The Busy Ahead

I see some busy ahead, so I may not be posting here as frequently as I just resumed posting (is that as tortured and twisted a sentence as it seems?).

I want to post frequently, but I am also giving myself a bastard of a deadline for A Friend To The Watch while I await word from Baen on The Last Captain (which should come soon, I hope.). I am setting a tight deadline in hopes that I will finally add to the pile of DONE SHIT rather than the shittier pile of TO BE DONE SHIT that I have accrued over the last year or so.

I am also still percolating on what to do to bring my next Grantville Gazette story, A Time Piece, to a tight and entertaining conclusion.

So, off to work it is...

Writing, Damn You!

An Excerpt from the current WIP:

He listened to the muted sounds of the brothel as he labored. The laughter, both drunken and forced, were as familiar to his ears as the loud gasps, rhythmic grunts, and slap of flesh on flesh. The sounds had often served as his only lullaby.

Recent Writing...

With all the adjustments to how the court is run, things have been inordinately busy at work of late. So much so I have been a bit tired and distracted when I get home, so the blogging has suffered a bit. So, here's what I've been up to...

I have been ideating quite a bit on A Friend To The Watch, and laid down the prologue over the last few days. I continue to tweak it, wanting to get it just right.

You see, seven years ago I had an image enter and refuse to leave my head: A man and a boy are talking over a winter grave, each refusing to understand the other. Both are equally sure they knew the wishes of the dead woman at their feet better than the other.

A year later I started writing A Friend To The Watch. I finished it two years later. My agent shopped it. It failed, a flawed but promising first effort. I put it aside and concentrated on The Last Captain. That's done, and the sequel is also nearing completion, but I can't get the kid and the man over the grave out of my head until I write it...

I am not doing a re-write. At least, not as I understand re-writes. I am not referring at all to the original novel (150,ooo words or so), just using the situations and characters in my head to formulate an entirely new, and hopefully successful tale.

So, to it I go.

Two Things:

Thing One:

A funny thing happened at work tonight: I tell everyone to shut their phones off. Twenty minutes later and this guy's phone is going off. He's on it, shutting it down before I even look at him. 

When I do, he looks at me and says, purse falling out his mouth, "It gets turned on when you bend over."

I shit you not.

I fled the room, desperately trying not to laugh my ass off.

Thing two:

I finished the re-write on The Last Captain tonight;  ahead of the schedule I set two months ago. A good thing, I think.

Two years, two computers, a few cranky nights and a few more even crankier nights, and the 123,ooo words of The Last Captain (Redux) is ready for my first readers.

I am not confident. I am hopeful, but not confident.

Really, I'm just happy to be able to put it aside for a while. I've been working on it for two years. The re-write took just over five months once I found my rhythm and settled in to crank pages.

I get a couple weeks grace, then get feedback from agent and readers. Then, hopefully, I fix what's broke and submit it to publisher #1.

Hopefully they'll get turned on when I bend over.

A Tiny Excerpt

Yet one I am quite proud of:

“You could have denied them, if you wanted.” 

If you loved.

Another False Quote From The Last Captain

Yes, another quote from my novel, The Last Captain.  This time it is merely the attribution which is false. People who have been with me on the streets or in court might have heard something like this pass my lips:


“Just because the answer I gave is not the answer you want does not, in any way, render my response invalid.” –Matsuki Mikonos, Chair of the Council of Man


This statement is very infrequently followed by the necessary moment of silence required for full digestion of its meaning. 


Today, the response was the far more common and immediate permutation of, "But I don't want it that way." This individual went beyond that simple verbal exhibition of hubris and went on the offensive: "They were rude to me there."


"And what did they say?" I asked, knowing the answer.


"That they couldn't help me."


"And that was the truth. May I ask how that is rude?"


"Well, they gave me some paperwork and told me to get out of line, that they couldn't help me until it was done."


"Again, they told you truth and supplied you with the paperwork. I fail to see how that makes them rude. Once you've filled out the paperwork, you'll have done what you can to straighten the situation out."


They left, without thanking me.


I am certain, in my very bones, that this person will tell the next person they talk to that I am rude, too.


To which I would respond, "Your perceptions of my job performance have no bearing on my actual job performance."

