Silver Wordsmith: An author's journey
First off, I may feel shame about the reference in the title, but I will not apologize for it.
The last few weeks have certainly been fun and terrifying. For those of you who have not been following, I have released the first chapter of my science fiction web serial, Drops of the Black Sun in three weekly installments. I wish I could say the weekly schedule would continue but between life and a day job it just wouldn’t be possible. That said, I’m as eager to write the continuation of the story as much as I hope some of you are eager to read it.
The reason that it’s been fun is because Drops of the Black Sun has existed as a project for me for almost fifteen years. I have gone in detail about this in my introductory entry so there’s no need to reiterate it here, but I want to emphasize what a cool weird feeling it is to have something live in your head for so long and then have it out there in a sort of no-going-back-now format. Of course, that’s precisely what makes it so terrifying. Whereas before it existed in notes and outlines, now anything that goes out there is set in stone. I won’t say that I won’t cheat a bit and maybe retcon something here and there, but there’s a limit to what I can do and now I have to live with my choices.
So far we’ve been introduced to Mikarik, one of the central characters of the saga, and the Thorians, the main political and military power in the region of our galaxy known as the Known Reaches. I don’t recall when the idea of the Thorian collective conscious first entered my vision for the species, but it has formed a central tenant of their civilization ever since. Imagine a species where its members actually benefited internally from acting for the collective good, but that also wasn’t an insect or Borg-like hive mind that erased all individuality in favour of collectivism. And then imagine being one of the few members of that species who don’t share that connection with the rest of their friends, family, and wider community. As the saga progresses, I hope to further explore this curious identity of the “netkarthi” or “severed”.
One of my goals in writing Drops of the Black Sun has been to strike a balance in how I introduce worldbuilding. On the one hand, I don’t want it to be a terminology dump with no background or explanations, and on the other hand, I don’t want too many unnecessary tangents and expositions clogging up the story. Hopefully I got the right mix here and you’d be interested to know more about Thorians, Mraborans, the Last Gasp and Anthar Kai.
As a writer that prefers to outline everything from the beginning (one of the reasons why actually starting on this project has taken so long), it’s fascinating for me to see that now that the writing process has begun, it’s already having an influence on future timelines. Each element that I think I’m introducing in passing might end up living deeper into the story.
A bit of a heads up is that the Known Reaches is a big place. As you can see, it took Mikarik three months to journey from Vaparozh to Earth, and it takes about six months two cross the entirety of the Known Reaches on a ship that makes decent speed. There’s a lot going on between those two points, and the eyes of a single character would not be able to do the world justice. So be prepared to explore many points of view as you go through the story, though of course, like Mikarik, some characters will be more central than others.
So for those of you that are here since the beginning, thank you. Let your sci-fi nerd friends know that this web serial exists, and I hope to continue this journey with you for many years ahead.
“So, poet,” she said, sliding the data pad across the table towards him. “What do you make of this.”
And speaking of being severed. Had Mikarik been tuned in to the general mood of his species like most other Thorians were, he would have sensed something grand brewing and would have at least tuned into the news out of the sheer overwhelming curiosity. But in his quiet bubble, the headline displayed on the pad caught him entirely unawares. “Thorian occupation of Krevali enters third week.”
Despite himself, Mikarik was smirking. “Well isn’t that something.”
The Mraboran’s eyes had seemed to darken, she was scrutinizing him carefully. “Isn’t it?” She asked coolly. “Leave it to the Thorians to arrange for the end of an era to come crashing down.”
Mikarik plucked at the data pad and a dozen articles were projected in front of his face. He scrolled quickly through them, catching headlines and bylines from Thorian, Mraboran, Hatvan news sources and beyond. The Thorians haven’t invaded a non-space faring world since the early days of the Empire, this was, unusually brazen and he experienced that rare feeling where he itched to tap into the general mood.
“Looks like they’ve already purged the government,” he commented as pages whipped by him. “At least it looks like the Anthar Kai won’t be getting their hands on it.”
“So what do you think?” She finally asked as he pursed his lips staring up at the information in front of him.
“I’m … surprised.” He allowed himself a moment of honesty. “It’s so .. brazen.”
“Yes, you would think –”
“That after the Last Gasp we didn’t have it in us?” He pierced her from behind his sunglasses, then looked up again. “No, this is clearly a very loud message to not number the last days of the Empire. Unfortunately for the Krevali, they were the ones made into that message.”
