them in a plastic bag and swallowed ‘em before we were herded off Earth. Getting them back, that was the hard part.”

There was a collective groan through the com-frequency and Boots dropped his cigar, face twisting in a horrified grimace as his helmet snapped shut. “Westy,” he choked out over the radio, “if we make it down in one piece, I’m gonna kill you.”

“Ah, common Boots. I was only teasing.”

The crimson prep-light switched on and my timer started pulsing in the corner of my vision. Twenty seconds to drop.

Above my head, a bank of vents slide open and with a hiss a thick gray cloud of nano-bots splashed down over me. Hurriedly stowing my cigar in my utility pack—I didn’t care what Westy had done with the things, I wasn’t going to let a genuine Cuban cigar go to waste—I shut my eyes and tried to regulate my breathing, just like they’d trained me.

The foggy nano swarm quickly filled the cabin, so thick I couldn’t see Boots, Rogers or the bulkhead twenty centimeters in front of me. Then the fog was inside my helmet and I could feel the invisible machines sliding down my throat and filling my nostrils, thick and oily. I closed my eyes and my chest went cold as the swarm filled my lungs and I started to gag—we’d already done this twice in training, but each time was just as bad as the first—but I could still breathe, even if it felt like my lungs had been pumped full of water, so I fought the panic down and tried to settle further into my cocoon.

“This is it, boys.” Boots was all business again, as calm as ever. “Either the shortest trip we’ll ever make, or the longest. Hooah!”

Ten seconds to drop.

Without warning the soft, cloudy nano swarm turned hard as concrete, freezing all of us in place. My brain and body rebelled instantaneously, every muscle and cell screaming with a panic I could barely contain. There was no air! I can’t breathe! The thought screamed furiously between my ears, and I wanted to scream with it, only I couldn’t. My jaw was locked in place too.

Only I could. The nano swarm kept a constant, even flow of oxygen passing through my lungs, and even worked to keep my blood circulating through my immobilized heart. Gradually, as my trembling body realized it was not asphyxiating, I regained control.

Now for the hard part.

Five second to drop.

The ship-wide frequencies were alive with chatter, scan-techs keeping up a constant flood of information about conditions dirt-side, officers calmly passing orders to all parts of the ship, defense crew chiefs cutting in every now and again to report on closing missiles or other threats.

“Surface winds decreasing to twenty meters per second.”

“Prepare for a front portside burn, ten seconds.”

“Ready for burn, sir.”

“Two bogeys at three hundred kilometers!”

“Target acquired—neutralized.”

            I was so caught up in the action that I almost forgot about the drop. My timer finally reached 00:00:00 and a warning siren began wailing. I had a half second to wonder if I’d feel anything when we launched—and then a force like a million tons of lead slammed into my chest, knocking the nano-propelled wind right out of me. My cocoon groaned around me, the webbing and padding creaking in protest. The pod began to bounce and rattle, vibrating hard enough to make me wonder if the ship was falling apart around me. A sound like a train whistle—only a thousand time louder—filled the cabin, and then another force every bit as strong as the first slammed into my back, throwing me against my shoulder restraints. Something exploded just beyond the forward bulkhead—the retro-rocket, I realized dimly—and I pressed further into my restraints until we finally came to a sudden, screeching halt.

            I wanted to die. Every part of my body was burning in agony, and I just wanted to lay back and die, but the pod was already unfolding, the nano swarm evaporating in a gray-black haze, and the harsh light of this new, alien world burning through my helmet’s cameras.

            Boots was already up on the edge of pod, framed by columns of roiling smoke and bright shafts of cold, blue-tinged light, the skin of his suit already shifting to blend in with his surroundings.

            “Let’s move boys!” he shouted, twirling his free hand above his head. “Go! Go! Go!”

            My cocoon popped open and I lurched forward, jerking my VMR free and cursing as I clambered past Boots to begin securing the area—that’s my job, along with Rogers, who was already ducking over the opposite end of the pod. Behind me, Westover was helping Tiang assemble the heavy weaponry, and Bergstrom was crouched beneath Boots, shouting across half a dozen frequencies as he frantically tried to establish communication with the Gambler and the other squads.

            The retro-rocket had burned clear an area the size of a football field, leaving on strange charred shaped I didn’t recognize and ankle-deep ash that puffed up in fine clouds as I tried to wade through it. Tried, because gravity on this rock was about 70% what I was used to, and despite hours of training during the past weeks, I was nearly falling with every step. Finally, after what seemed like hours, I forced my body into the weird half-jog half-jump that we’d been taught, and made for the edge of the blast zone.