Character Soundtracks

The following are some of the tunes I listen to as I create the horrible situations I put the character's through. Some characters evoke some music, other music evokes some characters for me.

Below is a sample for each of the major characters:

Officer Venkman:



Officer Baptiste:



Rankless Wardlaw:



Captain Schrader:

Prometheus' soundtrack:

Mad Morgan:

The Cutting Room Floor

As my faithful few know, I am in the midst of a re-write on The Last Captain.  I am in the process of shrinking eight major POV characters down to three. That takes a lot of work, much of it feeling akin to sticking one's hand into a spinning bucket of razor blades.

Below is a section I cut in service to the story. Prometheus is one of my favorite characters, and this one of my favorite scenes. It just didn't work from any other perspective, and he does not serve the story as a POV character, at least not for this book.

Anyway, I had to let folk see what I cut. My ego is like that.

I hope you like:

Prometheus checked the lines of his suit as the limousine rolled toward the meet. The warehouse district wouldn’t have been his first choice for the transaction, but he was the outsider here, and had to accommodate his buyer to some degree.

The limo slowed to a walking pace and several men from his security detail hopped from the lead and chase cars.  They slowly rolled the last few meters to the meet, his hired men conducting a visual check of the area.  Some looked a little less than the professionals he would have preferred for such dealings, but bringing his personal vehicle and driver had been about all he could afford.

He sighed at this obvious sign that he was on his own.  The Syndicate wasn’t behind him on this one, leaving him feeling exposed. He understood why and was making moves to improve his situation, but things simply weren’t as easy since the War came to an end.  Too much talent trained to mayhem out there working for rival organizations and the authorities actually had time for cases involving base criminals instead of chasing The Perfected.  Peace made things harder, and more expensive.   The Syndicate had a history almost as long as the Imperium, and Prometheus believed it was tied too closely with that government to avoid the post-war pains they were suffering. He felt, deep in his old bones, that the Imperium was in the process of disintegrating under its own weight, the War accelerating the collapse.  The Syndicate was refusing to see it, and looked to go down with the ship.

Prometheus planned to carve out a spot for himself here beyond the core worlds.  Keeping his plans quiet from his rivals and cohorts in The Syndicate made it hard to complain to them about being out in the cold.  He’d paid for the trip and the goods with his own money.  Setting up shop had been expensive, but he now had a solid line into the Governor’s office. That had cost him, but after this sale he’d be able to afford some more tech-savvy guard services. Even if the buyer got stupid, there were others.  Finding them would slow Prometheus’ plans a bit, but wouldn’t put an end to them.  

The detail was pretty thorough, but without the technology to detect power sources for the more esoteric of the assassin’s weapons or even a sniper in concealment, it was down to the mark one eyeball and the unprofessional muscle he’d hired.  

Despite his assessment of the quality of his guards, Prometheus knew the motorcade made an impression on the buyer as they came to a stop in front of the warehouse.  The doors were open, but a local-built luxury off road vehicle blocked most of the entrance.  Gilles tried to look like the alpha lounging among his wolves, but only succeeded in looking like another mean mutt in a mangy pack of dogs. Gilles had obviously climbed from street-level talent. The local man’s lip curled in a sneer most likely meant to show his men contempt for the older man’s attention to security.  The four men with him were visibly armed and, in Prometheus’ experienced opinion, trying too hard to look dangerous.

Something troubled the old man as he put his hand to the limo door. Borges stopped and looked up at Gilles, then at the street. There was nothing but the sneer on Gilles’ face to indicate what he was thinking.  The street looked clean, but Prometheus hadn’t lived to his age by ignoring his intuition.  

Balanced against his need to make the sale, safety took a slight hit.  Extemporizing, he popped the door and waved Gilles over without getting out.

Prometheus waited for Gilles to decide whether he wanted to get into the car.  Greed was a bitch, and Gilles took only a beat or two to decide he wanted the goods.  He voted with his feet, walking forward.

“Have a seat, and we can get to it,” Prometheus said.

“What’s up, don’t wanna to get your pretty shoes dirty in the local mud?” Gilles asked, local accent softening the vowels.

Prometheus just stared.  

