Saturday, November 01, 2003 :::
So the first part of an article I wrote on artificial intelligence is up on Vision. Vision is also becoming a paying market as of next issue. I'm now trying to figure out whether it would be appropriate for me to ask if I'm getting paid for the second half of the article, which Zette has already bought. It's not as if I really care about the money, or will care particularly if I'm not getting paid, it's just... hum. That would be my first paying sale. I'm curious, I suppose.
In other news, testing out BlogWorkz,, which will supposedly be posting this to my page without me having to go through a browser. If so, it'll be a godsend, as Blogger's interface is just annoying.
Oh, and in other news yet, it's my birthday. Woo hoo, twenty-three. Why is it that birthdays somehow loose their thrill after twenty-one or so?
"We can't go down there, sir," a recruit protested. "It's... well, it's... down there.."
"My mum used to tell me stories about it," another said. "She said that's where I'd go if I was bad."
"They say there's people living down there that no one's seen for centuries. Wild men. They say they eat each other."
"And science projects that got loose."
"And ancient machines that went rogue."
"And... things."
A brief, dismal silence fell over the company as they contemplated the prospect of things.
"Well, there's also rebels down there," said the lieutenant, in what he hoped were rallying tones, "and it's our job to go and get them."
"But what about the things?"
"Oh, shut up about the things," the lieutenant snapped. "I don't want to hear any more about the things."
"But...."
"That was an order!"
The company fell silent. The lieutenant looked at the rusting stairwell and took a deep breath. It wasn't that bad. It was just a part of the city, after all, just the lower levels, abandoned gradually over the centuries for the buildings that had been built on top of them. Men had lived there once.
A voice in the back of his head whispered that maybe there was a reason men did not live there now.
He pushed it away and took another deep breath. "Anyway," he said reassuringly to the world at large, "it's bound to be all right. I've got a map."
Twenty stories under the current street level Corbin stopped suddenly and turned.
Six rebels, four bird-of-paradise prisoners, and one dark-cloaked rebel clutching his head and moaning jumbled to an uncertain halt.
"Tembra, close that door," said Corbin levelly, and a raw-boned woman tugged the makeshift barricade across the bottom of the stairs. "Vil."
The man in the dark cloak stopped moaning and looked at him suspiciously.
"Where did you get that gun? And stop that. There aren't any side effects to a sleep-bomb and you know it."
Vil stopped cradling his head in his hands and shoved them in his pockets instead. He was a man somewhere in his early thirties with a pale face, black hair, and the sad beginnings of a moustache.
"The gun, Vil?"
Vil muttered something sulky about requisitions.
"Wonderful," said Corbin wearily. "Someone else for me to yell at."
Vil's face flushed. "She was not to blame!" He drew the cloak around him in a self-conciously theatric gesture. "She was beguiled by my charms."
"You bribed her," Corbin translated, yanking the gun from Vil's resisting hands. He flipped it open. "Empty?"
"She said they were getting tighter on -"
"Cartridges, yes, I know. That's why I said nobody could carry guns." Corbin snapped the weapon shut and tucked it away. "Vil, do you know what you get when you point an unloaded weapon at a bunch of armed soldiers?"
"I -"
"Killed. As for you, Gabe," Corbin turned from the spluttering man to a former prisoner dressed in green and gold, "I'm still waiting with inexpressible eagerness to hear what you thought you were doing."
"We were resupplying," said Gabe, drawing herself up with as much dignity as could be managed in tattered, dripping robes.
"You were shoplifting in those?" Corbin guestured at the brilliant outfits. "Didn't it cross your little mind that you just might get noticed?"
"Of course. We were supposed to be noticed."
Corbin stared at her. He could feel his jaw sagging.
"We are not," said Gabe, "shoplifters. We are rebels, and we are artists. A certain style is necessary."
"You got caught! You could have been killed!"
"Are you suggesting we crawl about like common criminals?"
"Yes! Exactly! There's a reason they're common!"
"Really, Corbin, if you'll show no signs of aesthetic appreciation, there's no point in arguing with you."
"Excellent. I'll consider the arguement over. Now get back to your section, get some real clothes on, and try again." Ignoring her outraged gasp, he folded his arms and leaned on the wall. "The rest of you: good job. Especially Tembra. That scream curdled my blood."
