It's Been A While (Updatery MK III)

Tomorrow, 11/29/2017, I have an author event of Facebook, where I am the 'featured author' for Chuck Gannon's anthology, Lost Signals. I aim to entertain, and talk about Crate 88, the short story I wrote for the anthology.

December 17th, the paperback edition of 1636: Mission To The Mughals, comes out.  Almost every SF book I had as a kid was in paperback, and much as I love the feel of a hardcover in hand, the arrival of the mass market paperback of my book is a source of true excitement for me.

My short story, Bank On It the first I ever submitted for publication, has been selected for the Ring Of Fire VIII anthology.

I have submitted another short, Alpha Gamers for yet another anthology, this one in John Ringo's Black Tide Rising Universe. Hopefully Alpha Gamers will see print in 2019 if not sooner.

So, for a writer of novels, it seems I am having some success with short stories...The irony flattens my ego, a bit, but it's good to be in print, so I am not complaining, not one bit!

Worries

This weekend, something awesome happened.

But first, a few data points:

I have always worried I might be an asshole. Not just a garden variety, drives-like-a-shithead asshole, but a real one, one you wouldn't think twice about fucking with because: JUST LOOK AT HIM. BALD ASSHOLES ARE THE WORST!

This is a hard one to overcome. I think it's part of my make-up, part of who I am, that I worry people think I'm an asshole. I know I can be one. I even realize we can all be one, given the proper circumstances.

Of late, my day job reinforces that internal, abusive little voice,  as there is little love out there for those that wear a uniform. When both sides of the political spectrum hate your profession, things are unpleasant. This aspect of my worry is a bit easier to deal with, as I take the uniform off and most people are left with just plain BALD ASSHOLE to look at.

Then there is the daunting insecurity I am told most writers feel, that sensation of: I'M A TALENTLESS HACK! UNWORTHY OF NOTICE, NO ONE LOVES ME! BALD ASSHOLE!

I fought this-still fight it- by simply acknowledging how much better I feel when I'm writing than not. T o my mind, writing is a weird thing. It's done in relative solitude, for the most part, but its end product is ultimately for others to consume (or not). Along the way to that consumption, it's likely the writer will have to interact with people in the flesh, as it were...

So, there I was, BALD ASSHOLE, going to conventions and meeting people involved in the writing world, and worrying what they thought of me and, if they had the time and inclination, my writing. Now, I've lived in a few places, known a few different people from different walks of life...

Mind you, I was always worrying, even when I wasn't bald, that people saw me as a BALD ASSHOLE, but because of this experience of life,  I wasn't all that fearful of putting myself out there. Having done it a few times makes it easier to brave the writing convention waters.

At the conventions I met hopefuls, I met stars, I met superstars, and I met some of my writing heroes. Along the way, I even made new friends that seem to have overlooked my BALD ASSHOLISHNESS.

In this modern era, we can easily reconnect with old schoolmates, old friends, and even integrate distant new friends and acquaintances with our current lives. It is a blessing that BALD ASSHOLE doesn't think he deserves, but there it is.

"BUT, YOU'RE A BALD ASSHOLE, WHO WOULD WANT TO?!" my inner ego-piercing voice seethes.

Don't mind that little bastard, at least not today.

This, in a roundabout way, leads me back down the rabbit hole to my big announcement: Today I announced on Facebook that Eric Flint and I had sold our novel, 1636: Mission to the Mughals.

Then something happened:

I had a torrent of good wishes from people I have come to know throughout the various stages of my life. Some were even moved to comment with well-wishes, and not just my blood relatives.

The response from all these people from all these different places of the landscape of my life silenced that little ego-piercing voice for a moment.

Just a moment.

What a joy that silence was.

I shall continue to seek it, and be worthy of my friends and family.

BUT-!

No butts.

FOGCon Appearances Done and General Updatery

Well, I went to FOGCon and I had a very nice time, meeting several people. The first panel I was on was full of bright, interesting folks with clever, insightful things to say...And then I was on a panel with Tim Powers, who is not only famous for a long and amazing career in SF, but wickedly funny and smart, all of which combined to make me feel a total impostor. I managed not to put my foot in it, I think. At least, no one looked at me as if I had grown a sentient, mouthy boil on my lip. Perhaps they were just being polite.

 I have been slow to update the blog for a couple reasons, the main one being I my wrist is a bit painful from all of the hand writing I must do at work forcing a slow down. I purchased Dragon Dictation and started using it (Jury is out, just now, on how awesome it might be. There's issues.), but I've been focusing on getting Mughal Mission drafted. It appears I am on track with that at least, cracking 72,000 words today.

And now I'm off to do some more work on it.

Latest Snippet from "1636: The Mughal Mission"

“Shehezada Aurangzeb, a moment of your time, if you please?” The Mullah asked, approaching the young prince as he strode along the gallery leading to the stables. 

Aurangzeb stopped but motioned for his retinue to continue without him. “Of course, Mullah Mohan.” 