After a moment the local got into the limo.  Gilles wore some scent that made Prometheus’ nose twitch in irritation as the younger man sat.  Prometheus noted the local making a conscious effort to leave the door open.

“You have the money?” Prometheus asked.

Gilles hitched a thumb at the vehicle blocking the warehouse door, “I do.”

Trying not to sigh, Prometheus pulled the thin case from inside his vest, “Your product. Get your money over here and get your product.”

“Right,” Gilles got out and raised his hand.

The shielded window separating the back of the limo from the front was suddenly painted red with the driver’s blood and brains, the hardened material starring as the round finally stopped.  A heartbeat later Prometheus heard the shot through the open door.  He twitched, the complex muscle movement triggering a number of responses, both in his body and the cortex linked to the car.  Adrenaline made his mouth taste of iron and the world slowed down as store-bought nerves prepared for fight or flight.  Acting on his escape command, the open door of the limo tried to snap closed.  

Gilles didn’t do the smart thing, instead trying to hold the door open as the cortex began to maneuver the car away from the curb. More gunshots rang out, his security detail and the locals exchanging fire.  The hydraulic system for the door wasn’t quite powerful enough to close with Gilles’ bulk holding it open.  Pinned in the door, he started to shout as the vehicle began to drive off, whether in pain or fear, Prometheus didn’t care.  

Prometheus lowered himself below the window level as another penetrator round slammed through the driver’s compartment. Thankfully, the round slowed enough to become trapped in the clear armored partition again.  Several lighter rounds, fired by one side or another in the firefight, pattered against the armored skin of the passenger side near Gilles, failing to penetrate.

Gilles struggled to get in as Prometheus pulled an oddly-shaped pistol from a shoulder rig.  He armed and pointed it at Gilles just as the man maneuvered himself into the back seat. The weapon discharged with a Thup! of compressed air as the door snapped closed behind him.  Gilles shouted with more surprise than pain as the fat projectile thumped into his chest like a heavy punch.  The real pain came a second later when the round activated on contact with his body armor.  The catalysts carried in the round reacted with the polymer and ceramic matrix of the armor, the resulting heat of the reaction boring a fist-sized hole in the armor and a centimeters-deep crater in Gilles’ chest.  

Prometheus felt the heat across the passenger compartment as the local man slumped lifeless to the floor. Smoke curling from his mouth and chest.

The sniper hit the limo again as it rounded the corner.  This time the shot came through the rear driver’s side window shattered the partition and disappeared into the rich upholstery next to Gilles’ corpse.  Prometheus prayed the sniper kept trying for him instead of disabling the car.  Not that the in-wheel four motor design was easy to stop with a few shots, but it could be done.  The battery packs were fairly vulnerable.

Prometheus cursed as the sniper seemed to read his mind. The heavy vehicle juddered as a round entered the rear and interrupted some vital process.  

A second later an internal siren blatted, indicating a major system failure in the cortex driving the vehicle. More smoke, smelling of things that should not burn, belched from the vents. 

Bad sign. Prometheus thought, holstering the borer.

Thinking the sniper was more likely to shoot anyone coming out the driver’s side, Prometheus climbed around Gilles’ still-smoldering corpse and put his hand to the handle.  Thankfully, the cortex was still able to recognize his hand, and popped the door open.  The limo was slowing already, only making about thirty or forty kay.  Still fast enough to break bones or a skull and easily fast enough to stun and render him incapable of evading further.

Best make sure it isn’t my skull then, Prometheus thought.  

He singed his hands grabbing Gilles by the still-hot lapels of his armored jacket. With a powerful surge of the finest muscles money could buy, he heaved Gilles and himself out the door.  The corpse and the old man hit the pavement with a thud.  The ground snatched the corpse-sled from under Prometheus almost immediately, but not before the dead man absorbed a good deal of the force of the impact.  

The sky rolled into view, followed closely by the pavement, then the sky again. Prometheus sucked in a breath, regretted it as something in his chest complained. He got to one knee despite the pain, started to move.  More gunfire from around the corner, followed closely by the high whine of over-stressed motors.

The chase car from his security detail came into view, hurtling past the intersection to slam into the base of pillar supporting a billboard on the far corner of the intersection.