“I suppose I should at least be happy that I’m all the way out here and not in the thick of it.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Mikarik plucked an article and magnified it before spinning it her way, the headline announced that the ORC has promised to assemble a small fleet to send to patrol Krevali’s neighbourhing inhabited worlds. The fur on the Mraboran’s cheeks collapsed a bit. “See, I told you, humans are twitchy.” He clicked off all the articles and slid the data pad back to her. “So my condolences.”
“And this is what I don’t understand. What would the Thorians even expect out of this? You have it right there in front of you, even Anthar Kai and the ORC are thumping on their door.”
“There’s a whole door of difference between thumping on a door and breaking through. This is a pretty obvious invitation for some thumping.”
“But surely there was some far Vaparozh colony that would have been enough. To do this to the Krevali …” She trailed off as if leaving him room to either agree or disagree. He knew what this was, although the feeling was foreign to him, this invitation for empathy for sentient beings who were not Thorian. It seemed to come easily to all the other species, this manufactured idea of a level of equality. It was a weakness that had allowed the Empire to grow and consume more than a third of Livespace.
“Listen,” Mikarik said, “I don’t presume to speak for the infinite wisdom of the handpicked lunatics of the Imperial Senate, and it’s not like I’m exactly on speaking terms with my own people, but my advice would be to never underestimate the danger of a cornered animal.”
The Mraboran let out a short surprised growl.
“What?” Mikarik asked.
“Nothing. I don’t think I’ve met a Thorian who spoke out against anything the Empire did.”
“Maybe you haven’t met enough Thorians.”
“Oh, I think I’ve met enough.”
“Yeah, me too.”
This time it was her turn to avoid his gaze and she stared into what he presumed was an empty mug as he tapped his pen on the table.
“Did you enjoy your tea?” He finally asked.
“Yes, actually,” she rose from the table. “I’d recommend you go find some planet-side.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.” He gave a small nod and watched her head for the door. They slid open as she approached and she turned her head in his direction with a smile that only revealed her canines.
“Maybe I’ll see you around, poet.”
“Maybe.” He wasn’t sure if she’d heard him before the doors slid closed behind her as he was left alone for the last time.
The dining hall was now filled with nothing but the hum of the ship, which left an uncomfortable amount of room for Mikarik’s thoughts. The articles must have beamed out about a week ago, which means it had been at least three weeks since the invasion; three weeks since he should have sensed the first ripple of excitement in the Thorian empathic consciousness, which would have swelled to near euphoria as the news spread around the Empire. Joy at the prospect of the return of the glory days, joy at the expansion of the Empire, which meant more living space, more Thorians, and therefore more voices to raise the mood of the species. Instead the inside of his head felt like the dead of space. Supposedly it was how all other sentients felt like, completely disconnected from other members of their race, trying to yoke their distinct individuality together for common goals. The enemies of the Empire, which, for all practical aspects, was everyone who was not the Empire, used this to stoke fear of the Thorians, arguing that experiencing collective empathy created an arrogance that by extension deemed all others inferior. And though he conceded that there was truth to this suspicion, he felt, in whatever atrophied organ that didn’t allow him to tap into it, that it was the most noble trait possessed by any species yet encountered.
He poked around in the silence, like he always did whenever he faced his deficiency so starkly, but any mood he found was entirely his own, and largely influenced by the Mraboran.
During the whole conversation, her tail stayed perfectly still, which everyone knows is a sign that a Mraboran is lying. That is, everyone, but the other “everyone” who knew that a Mraboran’s tail twitches every time they lie. Same goes for whether their ears are completely flat against their head or poke out every so slightly, and whether they’re mostly showing their left or right canines. There’s often a lot riding on whether a Mraboran is telling the truth or not, and despite the high stakes, no one has been able to crack it. Mikarik had his own theories, though none particularly sound. What was obvious to him was that she was sent to speak to him by one of his handlers, but which one? It hardly mattered now and would likely be six months when it wouldn’t matter at all.
In the meantime, he had about a week left to torment his notebook until he arrived on Earth, after which another couple of hops and skips were supposed to lead him to the to the human colony where his trail was going to go cold. He wondered what to do with his completed notebooks. Perhaps, he could drop them off at a courier and ship them to his mother. Should only take about a year to get there.
If all went according to plan, and by all accounts it should have because he was due, within a month he would boarding the research vessel Forseti in his new role, a Thorian traitor to the Empire.
The Mraboran smiled, revealing the barest hint of two sharp canines. “Long time to be awake.”
“I’ve had longer,” he lied; now was as good a time as any to practice.
“Really?” That purr again. “I would probably go crazy being up all by myself.”
“So what’s got you up now?”