As a relatively young man, Mullah Mohan had been given responsibility for Aurangzeb and Roshashana’s education. And since he had left the care of the Harem and such teachers, Aurangzeb still found the imam’s strict orthodoxy aligned well with his own designs for the future. Especially as that orthodoxy carried with it a core of believers who could very well prove the deciding factor when he and his brothers began the inevetible contest for the throne.

“Peace be upon you, Shehezada,” the mullah said with a nod.

“And upon you, peace.”

“Forgive my lack of manners, but there is a matter I want to broach with your father, but I am told the Emperor is not available.”

“That is true. He is overseeing one of his projects.” Which you very well know.

“I see. Perhaps, as one of his councillors, you might be able to advise me…”

“This is most unlike you, Mohan. I must say I am disappointed. Never before have you come to me in an attempt to gain access to my father.”

“Again, I ask forgiveness for my lack of manners. The matter is very important.”

“Perhaps I can hear it, and better judge what is to be done?”

Was that a look of satisfaction? Aurangzeb thought as the other man made to reply, “There is a man here in Red Fort, one who has turned his back upon God’s holy message and made mockery of our faith by engaging in worship before false idols.”

“Surely the determination of such is the purview of the learned religious courts?”

And therefore entirely under your thumb?

A sharp nod, “Normally, yes. However, this man, he is…favored by certain parties at court and, having been absent the court for years, the case against him has languished because of a lack of complaining witnesses.”

“What is it you would have of me?”

Mullah Mohan edged closer and said, voice tight with emotion, “A death, Shehezada.”

“What?”

“I would see a sinner dead.”

“Who is this man?”

“Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz.”

“I have never heard of him.”

“He was sent into exile while you were still in the care of the harem.”

“He returns, despite exile? Surely that is sufficient grounds to have him executed and explain your actions later, if necessary?”

“I misspoke: he, specifically, was not exiled.”

Silently wishing for a better breed of ally, Aurangzeb responded carefully: “Mis-stated details lead to unintended deaths in such matters, Mullah.”

“Apologies, Shehezada, in my zeal to do God’s work, I overstep.”

“Yes, you do. Who is it that favors this man?”

“Your siblings, Shehazada.”

“Which?”

“Jahanara and Dara Shikoh, Shehazada.”

“I see. I take it, then, that this amir is also servant of Mian Mir?”

“He was once, yes.”

And therein lies the true reason you wish him dead.

“But no longer?”

“Truthfully, I do not know.”

“Yet you would have his head.”

Eyes glittering with intensity, Mohan nodded. “God wills it so, yes.”

God? Or your own pride? Aurangzeb had to turn his head to hide his incredulity. “Take no precipitous action. I will consider what to tell Father,” Aurangzeb said, turning to leave.

Mohan laid a hand on his arm.

Aurangzeb covered the offending hand with his own, pulled it from his arm and rolling Mohan’s fingers back and to the outside of the man’s shoulder, twisting fingers, hand and wrist.

Mohan, eyes wide, went to his knees.

Shifting his grip and pushing down, Aurangzeb thrust his face into the older man’s, “You dare lay hand upon me?”

White with pain and shock, Mohan struggled to speak, “I forget myself, such is my desire to do God’s work: please, the man must die.”

“Why?”

“Because G–“ Aurangzeb cut him off with more pressure. He had to lean over, he had bent and twisted the man’s arm so far.

“Your true reason. Tell me.”

Beads of sweat popped from beneath the mullah’s turban, “He refuses G–” the words were halted behind a cage of pain-clenched teeth.

Must I break his arm to get the truth?

“That may be, but there is something else. Answer.”

“Mian Mir always favored him.”

“And?”

“Favored him over me. Loved him, not me…”

Aurangzeb released the man’s hand. Mohan pitched forward, cradling his arm.

“The truth will win you what you desire of me, Mohan. Remember this as you take what you want.”

“Then...”

Aurangzeb straightened, “Do what you will with this man, just be certain the act cannot be placed at my feet.”

The First 1636: The Mughal Mission Snippet

A bit of the work in progress:

                Caid Murad Reis returned the wolf-smiles of his crew with his own. 

And why not smile? Surely finding a fat merchant becalmed so close to Sallee is a sign that God favors our enterprise? 

As there wasn’t a good man among the crew, such signs were less wasteful than the usual methods he had to resort to in order to ensure his commands were followed. Always, the new men among the crew wanted to test him, wanted to see if the white Muslim was truly fit to lead the brotherhood. 

Such behavior had only become more common since he’d sent his son off to Grantville to plumb their secrets. The other Captains all believed he was trying to place his son beyond their reach, or worse, questioned his conversion to Islam. They campaigned, in whispers, against him. Their short-sighted bigotry would eventually prove their undoing, but for now Reis needed every cruise he undertook to result in easy profits and many slaves.

The rowers of Allah’s Mercy were drawing them steadily closer to the foreign fluyt, as they had since sighting the vessel some hours ago. By his reckoning, less than half an hour remained until the sharks were fed the blood of unbelievers. 

Murad Reis, born Janszoon, shaded blue eyes with one hand, staring hard at the slack banner hanging from the mast of the taller vessel. Several pale faces at the stern of the ship stood staring at their approaching doom.