"It's what I'm good at," said the rawboned woman, grinning.
"Now kit up, clear out, and scatter." Corbin looked up at the crumbling ceiling. "We just dropped a military patrol. If the big boys don't send some troops into these catacombs I'm Mek's bastard brother."
General Les Moraine stood looking out the window at the rain, back straight, one arm folded behind him. It was a posture he had adopted in self-concious imitation of his superiors years before and now fell into automatically. There was some sort of irony in that, he supposed.
Military headquarters towered a hundred feet above street level, the city's oldest and largest building, blocky and imposing. From where Moraine stood, fifty floors up, the figures scurrying around the massive tank in the courtyard looked like ants. A controlled touch on the windowpane brought them into focus; uniformed figures rushing around with bits of equipment while the tank jerked back and forth like an animal in its death-throes. Moraine's mouth twisted bitterly.
"General?"
"Ring up Neals, will you," said Moraine wearily, turning from the window, "and tell him to get down there before we loose another tank."
"Yes, sir." His aide-de-camp touched her thumb to the communicator clipped to her ear and began to subvocalize. Moraine watched her cynically. A cool one, Major Savia, a slender, efficient woman who chose to remain his aide because she recognized that she had far more power as his right hand than she would as captain of her own department. Most of his underlings, and not a few of his superiors, were terrified of her. A useful thing, he mused.
A glance at the tank sufficed to darken his mood. "Why can't we fix these things? How can we have lost so much in so short a time?" He touched the window - yet another bit of technology the government could not seem to reproduce - and bit back a curse. Moraine only cursed under special circumstances. Savia, bent on her task, ignored him. "Only Neals seems to have any lasting success at fixing the things, and he can't teach anyone else. A knack, he says. A knack. I need science, not knacks!"
"Sir," said Savia nuetrally.
Moraine choked back the bitterness, the two-decade bitterness against ancestors who had left their incomprehensible tools for him to break and regret breaking. "How," he said more softly, "how can we have lost so much..."
"Couldn't say, sir."
Moraine grinned blackly. "And they say you have no sense of humor." Savia's eyes met his, smooth and expressionless, and she raised one eyebrow. Moraine sat and cradled his head in his hands. "Report, Major."
"You've had several requests for interviews. I deflected them." Savia referred to no notes; he had never known her to need them. "The list of people who have requested an interview more than three times is on your desk. The orbital situation continues in stalemate, aside from the aliens strafing Porlean, as you've no doubt heard about. The damage and death counts are not exceptional."
"Then skip them for now."
Savia nodded imperceptably. "We have reports of rebel activity on the eastern side of the city. Captain Killes reports he's had to detail several platoons to patrolling. One capture reported."
"Damned idiots," Moraine muttered.
"Yes, sir. Requisitions are routine. Neals reports that the flyboats you sent him are fixed now and wants to know what else you've got for him to do."
"Well, we've answered that question."
"Yes, sir. He's also requisitioned some equipment. Some of it's quite expensive."
"Give it to him." Moraine waved a hand. "Give him whatever he wants. We must indulge the knack. Does the group I sent to observe him have anything to say for themselves?"
"They're studying the data, sir."
"I'm sure they are." Moraine rattled his fingers on the desktop. "Continue."
"There was a report of - one moment." Savia cocked her head in a listening attitude; the slender black communicator clipped to her ear flashed blue and green lights. "Sir? Those rebels who were captured? They escaped."
"Oh, shades of Earth." Moraine launched himself to his feet. "How?"
"The team bringing them in was sleep-bombed."
"Sleep-bombs," said Moraine bitterly. "We can't even protect ourselves from sleep-bombs. Aliens above and rebels below. It'll be a wonder if we don't shake ourselves apart within a year."
"You said that last year, sir."
"Is it too much to ask that trained soldiers be able to hold onto a few disaffected artists?"
"Couldn't say, sir."
"Roust some of those lazy reserves out to sweep the catacombs. And get me a full report on that escape. I want the team debriefed until they can't stand straight." Moraine scowled. "And then I want the incompent idiots whipped until they can't sit down."
"You can't have them whipped, sir. It's not legal." Savine seemed to consider the matter for a moment. "More's the pity," she added, and touched her thumb to the communicator once more.