            Explosions were rocking the ground on all sides, making keeping my feet extra-difficult. The alien suckers on this rock were a primitive lot—all they had to throw at the Gambler were chemical missiles with fissionable warheads. But they had a lot of these missiles, and it looked like they were using them up as fast as they could. From my position, I counted at least thirty columns of smoke and flame arcing high up into the sky—the exhaust columns of enemy missiles, and they were all converging on an invisible point almost directly over my head—the Gambler’s position in low orbit.

            My ship wasn’t sitting still though. Even as I craned my head back to look, razor-thin lines of fire began to radiate from the Gambler’s unseen position, lancing out at each and every climbing missile. With a thunderous roar, huge explosions began to shatter the thin sky as the enemy rockets detonated prematurely.

            “DA, is your side clear?”

            Boots’ urgent call jerked me back to the job at hand. “Half a second, Boots, and I’ll know.”

            I reached the edge of the burn scar and began scanning the perimeter, VMR couched against my shoulder, my HUD flicking through visible, infrared and x-ray wavelengths, alert for any signs of movement.

            To my right, about two klicks from where I was crouched in the ash and hidden from view by a low, blackened ridge, a projectile battery of some kind was pounding away, firing in our general direction, but the shots were all passing high over my head with furious, buzzing whines, and I figured the aliens had panicked and started firing at the column of smoke ascending lazily from our pod.

Questions:

1. How was the action towards the end? Could you visualize what was happening?
2. Up to this point I've purposely been fairly vague about the planet they're landing on. Do you feel like I've given enough details to keep you reading, or does it feel like it needs more fleshing out?
3. How is the dialogue between the characters?
4. Does the main character, DA, seem interesting to you, or is he pretty 1-dimensional?
5. Other comments and general impressions.

I Am Not A Soldier 1

            I am not a soldier.

            Usually those words hold some comfort for me. In the rec-hall I repeat them over and over for hours on end while nursing an endless stream of bad beers alongside my squad.

I am not a soldier!

The words are a prayer, or maybe a nursery rhyme, and at night when it’s quiet they roll back and forth inside my head until I fall asleep.

I AM NOT A SOLDIER!

But standing in the ready-room, with my armor climbing up my legs and the klaxons blaring and the crimson emergency lights bathing everything in blood, the words were a roar growing louder and louder between my ears until finally—mercifully—my helmet closed over my face and I could let it all out in one long scream that the guys wouldn’t hear. They’d think I was cracking up, and I that’s one thing I could never live with. Because even more than I didn’t want to be a soldier, I didn’t want to let the guys down. I’d known one of them for a total of six months and the rest for half that, but they were already family. They were all I had left, now that Earth was gone.

A million emotions were tied up with that one fact—Earth was gone—memories and feelings I couldn’t afford to wade through right then, so I shoved them back to wherever it is they hide in my head and jerked my rifle off the rack.  The gloves of the TTA-suit transmit tactile senses like texture and temperature just like a second skin—heck, better than my own skin—and the feel of the blocky grip of the VMR-1 in my hand was like a firm handshake from an old friend. But I swear to you, I am not a soldier.

The in-suit systems of my armor kicked in as I formed up with the rest of the squad, constellations of symbols and light flickering to life, my HUD pasting my view with glowing, translucent icons and status bars: the health status of my mates, distance to the bulkhead walls all around me, latest updates to our orders, and the ticking clock steadily marching towards drop-time. Smaller windows just within my peripheral vision show right, left and rear views.

A cool chime toned in my right ear—the armor letting me know it had completed the digital link with my neural port. Using half-a-dozen mental commands I flipped through the armor’s infrared, ultraviolet and x-ray imaging schemes, just to make sure they worked.

By then our NCO was pacing back and forth in front of us, giving one final inspection before we piled through the round portal behind him into the waiting drop-pod.

Rafael Quintana Carranza was the only real soldier in the whole group, and he had beat three of the other guys to the ground before we’d dropped the whole “Sergeant” act and just called him Boots like he wanted. Back on Earth—back when there was still an Earth—he pulled five tours in Nigeria with the 101^st Airborne. Tall for a Mexican, he’s got a nose that looks like its been broken three or four times and a nasty scar across one cheek where some Nigerian douche-bag tried to add to his smile with machete—all of which was hidden by the flat, polished steel faceplate of his helmet.

