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I. Saráyi is two.

Eleni stood over the supine form of the assailant. She had a bloody short sword in her hand, and a furious expression on her face. Dawn’s first light filtered wanly through the drapes across the windows in the west wall of the room.

“You!” she said in Serbian: “Are you Milutin’s man, or is there another faction at play?”

“Give yourself...” The man coughed, grasping his guts where they spilled from his abdomen: “Give yourself an enema with that steel, demon. You’ll get nothing from me.” He coughed again, and blood poured from his mouth. It pooled on the floor, still hot and smelling of iron.

Sarayi sat in the bed, the blankets wrapped around her knees. Her eyes were wide and she stared in horror at the man. His head tipped backwards and more blood and phlegm drooled from his open mouth. His eyes rolled back and he expired, his body shaking and twitching.

”read )
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In news of a non-SCA nature, I edited and slightly re-wrote Chapter Two Of SALTARAE II, and then worked on Chapter Three. Word says I wrote 802 words, so with the re-writes call it 830. I still don’t have a clear idea of the arc of this story, though. I know from experience that will only come clear after I write enough incidents...so that’s the goal.

SARÁYI is in a state of cryonic torpor. Pretty much know where I’m going with that story, but the characters are being uncharacteristically silent. When I have a story arc on SALTARAE II, I will spend some time concentrating on SARAYI.

The other project, intended to be a ‘short’ novel perhaps suited to YA readers, has a working title: “A SEPARATE REALITY”. Waiting for what’s next, I am. Will Mindy Barrie, teenaged daughter of the US Secretary of Espionage really go hunting for Russian spies in what used to be Alaska? Sorta looks like she’s that kinda girl...

So that’s the latest news from the Word Mines.

Gotta go. See ya!
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Yesterday I had a satori as regards one of the books I’m writing right now. That is SALTARAE TWO, as yet untitled, the continuing adventures of a guy who looks a lot like me and gets to travel the Multiverse fighting for Truth, Justice, and the Hellenic Way. (Yes, it’s wish fulfillment; sue me.)

I’d sat down about a year ago and pounded out Chapter One of a possible sequel, trying to hit all the high notes necessary to remind my fans about what already happened and then push the action forward. (FYI, I believe I’m going to serialize this at LJ, like I did the original. (SALTARAE: an Adventure Across Timelines.)
Then I sat on that as I wrote bits and pieces, chunks and whole Chapters from further ahead in the story; I even wrote some stuff that may not appear until a third book. And a short story a couple years ahead in that Timeline, and a Chapter that might start the (possible) fourth book in that series...

Other projects distracted me, as well: such as the other two books that I am allegedly writing...things are a little scattered at the moment, Don’t worry, it will all work out.

But I kept saying: “Ya really oughta post that first chapter, your fans are waiting...”

Something held me back. I wasn’t satisfied, and I didn’t know why.

NOW I do. See, there’s no way in Hades or Eblis that Mr. Rothakis would make any plans for the day after the events at the Mainstage Meadow that didn’t involve getting RIGHT IN MAGISTRI ARRENJI”S FACE and demanding to know what, if anything, she knew about some kind of Hellenic activism or operations in United States Imperial Timeline Number Seventeen in the 20s and 30s of the 20th Century of the Christian Hypothesis.

So I have a chapter to revise: The old bastard is not going to hunt for gold coins in a Quiet Timeline, or infiltrate a homeless camp, or sell the gold in NYC, or avoid being seen by a woman named Andrea Scharffen in that same City, or anything else that might include blah blah...At least, not until Chapter Two.

Gotta go. See ya!
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One of the ‘minor’ characters in my latest project has me wondering: when you see (or interact with) a ‘party girl’ (boy?), do you automatically assume that she (he) is less than you?
This is what I’ve noticed:
She has a drug of choice, which she enjoys a lot. Sometimes (often?) she overindulges.
She is more emotional than intellectual: feeling, laughing, crying, pouting. It’s all ‘on her sleeve’ and in your face.
She is sexually aggressive: she knows what she likes and by her mid-20s she will take emotional risks in order to get it.
If she has a ‘real job’ (most of her cohort do), it is not her real life. She works for that party: then she can stay up late, use her favorite drug(s), persevere until she obtains the sexual (sensual?), and emotional gratification that she really desires, or until she knows that such gratification is out of her reach for the night. Then she will sleep in, and do it all again.
Is she a lesser person than me? Than you? Why?
As I struggle to understand the world and write about it, looking in the odd corners of history for moments of clarity, I wonder: “Why Bother?” If, as I fear, there really is no hope for the human species, & we really are going to extinct ourselves, then how is my ‘struggle to comprehend’ any more than an indulgence? If it is something I am doing because the process attracts me, how is that different from her desire to party?
AND suppose she actually once said to herself: “This is ridiculous. The system is rigged. We’re killing the planet and ourselves. Nobody is listening to me. I’m gonna get high, and get laid, and sleep in. Screw the rest of it.” Is that analysis less sophisticated than mine? Or yours?
OR is it just more elegant? “Efficient,” says hrothgar1.
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This just popped out today. What would the tech in the Commonwealth Timeline be like around YC 800? (that would be about now, A.D.) Timeline crossing, computers, etc.? This is about Warrior tech, from a story about a fellow from our Timeline who is 'having an adventure'.