The pillar cracked off the base, coming to rest on its broken support a few meters from the base before slowly toppling forward. Prometheus saw a man toss a long rifle aside and scramble to jump from the falling billboard.   The billboard came down atop the sniper and the vehicle that had destroyed it, crushing the driver’s side and the sniper beneath.

One of Prometheus’ men exited the passenger side of the vehicle, raised his weapon and squeezed off a few rounds back toward the warehouse.  No return fire came his way as he cleared the rear of the vehicle and smoothly crossed to the far side of the street, weapon at high ready.

Prometheus pulled the borer again, watching closely. If Gilles’ men were down and the man had been truly stupid, or merely indecisive, the money might just be in the warehouse or in the big, flashy all terrain vehicle he’d come from. Besides, a ride would get him out of here faster.

Cautiously approaching the corner, Prometheus almost took a few rounds from his own hyper-alert guard.  The man’s lips moved in a silent curse before he returned his attention to the bullet-riddled vehicles and open warehouse doors.  

The security man finished slicing the pie, firing a quick flurry of shots into the warehouse from across the street.  Someone screamed and there was a clatter like a dropped weapon.

Slick. Professional. I take back what I was thinking about the locals, he thought as he watched the other man work, Now if I could just remember his name.

A siren could be heard in the distance as Prometheus’ man retreated behind one of the pillars of the overpass and re-loaded.  

Once the man, whose name would still not come to him, had his weapon up and trained on the door again, Prometheus began to advance.  Doing a little slicing of the pie himself, he moved counterclockwise and in so that he could reveal as much as possible of the warehouse interior and as little of himself to anyone inside before approaching.  It was a tricky maneuver since he didn’t want to cut off his man’s line of sight or make himself a target before he caught sight of any opposition.  He moved as smoothly and fast as possible, trying to remember everything he’d ever been taught way too long ago and still remain loose enough to respond accurately.

A few breathless moments later and he’d determined that there were no longer any live targets in the vehicles or warehouse.  

“Police coming.” 

Prometheus nearly jumped out of his skin as the man spoke.  He hadn’t even heard his approach. 

Recovering, he punched his chin at Gilles’ truck, “Let’s see if that abomination is working.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vytas!  Vytas is his fucking name, Prometheus finally recalled as the man hopped into the driver’s seat and started the truck. Armored, the big utility vehicle was relatively unmarked by the firefight, but loud as hell. Some kind of internal combustion engine and a modified exhaust combined to make the thing snort like a demon.

The limo would be hard to replace, but Prometheus was more than happy to have survived.  Tomorrow was another day, and another deal.  Given the quality of the victims, Prometheus even dared hope for a moment that law enforcement would write this one off without too much thought. 

Getting back to A Friend to The Watch has been percolating in the back of my brain...and when I see things like this, it adds to the juice.

Now, to finish The Last Captain.

About Partners, and The Last Captain

I've had a few partners, some for a few months, others for a few years. The relationship is always intense, and when it's good, can make even the worst work entertaining at the least and insanely fun at best.

I tried to capture some of that in a few places in The Last Captain. Here is something I hope worked:


“True,” Venkman said as he sat in the driver’s seat.

Baptiste followed suit. The bending required by the act of sitting sent a foul belch gurgling up and out.

“Damn,” Venkman said, eyes tearing.

Baptiste smacked his lips, “Yeah. Tasty.”

“You hungry?” Venkman asked when the air had cleared.

His gut churned at the thought, “Not really, my stomach’s still a bit rough from the beers.”  Actually, it’s more likely the sobz I took to kill the alcohol, but that’s just splitting hairs.

“Well, let’s get me something to eat. You know how hunger messes with my cherub-like demeanor.”

Baptiste snorted, “Sure.”

“Then we go see your brother.”

“Damn, you really want me off my feed, don’t you?”

“More for me that way.”

"Fucker."

"Yup."

Another False Quote From The Last Captain:

“We found we’d woke from a long age of waste and self-aggrandizing hypocrisy, and started to look around for something useful to apply our effort, our minds, our very identity to. We found a worthy place for all and all found worthy endeavor in the establishment of the Council of Man.” -From The Founding, a biography of Silas Chui-Ling by Eileen Castaneda

Another False Quote From The Last Captain

“Find me an enemy, that I might come to grips with him,
and kill him,
and go home from this war,
and forget,
and be forgotten,
forevermore.”