“Got knocked out. Always do. Any time we get close to a destination I start getting dreams that we’re headed straight for a star. Only way to get rid of them is to get up and make sure the ship’s not melting.”
“I’d prefer sleeping right through that, personally, you know, just in case it was true and I could avoid dying painfully.”
“Being all by yourself for three months sounds a lot like dying painfully to me.”
“Well you know what they say, a Thorian’s got time to spare.” The “they” of course were only Thorians who lorded their longer lifespans over almost every other sentient species. He loathed when other Thorians did it, but accepted that hypocrisy and self-loathing go hand-in-hand.
Those narrow feline eyes flashed at him with a lack of patience and she pulled a communication pad out of her pocket and turned her attention to that. Mikarik turned back to his notebook, to agonize over synonyms and metaphors and scratch at the three cranial bumps running down his forehead, vestiges of a time when Thorian males slammed their heads together as a means of winning favour of unimpressed females. Every Thorian with the exception of his mother has mentioned to him how small his were, and many suggested how easy it would be to cave his skull in with a single slam, despite the fact that anyone who would be even remotely impressed by this display would be fellow brick-heads. Few had actually tried, and of those that did, none tried more than once. At least for this reason, he was quite pleased by them, even if they did itch something fierce whenever his mind was particularly preoccupied.
Three months he had been at it, and this was his fourth notebook, and every day he thought he was making progress until he read his writing the following day and convinced himself he had the eloquence of a toddler. In that respect, at least, he felt like a true writer. These efforts were difficult enough, but feeling her glance at him every couple of minutes didn’t help.
She let out a sharp huff, exaggerating the scintillating nature of whatever it was she had read, and then leaned forward in her chair. “So you’re an awfully long way from home for a Thorian.”
Mikarik tapped his pen on the page a few times. “Any further and I’d end up in Dead Space.”
“I suppose so,” she laughed. “This is only my second time this far out. Not much to do I’m afraid.” She left open a silence that he refused to fill, preoccupied by the pages even though he hadn’t written or read anything in a while. “I guess I’ll need to get used to it though. My new diplomatic post is for five years, and then who knows.”
“Five years among humans?” He looked at her then, a single canine poking out from a fuzzy lip. “Who did you need to kill to deserve that fate?”
“I don’t think Humans are all that bad, especially once you get to know them.”
“I’ll take your word for it. I find them too … twitchy, unpredictable. They haven’t quite figured themselves out yet, so how am supposed to make anything of them?”
“Harsh words for someone travelling to their homeworld. What does bring you out to these parts?”
He squinted at her with his green eyes, something she would have seen even through the glasses and said, “You’ll laugh.”
“You don’t know that.”
He told, her. She laughed.
“I’m sorry, I thought Thorians didn’t do poetry.”
“Yes, I’ve heard the common misconception.”
“Something about you not being able to do metaphors?”
“Maybe not in the same way.”
“Oh, I remember now. You can’t combine things with certain adjectives. Like you can’t say uhh,” her hand went behind her head, giving it a satisfying scratch.
“Angry wind.” They said in unison, though Mikarik’s outburst was far less enthused. He wasn’t particularly keen on how many times this has been quoted to him, an inclusion in some two-bit traveller’s guide that got reprinted across every corner of the Known Reaches. Funny how most of them didn’t bother to include the other little tidbit that he was about to spring on the Mraboran.
“It’s true, we don’t personify things.” Technically they didn’t personify anything other than Thorians. Even the Mraboran’s use of “I” was grating to Mikarik’s ears. “But we have plenty of adjectives that serve their unique purposes.”
“Why do I have a sense that you have one up your sleeve already?”
Mikarik permitted himself a smile and leaned back in his chair. “Clearly I’m becoming predictable. But one word I’ve always liked is ‘netkarthai’. Hard to translate, harder still to understand. But it means something along the lines of “invoking a fear that one will never hear their loved ones again”. It also formed the basis of the word ‘netkarthi’, one of the many words of varying levels of derision that were used to describe the “severed” – those who were deaf to hive empathy of the Thorians. Just speaking the word put a dark shroud around the room that flooded into Mikarik’s mind. This focused darkness is what he used to make the reckless decisions that gave him his medals and his battle scars.
“Well that certainly is ominous,” she responded after chewing on the word for a bit. “Sounds like you might be finding a lot of that this far from home.”
“That’s the hope.” He responded and turned back to his notepad, still sensing her eyes refuse to release.
Michael is a husband, father of two, lawyer, writer, and is currently working on his first novel, at a snail's pace. A very leisurely snail. All opinions are author's own.