As I prep to tackle the next round of The Antithesis Progression and another pair of SF novels later this year, I’m having fun wrestling with some biggies. Long story short, I thought it would be fun to share some of them with you guys, partly for the fun of the conversation, and partly to give you a peek behind the curtain for those of you who are interested in seeing the process that begins with a question and ends with a story or a novel.

So, to kick it off, here’s my nomination for one of the biggest questions anyone has ever asked.

“Where is everybody?”

Biggest question…seems kind of a grand claim, but I’m going to go a step further: I think it might be the single most terrifying, and the single most exciting, question anyone has ever thought to ask.

To illustrate why, I’ll give you a little context. This is the question that a man named Enrico Fermi asked when he turned his radio telescope at the heavens to listen in on television and radio broadcasts from alien civilisations, and found only static.

The universe is a big place. If carbon chemistry is common (as it seems to be), and if life bootstraps really easily, (which is now virtually certain), then in a big universe there should be at least some other folks out there who are building civilizations, and since all civilization is defined by energy use, they should be making some noise.

So…where is everybody?

It only took humans one generation between the invention of the radio (the ability to make cosmic noise) and the nuclear bomb (the ability to silence that noise forever, without reprieve). What if everybody eventually, inevitably, succumbs to self-destruction? Terrifying, isn’t it?

On the other hand, what if we’re the first? What if we are truly alone? This one’s terrifying too, but it sure is exciting–there’s a lot of universe out there that’s not being used, and oh, the places we’ll go!

But there are other answers, and some of them are very intriguing. Certainly, we haven’t figured out all the potential answers yet. I’ve got some ideas that I’m exploring in projects I’m currently working on, I’ve even got a few opinions.

It is a big question, though, maybe one of the biggest. Because whatever the answer is, it will forever define our relationship with the universe around us, and will profoundly affect the way our civilization unfolds as it winds out into the solar system and beyond.

Read more about this question here, then tell me…What do you think about this question?

Because of the diversity of your questions, several sections of the book work well as standalone articles, and since not all of you will want the whole book (or are content to wait to get it all at once), I am pleased to present you with the first of the Throwing Lead Singles: Science Fiction Weaponry.

The author of The Antithesis Progression teams up with the author of The Rehumanization of Jade Darcy to provide an in-depth guide to the science fact that underlies some of the most popular weapons in science fiction. Whether you’re a writer looking to add depth and texture to your weapons technology, or a fan who wants to know how it all works, this is the place.

Find out how it all works! This article covers particle beams, phasers, lasers, disruptors, mass drivers, railguns, coilguns, Metal Storm and more, as well as tactical considerations for combat in science fictional environments.

Buy it now for Kindle, Nook, and all other readers.

The Lunar Revolution is faltering, events are spinning out of control, and Bill Shelley is inches away from achieving victory. Meanwhile, far away in the south, the footsteps of a little girl running for her life bring with them a secret that could start the war before anyone is ready.

From the surface of Mars to the forests of Vermont, the players are at the table, their antes are in, and the next round of cards is about to hit the felt. The winners will determine the face of the solar system…if they can survive the game.

Read the first four chapters here.

Or, buy it now for Kindle, Nook, and all other readers.

Some of you will get a sneak peak. You see, this is a big book. It ate up more pages, and more time, than I expected by an order of magnitude, and I’m eager to see it find a good home on the shelves and in the e-readers of all of you, including those of you who have drifted away in the meantime, intending to come back when the series continued.

To let people know Antithesis is back, we’re going to need publicity. Publicity means you! Some of you out there enjoy blogging, posting opinion pieces and reviews, etc., and you are the ones I need. Starting today, the first hundred of you that email me (either the normal way through the feedback at jdsawyer.net address, or through the web form you can find here) with the subject line “Free Will Ebook” will receive a free, pre-copyedits ebook version of Free Will (and a corrected version once the proofs are done).

In return for receiving this advance review copy, you promise to blog the book when you’ve finished reading it and, once the book is released to the general public in the next week or two, to post a copy or extract of your blog review in two of the following: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, Goodreads, Kobo, Sony ebook store, Kobo, iBookstore. Those of you who feel enthusiastic enough about the book to post the review in all those places will be entered into a drawing. The four prizes in that drawing will be:

Spread the word!
Also, watch this space. There will be more announcements in the coming days about casting calls, a new Death Threats contest, and other goodies.

Tonight, he hosts dinner with his chief researcher who’s just made one of the biggest applied biology breakthroughs in history; the culmination of a lifelong dream, and a grand occasion for the greatest hospitality he’s ever shown.