-Tomas Bitterwahl, Twenty-Fifth Century poet laureate of Sol’s asteroid belt

The Last Captain Re-Write: Full Steam Ahead Part Deux

The following was re-written from the original, the POV changed from that of the Captain to Officer Baptiste. The madman's control is fleeting, and due to a break down in the conditioning the Imperium provides its flight crews.

I think it works. Tell me what you think:


For a wonder, the trio found the Broken quite quickly. Unfortunately, Morgan was still out.

“We have lots of things to do. We had lots of fine things to see. What the fuck, Bap?” Morgan raved as the officer helped him to his feet.

“You couldn’t tell me where you were, Morgan,” Baptiste replied.

“That’s cause Morgan ain’t in, copper!”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Venkman asked.

Like I fucking know. Baptiste shook his head, jaw working.

“Copper. Very old Earther expression. Could be based on a copper badge worn by early law enforcement. Could be an acronym of Civilian Officer, Patrol. Bastardized further to copper. Also; a black and white moving picture expression used by gangsters when talking to police,” the Captain supplied.

Baptiste chuckled, glancing over his shoulder at her, “Um, thanks for the data stream, Captain.”

He saw Venkman’s face twist. With all the scars it was hard to tell if he was about to laugh or spit.

“Jack-boots suit you better than a critic’s chair, honey,” Morgan said, voice sweet.

“Morgan,” Baptiste warned.

Morgan giggled, still looking at Schrader, “I just call it like I see it, IMP.”

“How-“ the Captain's brows rose in surprise.

“Just ‘cause we crazy don’t make us stupid, baby!” Morgan said, voice rising an octave.

Baptiste shook his head again, sighed, “He does that sometimes. Sees shit he shouldn’t be able to. One of his uses.”

“Who is this "he" you keep talkin’ ‘bout? All we see is weeee!” the Broken said, expression clouding with anger and flailing his arms in bizarre fashion.

Not going to get anywhere unless I can bring him down a bit. “Sure, Morgan. Be cool. Focus on me.”

Morgan did as he was told, folding skinny arms around his torso, mimicking Baptiste’s stance. The almost perfect imitation was spoiled by the pieces of refuse jutting from his unruly hair.

“Morgan, when you gonna come back around and help me out?” Baptiste asked after a moment’s calm.

The Broken suddenly looked on the verge of a good cry, “We work and work for you, and all you do is abuse us.” He pointed past Baptiste at Venkman, tears falling from his eyes in fat drops that streaked the film of dirt on his cheeks, “He’s not what he tries to be. He’s not you and me. Not us. We’re not us.”

Venkman shook his head, turned, and walked back to the car, disgust evident in every line of his posture. Morgan slumped back to the pavement with a high laugh as Venkman dropped into the car and closed the door.

Schrader, trying to help, cut off Morgan’s view of Venkman by stepping up beside Baptiste.

Baptiste knelt in front of the informant, keeping his gun side away, he urged Morgan to return, “Not so, Morgan. Come back. Kick those voices back in their corners and come talk to me.”

The effort the Broken expended trying to regain control of his faculties was impressive. He screwed his eyes shut, jaw clenched so tight that sweat popped up on his scalp.

His eyes popped open, the whites showing. Finally, Morgan gave a keening whine, almost too high to hear, and sucked in a breath. The pupils rolled into view a second later, fixed on Baptiste, steadied. “I’m tryin’, Bap, but they are so loud.”

“You’re doing good, Morgan.”

“We- I lost him in Starfall. Outside Smoker’s place…”

“Smoker’s, are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You lost him in Smoker’s?”

“No, he went in, then came out, took a cab. I’m not fast enough,” Morgan’s voice cracked and his expression slid to the verge of maniacal before he continued, “Never been fast enough to catch a car.”

“How long?”

“He was in for less than an hour, I thi-”

“How long ago?” the Captain interrupted.

Fuck! Baptiste thought as he saw Morgan’s control slipping away.

