Silver Wordsmith: An author's journey
“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.
Hello reader, and welcome to the online sci-fi serial, Drops of the Black Sun. You can start by reading the introduction or browsing the table of contents, or feel free to jump into the first chapter below. Enjoy!
The thrum of the ship as it skidded along the surface of subspace is what chased most into their stasis pods for the duration of the journey. For Mikarik, it was the sound of home, of a reprieve from responsibilities or the unforeseen twists that life had such an unpleasant habit of delivering. It was the pause between the times when choices needed to be made and when decisions mattered.
He never understood his fellow passengers who crawled into their pod the moment they came aboard, and went into an empty sleep that terminated days, weeks and sometimes months later, after the ship had already safely docked at the end of the journey. Granted, they banked some of that time, it being generally believed that one ages at only one-third the regular rate while in stasis, but were a few meager years at the end of one’s life really worth the wasted opportunities?
Mikarik slept only when he was tired, retiring for his usual fourteen-hour sleep cycle, without any regard for where his biological clock would end up needing to be calibrated. It hardly mattered considering it would often need significant readjusting when he arrived. The destination always had its own rhythms. Its own time and length of day, its own peak of activity whether it was high noon or the dead of night or the temperate spaces of dawn and dusk where it neither threatened to freeze you nor boil you alive.
And in between the inconveniences of having to replenish his energy, he ate, and read and wandered whichever sections of the ship where not closed to the public. Encounters with others were usually scarce, as most preferred the get-it-over-with option of submitting to near-death.
Sometimes he spent days without interacting with a single sentient, but he was rarely alone for long. Though few shared his appetite for an entirely solitary and wakeful journey, others often woke up along the way and depending entirely on their personality and Mikarik’s moods, provided welcome company.
The long-haul passenger cruiser he currently found himself on, and likely the penultimate trip he would ever undertake, had left Vaparozh three months prior, and would be docking in orbit above Earth in less than a week. It was one of the longest voyages Mikarik had undertaken, and even he felt as though he was on the verge of going stir crazy. Like all ships built on Vaparozh, it was structured to accommodate their strictly gender-segregated yet somehow austerely egalitarian culture, with one dining hall for the males, one for the females, and a small and run-down hall, where Mikarik spent most of his days, for those passengers that came from barbaric cultures that allowed their genders to co-mingle during such holy rites as eating and sleeping.
He had been largely alone for over a week, as even restless travelers preferred to catch up on sleep just prior to their destination, which left him plenty of time to aggressively tap his pen against a blank page in his notebook and summon words that refused to do his bidding. He thought he was being amusing when he chose posing as a poet as his cover for the trip. Instead, he unwittingly subjected himself to the a frustration he hadn’t felt since spending weeks pretending to be helpless and adrift in orbits of rocky moons waiting for pirates to strike.
He expected no more company for the remainder of the flight when a very groggy and disheveled Mraboran female entered the hall and appeared either startled or confused at finding him there.
“Good morning. Please, don’t mind me,” Mikarik said in Common Pidgin as the Mraboran ran her hand through the tangled fur on her forehead, clearing it out of her golden eyes.
“I didn’t expect anyone else to be up.” She responded in fluent Thorian that betrayed the barest hint of an accent.
“Neither did I, but here we both are.” He switched to his own native tongue and watched her through the bottom of his water glass. She walked over to the food dispenser, which served slim pickings after a long-haul flight where most passengers were expected to forgo eating in favour of stasis, and ordered a cup of something fragrant and steaming. Nothing Mraboran as far as he could tell, a floral scent he couldn’t identify.
She must have caught him sniffing. “Chamomile.” And after this elicited no reaction added, “It’s from Earth.”
“Ah.” He’d encountered humans before and was vaguely familiar with them, but they weren’t so eclectic that he would have any exposure to their cuisine.
Between the fluent Thorian and the human tea, this Mraboran seemed to go out of her way to show him how cosmopolitan she was. He scratched a couple of words in his notebook, as she took a seat across from him and watched him over her mug, inhaling its vapours.
To the untrained eye, there was no discernible difference between Mraboran males and females. Both were covered with the same short sleek fur that ranged from dusty blonde to a shimmering copper, and both had the same sonorant voices with the slightest hint of a hiss. And while females were marginally more partial to using belts to strap their tails to their body, their clothing was generally unisex. But Mikarik had worked and lived among enough Mraborans to know that the key lay in the eyes. Males looked at you with a round dumb expression that was perpetually surprised. The females’ eyes were narrow and cunning and constantly sized you up as potential prey. Even hundreds of light-years from home there was no getting away from evolutionary biology.