Creepy things, those TTA-suits. There’s no viewport that you can see, no visor that lets you look a trooper in the eyes and read what he or she is thinking. The faceplate is completely opaque, and like the rest of the suit it’s painted over in a molecule-thin layer of nano-particles that act like a chameleon’s skin, blending in with any background. Basically making a guy invisible. Tiny cameras and sensors too small to see ring the helmet and feed data straight to the trooper. I had to admit it was a pretty slick system. Too bad it was made by the same alien crap-shooters who’d blown our home away.

“No use repeating your briefing again.” Boot’s voice came out cold and neutral, filtered by his armor’s comm-system. “You heard the big-brass. Whatever mierda lives down there dirt-side has intel we need, and they’re not giving it up. Not willingly, at least. We’re in this for the long haul. Winning over hearts and minds and all that jazz.”

Boots nodded at the scattered chuckles from some of the squad.  I wasn’t laughing. My stomach was doing crunches and I was too busy trying not to puke. Inside my helmet, that would be a mess.

I am not a soldier. I am not a soldier.

Seeing that there were no more questions, Boots shouldered his VMR and made a quick, two-fingered gesture towards the open portal.

“Right then. Load up!”

Orbital insertions are a tactician’s worst nightmare. But you wouldn’t think so at first glance. Up front, the problem seems pretty straight forward: how do you get a bunch of jarheads from point A to point B alive and ready to fight? Simple, right?

Well, as always, first appearances are deceptive.

Problem number one is point A. It’s a ship—a big ship—orbiting roughly five hundred klicks above the planet surface. Now that ship might be trucking along at a good clip—maybe about seven thousand meters per second—but in space combat that’s basically a standstill. So there it is, a big, fat, thousand-meter sucker moving at a constant velocity with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Any idiot with something as primitive as a chemical rocket and a nuclear warhead can take a potshot at it—and believe me, you’d be amazed out how many idiots there are in this galaxy.

Problem number two: your group of ruggedly handsome troopers have got to pile into a smaller ship—and remember, in space smaller always equals less protection—and get down to point B, which is any old spot dirtside.

Now, gravity is already helping out, pulling you down to the surface; but whatever puny acceleration local gravity can cough up isn’t going to get you moving fast enough to avoid all of the really nasty things being shot at you: x-ray and gamma lasers, nano-swarm clouds, auto-drones, guided missiles, smart-flak and kinetic kill devices . . . you get the idea. And your tiny drop-pod has to travel through five hundred kilometers of this with nothing to hide behind but a few paltry clouds. Maybe. If the weather is cooperating. All of this means you have to be moving fast. Damn fast. Gravity just isn’t enough.

So the drop-pod doesn’t just undock from its big carrier ship. Oh no. It gets fired from a launch tube, which is actually just a nice military euphemism for ‘really big rail-gun’. By the time the drop-pod exits the ship it’s traveling at almost relativistic speeds—something like 0.001c or 300,000 meters per second. At that rate, you’d be ramming face-first into the dirt after just one second—fast enough to avoid most of the nasty things flying at you . . . but also fast enough to separate all your atoms into their constituent particles. So, obviously there are still some issues to work out.

Every void space in the drop-ship (and yes, that includes the troopers’ void spaces) is filled with a nano-gel that forms a semi-solid, oxygen-permeable foam that stabilizes the ship’s interior during acceleration and deceleration.

Ok, sorry for posting this so late. This is the beginning of a short story concept I've been brewing on for quite some time. A few things to keep in mind while reading it: 1) You're not supposed to know why the main character doesn't think he's a soldier yet. It'll come. I promise. 2) I realize that the second section of the story may go directly against what I was telling David about info-dumps. Give me your opinions as to whether it seems too much like an info-dump, or whether the narration is active enough to keep it interesting. 3) I know it ends abruptly. Sorry.


Questions:
1) This is the first time I've tried 1st person. Does it work? Any problems that you see?
2) Give feedback like Colton said to on his recent post
3) General Impressions

Another Post plus notes

Alright, business first. For this novel (Architect of Legends), I'm currently sitting on it at about 55k words, and am now running outlining and redrafting for it. I don't really like posting superfluous pieces, so I'll post what backlog i produce for Sanderson's class in part, but I'll also be posting from either my First Quarter wotf submission, or my Second Quarter Submission, depending on where I am with it.