Morgan’s gaze flicked to Schrader. He watched as she looked into his eyes, watched the shadow of madness press in and cover the light of reason.

He was close enough to see the goosebumps spread across her skin as a part of her felt that madness reaching out.

“We see wonders, and unders! We love your look, lady. Want some lovin’?” Morgan muttered, breaking eye contact.

Schrader sucked in a breath.

Yeah, feels like someone kicked the stool out from under you, don’t it? Baptiste thought, standing up.

“Damn. Sorry,” Schrader said, blinking. “That was all my fault.”

Damn straight it was. Shit, now there’ll be no getting Morgan back for a few hours, at least.

“You didn’t know,” he said.

“Still, my mistake.”

Baptiste shrugged, trying to keep his disappointment from showing. “I’m not sure why he can talk to me but can’t keep it together with others. Venkman always sets him off.”

Morgan started tittering to himself, picking up a piece of refuse from the alley floor and snuffling in it, “Ahh… the aroma of the end times!”

“Anything we can do for him?”

“A blowjob would be nice!” Morgan put in, cringing as Baptiste raised a hand in anger.

Schrader touched Baptiste's arm. “No harm done, officer. I’ve heard much worse.”

“Yes, and we’ll pour out our poison on you, making you fit to meet the Almighty, come-burpin’ gutter whore!”

Schrader laughed. “Wow, that’s quite the mouth you have on you.”

Baptiste shook his head again. Sometimes it was better to let the ranting go on than try and stop him.

Morgan tittered. “You get it, don’t you?” he asked, voice pitched low, deep and creepily sexy.

“I suppose I do, Morgan.” She shook her head and asked Baptiste, “So. Do we know where this Smoker lives?”

Baptiste nodded, “Stuart Bouccanier. The Smoker, yes.”


She sighed, looked down at Morgan. The Broken had resumed sniffing something from the alley floor. “Right, good to meet you, Morgan.”

Baptiste glanced at her. Sharp. Most don’t realize madmen actually remember just as much as the sane, they just can’t always get to it in timely or understandable fashion. And as my mother always says, “Being polite costs nothing.” He stood up. “See you soon, Morgan. Thanks for the information.”

Morgan’s mad eyes glared up at him behind a cage of filthy hands, “Fuck you, copper!”

Baptiste shook his head, “Right.”

Some of My Recent Re-Write Work on The Last Captain

Venkman covered Baptiste as the younger man approached the loading area of the warehouse, shotgun ready. No movement, either from the street or the yawning opening of the loading bay.

Something electronic was arcing under the downed sign, creating flickering, intermittent light. Shadows danced despite the optics of his helmet, giving new life to the dead and distracting Venkman as he searched for threats. Forcing his gaze from the illusion of movement, Venkman focused on the areas his partner could not see in his approach.

Baptiste smoothly advanced about five more steps and knelt in the cover of the metal upright of the large roll-up door. Venkman saw his point of aim scanning across his front.

Clear! Baptiste signaled after a moment.

Before moving, Venkman gave a moment’s attention to his helmet systems as they updated. The perimeter was almost complete, with just the southern approaches uncovered.

Good enough.

Venkman advanced as quietly as his kit would allow. Four bodies lay on the road surface, none breathing. Lots of thick head-blood.

“Perimeter is almost set,” he murmured, drawing abreast of Baptiste.

Baptiste nodded.

Venkman pressed on, rounding the corner and entering the building at a fast, even clip.
The loading bay was darker than the street. Venkman’s helmet optics quickly adapted, supplying him with crisp images.

Two more dead men lay on either side of the opening, about a large vehicle’s width apart, their heads popped open by small arms fire. A third body lay a little beyond the first on the right.

No one standing or armed.

Venkman continued his circuit, hearing Baptiste adjust position to cover the inside of the building from the door. The move left Baptiste unable to observe what was happening on to his left rear.

Not safe, having your ass in the wind like that. Got to make this quick.

The big officer kept moving, quickly approaching the thin walls separating the loading area from the warehouse proper and glancing inside.

He looked back at Baptiste, signaling: Clear. Hold.

Baptiste’s response was a shift of his point of aim back to the street.