Arrendj returned in a moment, wearing a gambeson-like tunic, padded and quilted, with the sheen of some kind of artificial fabric. She tossed another one like it at him, opened a niche in the wall and began to speak, rapidly.
“Put that on, don’t argue with me, we haven’t any time for that. This place has been compromised, L’Iriquois’ agents are closing in. We are gonna have to bug out, and we’ll be doing some security work as we go, destroying equipment and such. Like this...”
He slipped into the tunic, copied her as she donned a breast-and back plate made of overlapping scales, with shoulder guards and tassets of the same stuff. She bent down and slapped some scaly greaves onto her shins, where they stuck; tossed him a pair, and he did as she had done. Vambraces of a similar material, similarly attached, then a helmet of some heavy plastic-like stuff with a nasal and a clear facemask over all. The helmets were stylized versions of some kind of ancient Greek helms. Heavy padded gloves with no palms completed the outfits.
“This armor will be some protection against the weapons you’ll run into. The tunic is like Kevlar, but it breathes better. Stops most slugs, no good at all against an APS. Don’t ask, I’ll explain.” She slapped the scale armor on her front. “Thus stuff is proof against the APS, any slug you’re likely to get hit with, and reduces your vulnerability to ’waves.” He nodded, silent, waiting for enlightenment on the parts he didn’t get. Somewhere inside him was a guy in a full-out panic, thrashing around and trying to get out. He suppressed that fool, concentrating on the situation at hand.
She handed him a belt. It had no buckle, but when he wrapped it around his waist it stayed there, right where he put it. With the belt in place, he had pockets and sheathes of various sorts all around his waist, as well as a holster that stuck to his right thigh.
“You have some weapons on that belt. Do what I do and don’t point them at me.” She was still talking fast, and began a mile-a-minute demonstration of the equipment. She drew a pistol-like object out of the holster on her thigh: “This handles close enough to a Glock that it makes no difference, except for this,” she said, showing him the grip of the piece. There was a button where the trigger would be. “Power supply is in the grip, double tap here for access. Safety here, and this switch shifts it from slug thrower to microwave projector.” She flicked it back and forth and he copied her. “This red dot is power supply,” she said, indicating a spot near where the slide would be on a 21st Century weapon. “As long as that’s red you have slugs or ’waves. Yellow means you’re low. There are spare power modules in the biggest pouch,” she said pointing. “Don’t worry about that, though, it won’t happen today. You have about a hundred ells effective range on the ’waves, double that with the slugs.”
She holstered the pistol, then pulled out another object from a loop on her left hip and displayed it on her palm. A foot long or so, nearly cylindrical, an easy to grip circumference, slide controllers and several switches. He drew a nearly identical one from his belt. “Looks like a light saber,” he said, amused.
She glared at him: “Pretty close, actually. Pay attention!” She touched the base and it hummed to life, though it showed no blade as yet. He copied her, pointing it away from his body and hers, as she did.
She indicated a glowing red dot: “Power indicator, like on the pistol. This slide is power per second,” she pointed at the largest slide: “This one is length of blade. This weapon is called an Adjustable-range Plasma Sword, or APS.” She slid the power-per-second controller to halfway, then pushed the length-of-blade slide out the same distance. He copied her and she grinned as he started: “That’s quite a feeling, huh?”
“Feels like a real sword,” he said. The ‘blade’ had edges and flats like a sword, and a pointed tip. It glowed in the color of a blacklight, irritating his eyes.
“Yep, handles like it, too, at least in this configuration. Edges have cutting power, the true edge is more effective. Touch the flat you’ll get a huge electric shock, enough to kill you at half power.” She was talking fast again. He could hear some kind of alarm going off. She extended the blade: “Up to about six feet it will handle the same as a steel blade that length. After that it doesn’t change. You have...” she seemed to calculate for a second: “about a quarter mile range at full power: the tip will go through nearly anything out to that range. That’s a real drain on the power supply, though. Twenty of those hits and you’ll be empty.” She reset the blade to about three and a half feet, then forestalled his questions: “With the blade at four ells and at half-power, you can use it continuously for days. Push it to full power and you can cut your way through a steel door in seconds, or a concrete wall; that is a drain as well, though not as bad as the long-range stuff. Double tap the base to get to the power supply. It uses the same modules as the pistol.”
Something big exploded nearby and they were thrown to the floor. He lost the ‘sword’ and the blade vanished. He grabbed the handle and slid both controllers back to zero, then reset the sword. “Good job,” said Arrendj: “let’s get going. Anything or anyone I point at, slice it up or shoot it. Okay?”
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The latest version!
Including the nearly complete backstory of the Commonwealth Timeline, up to the Death of Mathilda Wolman, called The Exile.
Read more )

The Exile

Sep. 10th, 2012 02:34 pm
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For those of you patiently awaiting the appearance of 'VIASMAE', here is a little bit of backstory. The beginnings of the Revolt of the Pacifists.
text )

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