I'm told by Mark Twain that my new redraft is "simply stunning", and Lord Tennyson claimed it was "marvelous".


Done with business, now back to business.

Previously: Saul and Mert came to Koldar's Hollow looking to recruit a former enemy general turned freelancer. The general signed on for shifty unexplored reasons and sent them to go fetch two of his... employees, Lilo, a marksman, and Malchanor, an alchemist who inhaled a few too many fumes. They killed some bandits who were more or less caught by surprise, and Saul gathered them back to meet with Sargoth who was dealing with several other matters. Now they're back at the town.

“I think you may have gotten relaxed a far bit too early,” Mert said.

Saul followed the man’s gaze to the collection of tall figures encircling the inn. Each sylthanian stood almost two feet taller than he did, and was armored head to toe in glittering scale plates. The imposing figures were wielding enormous weapons, and each stood poised, ready to obliterate anyone who crossed them. From their positioning, they were both blocking and guarding the entrance to the inn. No one goes in or comes out.

Saul paused for a moment where he stood. He turned to speak to Mert when the sound of clinking glass filled the air. Saul looked back to see Malchanor rummaging through his enormous pack. The alchemist muttered to himself as he rooted through his bag. Already looking for his explosives.

Thankfully, Mert took the initiative before Saul could say anything and grabbed the alchemists’ hands and withdrew them. Malchanor gave Mert a gaze that would melt ice and scare children, but he withdrew his hand. All I need right now is the crazy alchemist starting a fight by lighting someone on fire.

“You think they’re here for Sargoth?” Mert asked.

“Of course,” Saul said. “And I don’t think they’re here for him. I think they already have him.”

Prelate Sargoth walked out of the inn a moment later alongside both his life-ward and a tall sylthanian marked as an Executor, a specialist commander. Sargoth was comically shorter than the rest of the sylthanians, a fox among the wolves. Even so as he walked past the tall females, his stride and posture suggested a commander who would not be cowed. An interesting notion given sylthanian males are virtual breeding stock.

“Oh, so good to see you, Master Rawne,” Sargoth called out. “Apparently I’ve been activated and called to return home. As it turns out my commission never ran out and Executor Kayda here has come to collect me.”

Saul ignored the dripping sarcasm. “And so you’re gladly going with them?”

The one that Sargoth had named Executor Kayda walked up to him. The commanding sylthanian was a large warrior, easily two feet taller than Saul. In one hand, she gripped a sylthanian longsword larger than most greatswords. She looked down on him like a scholar scrutinizing an insect.

He didn’t back down from the intimidation. Unlike a gnome who would gut you for breathing too heavily, sylthanians shrugged off most insults and challenges.

“By order of the High Shamans,” Kayda said through the opening on the skull-faced helmet. “The Prelate has been remanded back into active duty.”

“Well you can tell your High Shamans to wander off a cliff,” Saul said. “The Prelate and I have prior business arrangements.”

Careful. Don’t push too hard. They may not be as touchy as gnomes, but they still had boundaries.

The Executor paused and then pulled her helmet off. When compared to Sargoth her green skin was darker in hue and her cranial spikes were far more pronounced. Her nauseating azure-colored hair was wrapped a tight bun at the back of her head. Sylthanians weren’t terribly appeasing to the eyes and this one was no exception.

“I’m not interested in beating your scrawny head in, but if you press me I will splatter you through this town,” Executor Kayda said
.
Saul was not impressed. “If you think to awe me, think again. I’ve killed dozens of your kind, and I’m willing to do so here. When I’m done with the Prelate, you can have him, not until then.”

She paused then spoke. “I figured as much. Why you Easterners always remain so resolute, I’ll never understand. If you want him, then we’ll make some sport out of this. I’ll try and bash your skull in. You do the same to me.”

A duel? What kind of a preposterous notion was that from a sylthanian? This sort of nonsense is something I’d expect from gnomes. Saul sensed a trap.

“And the winner gets Sargoth?” Saul asked.

“Exactly,” the Executor said. “Do you accept?”

“How enjoyable,” Sargoth said. “Being fought over like a piece of meat. This brings me back.”

“Fine,” Saul said to the Executor.

He flung himself at the sylthanian, warmace gripped in his hand. The Executer’s sharp reflexes were all that saved her from a headshot that would have pulped her brains. Her sword spun out in a flash of steel, knocking his mace away before it imbedded itself in her skull.