Venkman was collapsing on the door when a bubbling-wet cough drew him up short. He flicked his gaze to his left and saw a gout of blood spatter upward from the mouth of the man furthest from the entrance.

Damn.

Venkman keyed his mic. “Got one breathing, sort of. Moving to render aid. Man is down inside the warehouse at my twenty.”

“Dispatch copies.”

“3D6D copies. Holding.” Baptiste, acknowledging.

Venkman hustled over, slinging the long gun and reaching for the medpad clipped to his harness. The stricken man lay still, eyes rolled up and part of his skull open to air. Thick, heavily-oxygenated blood seeped through the gangster’s long hair from the right side of his forehead back to above the ear.

Venkman went to one knee and looked for someplace to apply the medpad. The things weren’t generally intended for head injuries, as the technology was meant to prevent free bleeding, something that could be preferable to the clotting and swelling that was likely to result if a head wound was sealed prematurely.

Fuck it. Not like he’s breathing all that regular anyway. Any swelling should be less of a problem with half his brain dished out. He gingerly placed the medpad over the wound and activated it.

A steady amber LED appeared. Venkman tripped his mic again. “Victim is not breathing regularly. Single wound, looks like bullet entry and exit. Three centimeters along the right side of the forehead to just above the ear. Applied the medpad.”

“Dispatch copies. Starting countdown.” If the medpad didn’t show a green LED in the next minute, indicating the miniature cortex believed itself capable of saving the gangster’s life, Venkman could move on.

Never see the gangsters hanging with their supposed blood brothers for this, do I? No, it’s the cops and medics get to hold their breath and see if the dying will pull through. The thugs scatter like cockroaches with the light on, despite all the shit they talk about loyalty to the grave.

The light never came green. The kid didn’t breath again.

Damn it.

“No further life signs, medpad is amber. Moving.”

“Copy.”

Venkman took up a position on the far side of the entrance, covering the rest of the street.

“Covering.”

“Moving.”

The Last Captain Re-Write: Full Steam Ahead

“Venkman, want to hit the clubs tonight?” Baptiste asked as he stomped into his boots.

“If you want, Bap.”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic.”

“Just thinking you might want to take it slow, kinda ease into it.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Baptiste asked.

Venkman laughed, “Of course. The LT has you assigned to the six car and I’m in the five, so the bosses shouldn’t have a problem letting us have a few minutes out on investigation. Especially early in the night.”

“I don’t know if the dealer will be out and working early.”

Venkman shrugged. “Might have to wait until tomorrow night, then.”

“Unless we just go straight to the source.”

Venkman closed his locker and looked his partner in the eye. “Prometheus?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know, that’s pretty deep water, especially when we don’t know that Luc gets his shit from Prometheus’ crew.”

“Yes, it is.” Baptiste shrugged, “Fuck it. Was just a thought.”

Venkman tossed his head. “If we get a chance to talk to him, I won’t say no. I just don’t think we go straight at him, not just yet.”

Baptiste nodded, connected his star to his uniform and closed his locker. “We’ll just see what we see, then.”

Venkman led the way downstairs.

Line up started smoothly, the usual roll-call and series of summons to court.

Then Lieutenant Devereaux decided to address the troops. Not Baptiste’s favorite butter bar, Devereaux’s nasal voice and pristine uniform annoyed most hard-charging street cops. “Tonight, Officer Baptistes returns to us after injury at the hands of a one of our regulars. Bid him welcome back.”

The eight men and three women of the line-up gave him a cheer and a few thumps on the back.

“Just remember, just remember… Alright, settle down folks! Just let Officer Baptiste’s injury remind you all that what we do is dangerous work.”

We? When was the last time you took a door, asshat?

“Don’t take any unnecessary chances out there, please.”

I might respect you and your advice if you had more than a year of street time instead of minimum time in grade to apply for the next promotion. Climber.

“Would you like to add anything, Jean?”

Oh, now we’re on a first name basis? Cunt.

Venkman read Baptiste’s face, nudged him.

“Yes. Don’t get shot. It stings.”

The line-up dissolved into laughter, except for Devereaux, who looked like he’d swallowed something sideways.

Choke on it.