Being a kindly soul, it has never occurred to Theo that there can be too much of a good thing. His guest, however, may have ideas of his own…

Now available for your Kindle, Nook, and all other readers.

—Story Sample Below the Cut—

Self-Sustaining

by J. Daniel Sawyer

“…so tomorrow, we release it. Oh, thank you.” I accepted the goblet from my host as he passed by on the way to his throne at the head of the table. “They’ve got no idea what’s going to happen.”

Theo may have been a monk in all but name. He may have been a celibate prick with delusions of grandeur. He may even have been crazy (with the kind of money the man had, most people figured he was entitled). But one thing he wasn’t, was dull.

The Spanish red in the goblet he handed me was a minor evidence of the fact that anyone could discern after ten minutes in his inner sanctum: his studious isolation was matched only by his eloquence and his culinary taste.

Not that he indulged himself. The wine and the fancier foods were all at my end of the table to this point. A hospitable ascetic—one of the things besides his wallet that recommended him as a dining companion.

“You’ve done excellent work. Your entire team. A Nobel-worthy performance, certainly.” He flipped open the wire-cage on an old-fashioned beer bottle and decanted the contents into his stein. Home brewed, naturally.

“Not likely. It’s a process, not a discovery. And the committee’s gone sour on non-medical biotech since the Rossfield affair.” I decided to let the wine breathe for a moment.

“Still. Remarkable, my good man, just remarkable.” He took a sip of his beer. “Excellent, yes. You shall all receive an extra bonus, I think. Every man jack of you. An extra year’s pay as congratulations for a job well done.”

“I’ll drink to that!” I raised the goblet to my lips—not glass. Metal. Heavy. Ponderous. Exactly what you’d expect from a self-styled pseudomonk. The liquid inside had aged perfectly; smooth, dry, with a palate-cleansing finish that left the mouth feeling expectant, and empty.

Theo sipped his beer, and appeared to roll it around thoughtfully before swallowing. He smacked his lips and let go an appreciative “Ah, yes. Good batch—I’ll have to make this recipe again.” He smiled at me. “Blackberry lambic. Long prep time. Far more…decadent…well, I don’t indulge much, but for an evening such as this… A special occasion. Exceptions can be made.” He smiled, and I thought that behind his wizened eyes I saw a glint of mischief. “A special occasion for us both, I think. That what you’re drinking there, it’s my last bottle.”

“This is fabulous. Thank you again.” I didn’t know whether I should ask him why it was a good thing that I was taking his last bottle, so I decided to play it cool for the moment. I figured that when you’re sitting at dinner with a man who could easily buy a few small countries and still have money left over for a six pack, it’s best not to seem too easily impressed.

Of course, playing it cool didn’t leave a lot of maneuvering room for conversation. But my host didn’t leave me dangling for long. Our dinners arrived on the backs of robotic servants—another one of his affectations, born of his world-shaping moral philosophy. After taking another draught, he spread his hands in front of me.

“You may uncover your meal whenever you like.” He uncovered his own serving dish and forked a couple thin slices of meat onto his dish. He scrupulously avoided any vegetables, leaving them on the platter.

Me? I was starving. I’d had a long day wrapping up the stray pieces of a ten-year long project—in my elation I’d skipped lunch. But the yawning in my gut had nothing on the empty feeling that my mind had slid into. Accomplishment is like that – you work for years to make something happen, and the first result of winning is that you suddenly have nothing to live for, at least for a few days. Postpartum depression, comfortable as an old sweater, and twice as smelly. I lifted the lid from my dinner.

Now that was an odor as far from old sweaters as Albuquerque from Callisto. The tray was loaded with thin strips of meat—some looked to be steak, other strips were whiter or redder—stacked in the middle of a forest of asparagus spears and purple potato wedges. I took a healthy portion of what looked like steak, and another of what looked like chicken, and added some asparagus and potatoes, then covered the service to keep the heat in. And the smell. As hungry as I was, that smell would drive me straight into the rubber room even while I was eating—even the less concentrated version coming off my own plate had my mouth watering to beat Niagara.

The taste was even better than the smell, if such a thing is even possible. I started with the white meat–soft and melting and substantive with flavors I’d never learned to describe. Delicate and light, prune and savory and sharply sweet and turkey-salty flavors all wrapped up together in a primal package. I couldn’t speak while I ate, couldn’t even listen. I was loathe to even swallow, just in case the next mouthful wasn’t as good. Without a doubt, it was the most amazing meat I’d ever tasted.