She took of her helmet; she gets to reap the consequences. I’ll take any advantage I can. Sylthanian Executers didn’t get to where they were by being poor fighters and if he wanted to break free of any sort of trap, he’d need to kill her fast.

Muscles that had been retrained over the past years burned with the fire of combat. He struck like a viper, hammering at her defenses. She easily dodged the blow but his strike had been a feint. As she ducked back from his attack, he dropped to one knee and spun like a top with one leg outstretched, knocking the Executor off her feet. She regained her footing a split second before she would have collapsed. Saul took advantage of her recovery to slam at her defenses like a blacksmith at the forge. Each blow he threw at her would have been enough to crush someone’s skull, and the Executor’s only saving grace was her reflexes and quick parries.

He spun and twisted as he struck at every opportunity he could find. His sudden onslaught had caught her off guard and she was paying for it. Her own strength kept back his hammer-blows but by the concentration on her face, she was on the verge of breaking. He feinted left then right, before striking home. His warmace caught only a glancing blow on her but it was enough to force her back.

As she moved, the Executor struck with her left leg. The well-muscled kick had a tremendous force behind it, like being slammed by a battering ram. Saul rolled with the blow, avoiding being knocked off his feet, but he skidded to a halt four paces away.

She paused, letting him take the offense which would force him to come within her superior reach. He grinned at her and threw his mace like a hatchet, aiming straight at her head. The mace scythed through the air, but the Executer deflected the weapon with her sword. It spun over the heads of the watching sylthanians and crashed through the wall of the nearest building.

Even while the Executor was still deflecting the blow, Mert had thrown Saul his claymore. He caught the big sword and slashed like a madman at the Executor while she swatted away the mace. She barely brought her sword up in time to parry his blows. She finally got in some attacks of her own, but Saul’s reflexes let him dodge or parry them away. For his trouble, he still got a gash down his cheek which ran red with warm blood.

He took advantage of her long reach and scythed in and out of close melee range. The constant shifting of angle kept her confused, judging by the desperation of her attacks. Saul moved to slice in a vertical swing. Her sword moved to parry and he shifted his strike into a horizontal swing. She leapt out of reach of the slash that would have cut her in half.

Her dodge moved her into perfect placement for his next blow. Saul put out a burst of speed and then high-kicked her in the abdomen. She fell and crumpled to the ground.

Sylthanians were vicious opponents, but only if they got the initiative. If you struck first and never let up, they quickly lose their endurance and present an opening.

Saul closed the distance and brought the claymore down like an executioner at the chopping block. A moment before the blow would decapitate the Executor, a flicker of movement caught his attention. The huge warhammer wielded by Sargoth’s life-ward blocked his blow a moment before he took the Executor’s head off.

Saul looked from the life-ward, and then to Sargoth. “What is the meaning of this, Prelate?"

1. Is the action very vague?
2. How about specific details? Are they clear or not?
3. How is the pacing? Does it slow anywhere?
4. Anything else?

Colton's entry where he needs to find a decent numbering system

Alright, we're now getting into the realm of stuff that I'm probably going to cut. Why? Because my first draft more or less was a lot of character building for me, and now I'm going to go back, finish outlining, and restart in hopefully a month or so. So until then, I'll continue tossing out pieces of story for people to read so that I can fulfill my posting obligations

Summary: They met with Prelate Sargoth, and he sent them off to fetch two of his acolytes while he dealt with other matters.

The rain had reduced to a light drizzle as the pair of them stalked across the steppes. The ranch they could see was a dim outline on the flattened horizon of vast open expanses of Lorhal. Saul brushed his thin beard with one of his hands. Mert looked back at him. The rain had flattened his graying hair, and his triangular beard on his chin was still damp from the rain.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?”

“I’ll wait and see. I’m not going to spend very long running errands for Sargoth while he assembles his favorite lapdogs and sycophants. He’s up to something,” Saul said. Up to something didn’t even explain half of it. Sargoth was a shred one, no doubts there, and he always had a goal in mind. There was more to his agreement than what had appeared on the surface, and Saul intended on figuring it out.

“Have you given any measure on how to get this mercenary on our side?” Mert said.

“Some. Everyone has a price. I think I can stall her for a bit at least until I can get a better idea of her character. She’s under Sargoth’s employ at the moment, so I’ll try to extend that little contract as long out as I possibly can,” Saul said.