“You should try it, helps you get back to sleep when you’re knocked out,” she suggested after taking a long sip from her mug of chamomile tea.
“I don’t get knocked out,” Mikarik responded without lifting his eyes off the page.
“Can’t get knocked out if you never go in.”
She put her mug down then and drew out a long “Really?” Doesn’t matter how fluent they are, they fall back into purring whenever they encounter the throaty “r” of the Thorian language, one of the reasons why it’s dropped in Common Pidgin. “Sounds tedious.”
“Pretty quiet, actually,” he put his pen down and his eyes met hers. He was at an advantage there, with his mostly shaded by his implanted glasses. The Vaparozh sun was a scorching ball of yellow flame even brighter than most of the suns of the habitable worlds, a stark contrast to the dim red glow on the Thorian homeworld of Kai Thori. He spent the first week of the journey trying to find a way to dim the lights and eventually gave up, ending most of his days with a headache.
I have something very exciting to share with you. Okay, I lied, I have something very exciting I’m about to share with you, and I wanted to introduce it. Those of you who have been following my blog will have acquired an awareness that I’m not primarily a genre author. Both the novel I’m currently editing and the one I’m currently writing can be best described as literary fiction. Not to say that I have any aversion to genre fiction. Most of my early short stories were science fiction (think really crappy Black Mirror episodes), and one project in particular has been growing in my head for a decade and a half now. And it’s this project that I want to talk to you about today.
Drops of the Black Sun has its roots all the way back in high school. Having grown up on Star Wars, Babylon 5 and to a certain extent everyone’s unfavourite Star Trek series, Voyager, I have always longed to create my science fiction or space fantasy universe. It was one of those ideas that I always believed in but knew for the longest time that I did not have the requisite ability to give it justice. It has suffered through many stages of the creative process since then.
I attempted to actually put it down on paper once, and never got past the first chapter. To give you a sense of how the project has evolved since then, not a spec from that original first chapter, except a couple of character names, has survived into the vision I currently have for it. I’ve bounced plot ideas off my friends for years, being met with everything from encouragement to “this particular thing makes no sense.” I took every piece of feedback I received and threw it into the cooking pot that Drops of the Black Sun has become.
For years I worked on additional plot lines, finding ways for them to intersect and grow in scope. I’ve worked out additional details of the universe going on for years in each direction to make the world seem more dynamic and “alive”. I rewatched Babylon 5, read and watched Game of Thrones, and the Kingkiller Chronicles and dabbled in the fine line between inspiration and plagiarism. I’ve noted similarities to other works and tweaked them into something different or else embraced them and made them my own.
It’s amazing how much goes into a piece of work that’s not necessarily “writing”, which again why I think one should not define their writing by soulless “words per day” goals. If you are truly a writer, then it doesn’t matter whether you have a pen in your hand. Your mind is always working through ideas and plot and dialogue. So much of a writer’s craft happens in their daily life, and I’ve extolled the virtues of this “off the page” writing on multiple occasions. However, every piece of advice can go too far.
Over the last few years, Drops of the Black Sun has been stuck in worldbuilding hell. I’ve convinced myself that I can only return to writing it once every meticulous detail is in place; only when every character has a name and complete biography, every alien race has a name and history and the all the star systems have been mapped and their political relationships defined. For some writers, this works, but in my case, the project was tied to an unrealistic goal.
And so as I was reflective on my last year in writing, on my successes and how to grow them, I decided that perhaps this would be a good time to stop procrastinating. I feel reasonably comfortable with the framework I have in place so that the story won’t get away from me, but at the same time, I need to start growing it organically.
So I’m excited to announce that starting next week, this blog will become the home to Drops of the Black Sun, which I will plan to release in somewhat irregular intervals over the course of the next whenever, since I will be posting it at the rate that I write it. I want to do this with a manageable schedule and in manageable chunks as I don’t want my other projects to be sidelined. But because this story is always itching to be written, I think this will be the perfect opportunity to allow myself an outlet, and finally share with the world something I have been working on for basically half my life.
So here’s hoping that it catches your eye, and that you stick around through the adventure.
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.