Immediacy

As my faithful few know, I have been doing the re-write on The Last Captain. I had some great input I have tried to put into practice. I think it's working quite nicely.

I had a ton of POV characters in the draft I sent off to Baen. In my hubris, I thought I had given each of these POV characters a significant voice all their own, all within sections as short as five hundred or less words. The sections followed one another at a very rapid clip, requiring the reader to switch horses with great frequency.

As it turns out, I am not a virtuoso, just a cat trying to break in.

So.

I am hacking the number of POV characters down to three, and giving each a chapter before moving to the next POV character. I hope to cut down on reader whiplash by doing this, as well as go a little deeper with each character as I do so.

That latter bit was also part of the input I had from my reader, who wanted to feel more of the internal strife between the controlled behavior of the officers and their actual internal emotion and thoughts (See any of my Inner Gorilla posts for what I am talking about.).

All this requires some new material, but not as much as I had feared, given that I know where everyone stands, and what is going on. Now to convey that in a more efficient and, hopefully, visceral manner.

Plenty of time to learn to be that virtuoso.

And to practice I go.

Back At The Last Captain

On his return from the toilet, Venkman threw himself prone on one of the down-room couches, his hundred-twenty kilo frame summoning a squeal from the rickety furniture. The noise drew a couple of drowsy grunts of displeasure from his squad mates lying scattered around the room, but nothing sincere.

Venkman put his boots up and stared at the ceiling. Not that tired yet, but fuck it, better to be rested and not need it than wiped out when things go south like they did today.

The Starfall District squad had only been pulled from the line after a full platoon of Central District officers showed up. If they wanted to avoid working for a living, their timing was impeccable.

Sergeant Trudeau was still seething about that timing, angry voice carrying from the Lieutenant’s office all the way down the hall, “Why is it that the unit from the district we were deployed to couldn’t get deployed in time, while my people are where they need to be when they’re ordered, asses in the god-damned breeze?”

The lieutenant’s response was neither audible nor satisfying, given the Sergeant’s shouted, “Well, fuck that! We’re all on the same team, last I checked, and just cause the-” the rest of Trudeau’s diatribe was cut off by the click of the latch on the Lieutenant’s door.

“Haven’t seen Trudeau this pissed in a long time.” Baptiste murmured from the lounge chair beside the couch.

“Ever.” Venkman opined.

“Not every day we get that much stick-work in.”

“True. We were lucky, though, that none of ours got hurt.”

“What do you mean, no-one?” Thierry piped up, raising his wounded hand. His gauntlet had failed and he’d taken a slice from a bottle on the knuckle. Nothing serious, but not something to inspire confidence in department equipment.

“That? I’ve had worse trying to bang your sister!” Baptiste said. His comment elicited a couple of sleepy chuckles from the rest of the squad. Bap had a rep as a clever mouth, always ready with the quick shot.

“That’s right! She’s got better taste than to let a fucktard like you anywhere near her snatch.” Thierry answered.

Damn, anyone who’ll talk like that about his own people deserves to win every once in a while.

In the dimness, Venkman saw Baptiste open his mouth and either fail to come up with a suitable reply or decide to let Thierry win for the same reason Venkman thought him deserving.

Everyone got a chuckle out of that silence, even Baptiste.

“You were saying, before we were so rudely interrupted?” Baptiste murmured after the amusement died down.

“Aside from their late arrival, which I agree was fucked, the guys from Central did all right by us.”

“Yeah, Sarge just has her panties in a twist because of all the use of force paperwork.”

The couch squeaked again under Venkman as he shrugged, “Well, they weren’t there for the stick-work, so the boys and girls from Central couldn’t well write the paper, could they?”

“Nope. But if they’d been in position in the first place, we might not have had to start swinging: Police are scary. Lots of police even more so.”

“Would you two lovers shut the fuck up? We might get called out again, and I need my beauty sleep.” Thierry said.

“More like a coma, to get that ugly mug straight!” Baptiste said.

“Look at your partner much?”

An uncomfortable silence began to settle, a silence Venkman broke, “Not my fault I fell face first into your sister’s snatch.”

The down-room erupted in laughter. Venkman was glad of it. His face was a seamed mass of scars, but there was a good reason for it, if one different from what was generally assumed.