“Maybe you can trick her into staying under Sargoth? So he pays the bills and we reap the benefits?” Mert said.

“It’s possible,” Saul said. “I’d prefer to leave him as little reason as necessary to turn against us. In either case we need him to take control of Thorozean. Not just taking control as well, but hold it. Once we do hold the area, we’ll be hard pressed to hold onto the region. I need someone who can work logistics to find a way around that. Thorozean is already weakened and when we hit, everyone who has been looking for a chance will jump.” Looking for a chance didn’t begin to describe it. The Lorhalian Khan was technically allied with his southern Thorozean neighbor, but that didn’t stop Lorhalian hussars from moving through the uncontrolled regions of north Thorozean without any concern. “Thorozean is on a knife’s edge, and the Praa seems to be the only person in the region that doesn’t recognize it. The Khan will move in fast if there is even the slightest hint of a weakening regime. Blackwell too. The Circle of Oak wouldn’t turn a blind eye to having the chance to enclose the Shintaur gnomes.”

Saul scanned the plans. Light dots moved across the horizon towards the ranch. “Shintaur would go after it for precisely that reason as well. They don’t care about the land or the cities in Thorozean. The Shintaur Paramount is smart enough to know what would happen if he got encircled.”

“Speaking of encircled…” Mert said, his voice trailing off.

The dots on closer inspect appeared to be hussars, converging on the ranch from further out in the Steppe. Mert and Saul instinctively dropped close to the ground and out of line of sight. Saul distinctly recalled Sargoth’s words about raiders and bandits in the area but he cursed the odds that they actually would manage to happen upon them anyhow.

He nodded back towards Mert and the two of them crept forward through the light vegetation of the Steppe. Their path brought them less than two-hundred yards away from the ranch, just in time to see the riders surrounding the front door. Some were lingering around still on their avian mounts while a few had gotten off their cockatrices and were approaching the house. The large birds squawked amongst each other, swishing their long tails back and forth across the ground.

Their calls sounded out over the plains and their acrid smell was sharp on the wind. Blast it all, not again. Saul got a good look at the mounted men still idling in front of the house. Just as he suspected, they weren’t hussars. While they still wore the standard ensemble most Lorhalians wore, several wore handkerchiefs wrapped around their faces, and their attire was worn and muddy beyond the norm. None carried any sign of allegiance to one of the local lords as well, identifying clearly their identity as steppe raiders.

Saul took a quick headcount. There were eight of them total, three of them dismounted and approaching the ranch. The reins of the riderless birds were held by the idling raiders that were watching their allies’ movements closely. Those not holding reins carried very finely crafted muskets held across their laps. The three approaching the ranch stopped at the door.

Saul’s hand gripped the heavy mace he wore at his side, while Mert fingered his own claymore that was strapped to his back. Things were probably going to turn ugly fairly quickly. Saul, using the battle-signs both of them had developed over twenty years past, passed a message to Saul. Move around and flank to the side of the house. Mert nodded.

The darkening effect of the still cloudy skies masked their movement through the grasses. The ones who had knocked at the door stood waiting for an answer, and chattered amongst themselves. Probably checking to see if anyone was home. If they ran in with guns blazing they could find themselves in trouble quickly. Mert recalled a similar event some decades past where half a dozen robbers tried storming a fisherman’s hut that Mert and a dozen other veteran soldiers had been using for shelter. Evidently these bandits were smarter than that and were first checking while posing as officials of some sort. No answer came, and the three at the door turned to go back to the rest of their party.

Mert continued moving only to suddenly pause. The door clicked open, and the bandits turned to look. A boom like thunder cracked across the Steppes, and one of the bandits crashed to the ground. One of the cockatrice mounts screeched an ear-splitting cry as it stumbled to the ground, a victim of the passing bullet.

Saul remained crouched against the ground as the bandits ran about in disarray. Several of them scrambled to load their guns, while another tried to urge his mount forward. When cockatrices got into close quarters they became a frenzy of talons, feathers, and sharp jaws.

Mert came into view edging around the house. The man crouched closely to the walls with his claymore in hand. Saul caught his eye and signaled for him to stay back. To Saul’s relief, Mert understood the signal and remained still.

An unearthly scream ripped through the air a moment later. Saul turned to the house, looking for the source of the. A man appeared in the doorway bolting towards the bandits like a feral dog.