It was…unbearable. Truly. I had to stop after only four bites to take a sip of the wine, hoping to God it would cleanse my palate so I could taste the meat again, and taste it fresh. I felt as if I’d just managed to reach the surface before my lungs collapsed, but though I could breathe in the world above, it would never again seem colorful or appealing.

“My God, Theo, what is this?”

Theo grinned as he sliced a small morsel for himself. Much smaller than the bites I’d taken—he obviously knew how to handle a meal like this. I’d spent the last god-knew-how-many-years in a lab, grabbing what food seemed good enough for me to survive the eighteen hour days. “Do you like it?”

End of sample. ©2011 J. Daniel Sawyer, All Rights Reserved

Read the rest on your
Now available for your Kindle, Nook, or other ebook reader. .

Step into Rick’s parlor. Don’t mind the bell on the door or the old fashioned cash register. Buy a manufactured novel, fresh from the computer—a first edition. Sit in the easy chair or lay out on the sofa. Strap on a helmet and a skinsuit and take a swim on Europa. He can be trusted. Really. It says so on the door. In ten foot high letters, right above the shop front, he tells you exactly what they do:

“We Create Worlds”

And they do it on the cheap.

You can find the story at Amazon and Smashwords.

—Story Sample Below the Cut—

We Create Worlds
by J. Daniel Sawyer

Grand re-opening!

This month only, get a free Hawaii upgrade with any family picnic!

Teach your children about planetary science. Show them the only other place in the known universe to have alien life! Free souvenir photobook with our new ‘Europa Excursion’ scenario. SCUBA certification required, training available.

Take your spouse to an exclusive adults-only resort in Luna City and get a free add-on fantasy package of your choice!

Chose from the best in manufactured literature available anywhere. For a limited time, buy one—get one free!

Opening the universe to you every day with state-of-the-art virtual reality.

We Create Worlds.

It was the same copy as our radio ads, but in the layout it popped. I arranged the words around a good solid curve. Busty, but subtle. Catchy. Nobody would know why they couldn’t stop looking at it, but when a human being sees an eddie or a zoomer it gets distracted. When the shape is disguised, hidden, or cryptic, the brain won’t let it go.

I was the best damn flyer we’d ever put out. Nobody’d used flyers for years—messy, environmentally unsound, irritating. Well, let me tell you, my dear voyeur, one generation’s headache is another’s heroin. Flyers may have been useless back when everyone was putting them out, but now they’re paper gold. Something tangible, makes the offer real. People can touch it, feel the little texture cues, the scent of the paper, and they believe that what they’re buying from us is also real.

So, for the shop relaunch, I went bollocks-out. Over the top, loading in all the subliminals, pheremonals, visuals, and NLP tricks. I knew they actually didn’t work for much, but it was a special occasion, and the owners appreciated the extra effort.

The crowning achievement was the new name—it’s the real reason the relaunch worked. Gone were the days of “Adult Realities.” It was “Rick’s Virtual Playground” no longer—false advertising anyway, since I never owned more than 3% of the shop and didn’t really want to. I mean, Christ, board meetings with the old Sicilians every quarter? Count me out. They smell like garlic and look like death on a good day, and they know this market about as well as a high-speed hunk of lead knows how to tap dance.

Now the new name…ah, the finest gift the goddess ever gave me for the price of a tab. It was straightforward. It was snappy. It reeled ‘em in like pike on a bait chain. It was perfect.

I’d done it up in a sign ten feet high across the front of the building, lit up so you could read it for a mile down the street: “We Create Worlds.”

And we do it on the cheap.

Hey, everyone needs to escape, and slipping off into a world where your brain doesn’t know the difference is a hell of a lot better than slipping your brain down into a needle. I’m a paramedic, and I know it. And, like any good paramedic, I give out treatments. I don’t cure.

Temporary, palpable escape into the worlds made in the closet. They’re gagging for it. Who wouldn’t be? They sit in cubicles, or plugged into net terminals, or hassled to death by their kids all day, and the real world just don’t have the shine it did when they were teenagers.

Everyone—and I do mean everyone—who walks through that door needs me. I mean, they could do it on their own. Most VR shops are self-serve. You walk in, order something up on a screen, and do your business. Most kids buy a home rig – they’re not quite as good, but they’re damn cheap. Nothing’s stopping ‘em, nobody’s holding a gun to their head to make them come here. I have to work for my bread. And if the shop doesn’t run well, I don’t eat. If it runs at a loss, I don’t breathe.