“Hamburg?” he murmured. 

“Would explain why they are alone–no convoys like the Spaniards or English,” his first mate, Usem, said from beside him. ”Though it’s strange they should be this close in to shore.”

Murad shrugged, “Not after the storms of last week, then the calm and current to drag them close.”

Usem nodded, white turban sparkling with jewels.

“Raise our banner, let them know who comes for them.”

“Yes, Captain.” Usem gestured. 

Moments later a young sailor unfurled the banner of the Sallee Rovers, a gold man-in-the-moon on a red background, from the mast.

“Brothers, we will soon set upon the infidel and take his goods, his ship, and the lives of any who resist!”

A crashing, ululating cheer greeted his words.

“Man the guns and make ready, then!”

Murad and Usem joined the crews of the three cannon in the bow. The xebec, like a galley, had limited broadside armament because of the oars, and so mounted three of its thirteen guns in the bow. Because it lacked the banks of rowers of a true galley, it didn’t have the sheer speed of such a ship, either, allowing them to make only about four, perhaps five, knots. Still, they closed the distance, coming to within six hundred paces.

A meaty thump, like a mallet striking flesh, came from the gun-captain of the starboard bow gun.  

A sharp crack reached his ears just as Murad turned to look at his slowly slumping sailor.

“Wha-“ the man gurgled, crimson staining his lips.

Something whistled through the air above Murad. Another crack rolled across the water to him. 

Murad ducked instinctively, the men about him doing the same.

He saw it then, a tiny flash of light from one corner of the stern of the fluyt, like a gunshot, but no cottony cloud of gunsmoke. 

Shooting at us, from there? That’s–another of his cannoneers reeled back, arm dangling by a thread of meat–impossible! 

Again the sharp cracking noise rolled across the waves.

“Down!” Murad shouted, unnecessarily. His men were already pushing tight behind the cannon, fighting for space.

Another flash. 

Something rang off the cannon directly in front of him with a sound like hell’s own hammer, then went whistling through the air between he and Usem. 

Merciful Allah, how many guns does this man have?

That evil crack again.

The men were now leaning forward, close to the deck, as if bracing against a gale. 

Murad raised his head, gauging the distance. Almost five hundred yards still separated the ships.

“Faster!” he bellowed, “Row faster!”

Usem rose up to repeat the Captain’s order. He lost his life for it. The round took him in the jaw, sending teeth and bone rattling wetly across the deck behind his toppling corpse.

“Merciful Allah!” someone screamed.

“Faster!” Murad barked, the now-expected crack punctuating his order.

  The slaves responded at last, pulling harder at their oars. Slowly, the ship built speed. Several breaths passed without one of the horrible flashes, only the groan of wood on wood and the cries of the man who’d lost his arm. They were nearly four hundred yards out when the next flash appeared.

A dimly visible red-orange light appeared at the end of the flash. Barely visible, it crossed the space between the two ships and sailed by well above the deck. 

This time, the crack of the gun was nearly drowned in the cheering of his crew.

“Down, you fools!” 

A second dirty streak of light was sent their way, again appearing to have gone high. Another cheer from the men.

“Closer!” he shouted.

The crew shouted wordless aggression. Glad his men were less afraid of the strange weapon than he, Murad looked up to offer a silent prayer of thanksgiving. It was then that he saw a tiny curl of smoke rising from the furled mainsail.

As he stared, another of the burning things struck the furled sail along the spar just port of the mast. It went in, and didn’t exit. Colored smoke began seeping from the hole as the noise of the shot followed the results across the water.

“Water the sail!” Murad’s shouted order held more of an edge of panic to it than he wished.

Nearly all the crew looked up and saw the reason for the order. A collective groan went through them.

Hassan, youngest of the brotherhood and the quickest climber among them, stood to his duty and grabbed the bucket line. In moments he was straddling the spar. He dragged the first of the buckets up and started to pour it over the growing smokey stretch of sail.

The next red-orange streak ended in Hassan’s ribs. The boy shrieked, overbalanced, and fell. Even striking the deck from such a height did not end the pain for poor Hassan, who lay writhing, as if the thing that struck him continued to burn inside his flesh.

The crew moaned. Hassan was well-liked. 

Murad stepped across the boy, who lay twitching like a wounded scorpion, broken limbs flailing.

Murad’s sword hissed from its sheath. 

A small mercy.

What I've Been Doing This Summer

Work has been the same, meaning there have been moments where I wanted to unleash my inner gorilla, but, in general, proceeding in as efficient a manner as possible. I have a long (15000 words, more or less) short story entitled A Separate Law I am under contract to produce. I am writing it in 1500-word stretches for placement on a web magazine supporting a computer game. I'm nearly done with it, finishing up the eighth bit right now. When I am, I will resume working on 1636: The Mughal Mission, with Eric Flint. I might think about something more with the games company, but I really, really want to get my novels out there, and working with Flint is a godsend as far as graduating from apprentice to journeyman writing. He's highly skilled at getting the best out of writers he works with, and I hope to learn a great deal.