He was easily past his sixth decade, and had the look of a vagabond who hadn’t combed his hair once. His scraggly hair whipped behind him as he ran, and his dirty alchemists robes fluttered with each step. Each of the man’s hands held a small vial but at this distance Saul couldn’t tell what was contained within.

The man continued his war cry as he ran at the bandits. Several of the raiders broke away from the group with terror creased over their faces. The wild haired alchemist threw his arms forward, hurling the vials like rocks. Saul hoped the man was a far better thinker than thrower, for one missed the closest bandit by twenty feet and the other overshot a mounted bandit by at least ten.

Both exploded with flames that burned so intensely that Saul had to look away. When he looked back, fire of the most brilliant blue had been summoned on the steppes. The blaze spread like a flood of water through the grasses and set raider and vegetation alight. A few heartbeats later the spread of the fire stopped leaving an inferno several yards in diameter. One raider turned into a human torch that shrieked as he writhed in the grass.

A cockatrice with its plumage a brilliant conflagration was ran into the distance, shrieking loud squawks of pain as it raced off to Daiya-knows-where.

Crazy was what Sargoth had said. The alchemist would be Malchanor, the maddened runaway the Prelate had told them about. Which meant the markswoman, Lilo, lurked somewhere in the area as well. She must have fired the first shot.

The bandits who had not fled instead stood their ground as they loaded muskets. The decision on the bandit’s part not to preload was wise in the rain of the earlier day, but was no a poor choice.

Saul stood and nodded to Mert. The older man raced around the corner of the house, swinging his claymore like a farmer at harvest. Saul held his mace close, and raced into the melee. The raiders were edging away from Malchanor who had a menacing look in his eyes as he fumbled about in his pockets. One man finished loading his musket and aimed. A shot from the ranch’s front window rang and clipped the man’s head off. His headless body fell to the ground.

Saul crashed into the closest man like a lightning bolt. The mace slammed into the man’s legs like a blacksmith’s hammer, and the raider shrieked in pain as his legs snapped. A down-sweep from Saul silenced his cries.

“Ambush from behind!” one of the raiders shouted.

A rider urged his cockatrice towards Saul. The animal screeched as razor sharp talons flashed through the air, and Saul threw himself to the side. The bird leapt after him ready to bite.

Saul bashed the animal on the skull. The glancing blow had little force behind it, but the bird still shook from the impact. The rider on top was taking aim on Saul when the bird spun away chattering in pain. The bandit gave a yell of rage and readjusted in his saddle, trying to get a shot off.

Saul took the opportunity to knock the legs out from another man who jabbed at him with a long hunting knife. While the man fell, Saul rose to his feet, and slammed his thick boot into the man. He felt the snapping of ribs as his blow impacted.

Mert swung past Saul like a whirlwind of steel. The claymore flashed and spun through the air, cutting the head off of a cockatrice and sending a raider to the ground, holding his entrails in his hands. The decapitated of the cockatrice stumbled about and a sickening rasp came from the stump of the animal’s neck before the headless beast fell to the ground and trapped the struggling rider beneath its lifeless bulk.

The cockatrice that Saul had smacked recovered from the blow and was back in the fight, slashing and biting at him. Saul rolled between the animal’s legs, and came up behind it. He swept the mace in a wide arc aiming for the animal’s flanks. The blow cracked into the cockatrice’s chest and the snapping of bones broke the air. The beast shrieked in pain, but raced back towards him. Its rider had finally thrown his gun aside in desperation and pulled out a spear.

The raider jabbed down towards Saul with a thrust that Saul dodged with a deft side-step. Years of honed reflexes aided him as if he were twenty years younger. To his experienced eyes, the spear moved at a snail’s pace. Saul’s mace snapped the haft like a twig.

His follow-through slammed into the bird again, shattering more bones. The cockatrice screeched and fell to the ground. The rider yelped as the bird crushed his leg. Saul put both out of their misery with powerful slams from his mace. Another musket crack and the last mounted survivor, already fifty yards away, fell from his mount. The mount gave a pathetic cry before it ran on.

Saul turned toward the house and a vial shattered at his feet. He flinched, but instead of the explosion of fire, an odor, like sweaty feet, filled the air. The liquid around his boots coagulated and hardened. Elixir of immobility. The goo would set instantly, leaving him completely immobilized from the ankle down.

Saul looked to Mert who was trying to pull his feet apart. Malchanor stepped towards Saul but stayed out of swinging distance. The old man’s face was morose and serious as he looked at them.