Yeah, I know, I know. The suit slobs aren’t good people to owe money too. It’s a high stakes game, but then, where else are you gonna get the money for a place like this? The market conditions are tough—nobody dared to build an arcade after the Xbox, and nowadays, nobody wants to go up against Sony and Disney in VR. Nobody’s that crazy.

Well, nobody that works at a bank, any road.

So, I provide adventure. I provide service. I keep my shop clean and my nose bent and do what I can to keep the customers satisfied. The job is its own reward, and the benefits are brilliant. When they leave here after a couple hours of happy delusion, their nonsensical grins tell me how long it will be until reality gets the better of them and they come back for the next fix.

Most are satisfied with a manufactured novel, though they don’t sell like they used to. Some people like to keep their fantasy at arm’s length, or at least enjoy the illusion that their secret peccadilloes are private. In the old days, they were the hook on a pretty direct route—they’d start out with the books, then move on to a good old fashioned hunter-killer game with a human quarry. A while later that palled and they’d switch sides in the game, and at that point, they’d need a jack for their fix, every time. The route ain’t so direct anymore, and our focus has changed a bit, but we still have something for everyone.

For example, Sunday afternoons are introverted loser day, with men coming in fresh from church for some serious worship with a projection of the pastor’s wife or the dance troupe leader.

You can see it, can’t you? We provide a valuable community service. Our Notorious World Leaders series gives the sadists a way to let off some good steam by officiating a human sacrifice, keeping a healthy harem of captive and unwilling women plundered from neighboring tribes, orchestrating battles, playing Torquemada or Bathory, or having a good old fashioned pedophillic dismemberment orgy with the Borgias or Tiberius. The only serial killers you’ll find operating in this one-horse town are the ones that come in here on Thursday night. People are kept safe, nobody gets hurt, and the owners stay happy.

If Pilate had my shop he’d never have needed a cross. No half-baked desert hippie could have had a chance to raise a ruckus when everyone else got top shelf stress reduction at hand.

Of course, when you keep a shop, each day is pretty much like the next, and that’s all there is to say. But man, oh man. That day started off with a rash of sorority birds lining up to use all the arenas at once. The suits ain’t compatible across genders—form-fitting sensor nets, them—and I ran dry on the fem suits at one point. The things don’t wash themselves, and those girls weren’t having no tea party.

No, for them it was a standard Hunter/Killer program—jungle variety terrorism, nice for working up a good sweat, and let me tell you, those birds are sadistic. Wouldn’t want to be set on them in a dark alley after seeing what they do to their friends over a game. And, holy hell, I had to network all the arenas together at once—when I spec’d the system for this place I didn’t get one designed to handle that much. Hey, I work on a budget, what could I do?

It was a royal bitch getting’ them routed around the fail-safes, but that’s why the the Red Man lost his shirt to the big penguin. There’s always a way. And it was worth it, let me tell you. At a hundred bucks a piece every hour I earned nearly a week’s commission in one day, and that ain’t the half of it. Ain’t gonna forget this’n—average day gets me maybe twenty regs at the outside and a couple itchin’ tenderfeets, but this place was hopping like a cockroach in a frying pan.

With sororities you can always tell the leader, she tugs the others around like a brood of goslings. She was shorter and rounder than the rest of them, but she moved like an empress and her voice was like chocolate.

“What’s the big occasion?”

“Oh, just a birthday party for one of the sisters.”

“You girls in a sorority then?” A blind rabbit could have smelled the Greek solidarity from the mint patch if he still had his nose about him, but it kept her talking.

I swiped her card and glanced down at the monitors. Her sisters were all at different points in the peeling process—did I say those VR suits are like a second skin? I forgot to mention how much they don’t look like real skin. Getting’ them gone was a definite improvement, at least until they finished their shower off and found their street clothes again. Not an ugly one in the bunch.

“Yeah, over at State. We’re having an end-of–the-year party next Wednesday, would you be interested?”

“Interest is my middle name, consider me there! Ah, here we go, your total is three K. If you like I can bill you monthly, or I can put it all in…or rather through…right now.”

“Hell, put it through now. Better than dealing with the bills.”

“Okay,” I punched my transfer auth into the keypad, “Looks like we have a winner. So…” I glanced at her American Express, “Erin, how can I find you this weekend? Saturday nights can be mighty cold up on that old drafty campus.”

She pursed her lips at me and winked, then slipped a card into my hand as I passed the AmEx back. Smooth as a velvet tongue, that girl. “Call me.”