“You’re not one of them,” Malchanor said in a gruff rasp. “You don’t smell like raiders. You’re with the Guild, aren’t you? Another glory seeker come for the reward?”

“You’d best unstick us or—“ Saul started.

Malchanor laughed. “I’d best unstick you? Ho, that’s rich! You must think me stupid! When has a demand like that ever convinced anyone? Assassin, you’d best remember the name Malchanor Hamagesh. It is the last name you’ll remember. “

“You should really—“ Saul started again.

Malchanor interrupted him again. “Why do you waste my time with such awkward demands? You know they won’t…” he trailed off. The man looked over Saul’s shoulder.

“You think I should?” he spoke. “They smell like Guild assassins. They’re after the… no. No. No. No!”

Saul looked to Mert who held a confused expression. Saul held his mace out to test the weight and balance. He was more than a decent thrower. Malchanor stood only fifteen feet away and was close enough to hit with a thrown mace. The alchemist continued talking with an invisible entity.

“Killing them would work,” Malchanor said. “But do you think it would matter? They’ll keep coming, no matter how hard I try. I won’t ever—“

“Ever be sane,” a voice finished. The woman wore a light duster and wide brimmed hat on her head. Her hands cradled a musket aimed at Saul. Her black hair ran loosely across her dark skin, save for two small braids that hung from her ears.

Malchanor continued his conversation, unaware that she had said anything. She sighed and walked across the grass to the side of the crazy alchemist. She jabbed him hard in the shoulder, and he jumped like a startled dog.

“Do you ever pay attention to anything I say?” she said.

Malchanor glared at her. “Only when you’re not spreading lies. I know all about you, Lilo.”

“Good. You should. I’ve been protecting your sorry hide for too many months,” Lilo said.

Saul cleared his throat. “As fun as this is, you should unstick us.”

“Why? I don’t know who you are,” Lilo said. “The enemy of my enemy may just be a cunning opportunist.”

“Or a stinking Guild hireling!” Malchanor said. “Another filthy rat here to—“

Lilo shushed him with a hand wave. “Everyone is a filthy stinking Guild hireling, Mal.” She looked back to Saul. “Why should I trust anything you say?”

Saul caught her eyes. “Because Sargoth is working for me now. And since you work for him, that puts you under my direct control.”

“Bold claim,” Lilo said. “And… how do I know I can believe anything you say? Maybe you really are Guild assassins.”

“They are Guild assassins,” Malchanor said.

“Fine, you want proof? Should have just given you this in the first place,” Saul said. He reached into his pocket, and grabbed the medallion Sargoth had given him. The sylthanian males kept ones like it as identification for breeding purposes. He threw the copper trinket at Lilo who didn’t bother catching it and instead watched it fall.

She kept her musket and eyes leveled at him while she knelt down and grabbed the medallion. Once she had straightened up, she took a long look at it, before finally nodding to Malchanor.

“What, that’s it?” Malchanor sputtered. “How do we know they didn’t kill Sargoth and take it?”

“Because, Mal, why would they kill Sargoth, steal an token from him, come here, risk life against raiders, and then give us said medal?” Lilo said.

“Because they’re Guild assassins! They’re relentless! They could be anyone! The Guild, they have methods that…” He looked into the distance again and paused. “Oh, an excellent idea! And if you added a half-pinch off—“

“Malchanor!” Lilo yelled. “Pay attention! Stop listening to whatever the hell you’re listening to!”

Malchanor jumped again. He glared at Lilo. “Woman! You’re making things difficult on me! What do you want?”

“Unstick them? Now.” Lilo said.

Malchanor looked at both Saul and Mert and his eyes filled with recognition that turned to rage. The alchemist muttered under his breath until he grabbed two vials from one of the pockets his robe held.

“Shoot them if they try anything,” Malchanor warned.

The alchemist edged forward, keeping an eye on both Mert and Saul as he moved. He hurled one vial at Saul and another at Mert and then bolted away. He stopped next to Lilo, and already held more vials in his hands.

Saul waited as the mixture holding his feet dissolved. When the goo fell off, he straightened up.

“Now. To business.”

Questions :

1. Gunpowder weapons? You thoughts on em in a fantasy setting?

2. Malchanor. Did he seem suitably nuts? I'm not going for a specific psychological condition here.

3. How did the action go?

4. Anything else you saw?