Before I could continue the conversation a gaggle of her cohorts emerged from the dressing rooms. They flocked around her like she was a kool-aid vendor from Guyana—who could blame them? Her voice sounded like it walked out of a sex factory before they’d had a chance to fit it with a good suit of clothes. The other girls might be a pleasant diversion, but Erin…

I waved them out, just in time. Four hours of solid estrogen pollution hangin’ think in the air is enough to make any duffer choke takin’ a breath. Once I recover though…well, let’s just say that Erin’s way of plotting an ambush in the arena gives me the shivers. There was something there with that girl, and I couldn’t wait to find out what it was.

The bell on the door wasn’t my idea, one of the morons who owns a pile of stock certs has a bit of a fetish for things that dingle. His cat, his children, his goddamned cigar cutters, always dingling with those little rancid bells like they crawled out of Santa’s pants for air. Last time I saw him I had to spend the whole night in an arena watching old Beatles concerts until I couldn’t hear the dingle anymore over the constant torture of “Hey Jude” running through my brain. The bell was his revenge—he didn’t like it when the changeover caught him with his pants down in front of the other dons.

At least it’s only Mrs. Alvarez. She’s a regular, comes in here every now and then to fetch a new manufactured novel. She prefers insipid little romances, the ones that feature secret adulteries and long lost lovers cropping up in unlikely places. But I don’t judge, she’s a good customer, brings a lot of class to the place.

She’s plain, always wrapped up in that wool trench, too old to be really interesting. If my commission structure allowed it, I might feel sorry for her, stuck in what must be a loveless—or lifeless—marriage. If she were younger…nah, not worth it, and I don’t get paid for that. She likes her books, and I’m her bartender, not her magic man.

Even so, I programmed a new set of variables into her presets that she should find mildly shocking and very entertaining. I wouldn’t be doing my job if she wasn’t a little shocked, after all.

Way back in the beginning, we were only a manufactured book store. I got the place funded because I wrote the system. Best virtual AI in the world. This one can actually tailor the manufactured novel to the style of a thousand different authors, which set us apart and got us a more literate clientèle.

The literate ones, back when they were still a good demographic, were the ones who could afford the perks we were offering. I kept the easy chairs and couches even since that business dropped off—we haven’t needed the space yet and people do like to sit down and relax while they read, free of charge. Keeping them around usually means they’ll buy more than one.

Problem was that shortly after we opened, the fad died off. Literacy was passe again, and all the real book junkies went back to “sapient” novels, saying that stories written by humans were more “artistic.” That kind of pretentious nonsense was bad for business.

With that kind of boneheaded appeal to “culture,” we could either change our marketing strategy or we could fold. The money men didn’t fancy their investment failing after only a few thousand percent return, so we added manufactured movies and porn, and it did the trick. Business soared. We eventually made enough to install a few VR arenas and a couple of private rooms for those with advanced tastes.

Of course, none of them—especially not Dingle Man—listened to a damn thing I said. They spotted a good thing and ran with it, and they bought all the advertising they could. We were gonna saturate the market, expand, set up franchises. Well, they thought so.

They didn’t reckon with the main problem: VR porn is big on burnout.

At first, we had new customers come in and order full-on orgies, hard-core S&M sessions, and some stuff that still gives me the shudders thinking about it. Caligula had nothing on those morons, let me tell you. The thing is, you drop-shift a guy from vanilla sex with his high school sweetheart who he married in the little chapel down the road into that kind of theater and they’ll just stop showing up after a couple sessions. They knew what they wanted, what they wouldn’t admit to anyone, and they jumped right into it.

You gorge yourself for three days straight on caviar after eating graham crackers your whole life, and you just ain’t hungry anymore. And that’s assuming they lost interest—I spent a good month hiding from one pissed off woman who found her man out when he couldn’t get it up anymore.

So as sure as you get fertilizer out of a politician, when that happened things went downhill fast. That pissed off little missy got the community involved. The Baptists did what Baptists do best, boycotting us, picketing, blackmailing customers, the whole bit. We were gonna have to fold, and if we did it would be my arse in a sling. All that work, straight down the sewer pipes and flushed out to sea, and the money men’s special collection agents rapping on my door. There’s always gotta be someone to blame, and it’s never them.

I had to think fast before they found a better use for my head. I brought the problem to them, suggesting that we change the whole image. We could be wholesale fantasy, cater to everything, family friendly and the whole cartload. We’d change the name of the shop, and restrict the hard-core stuff to regulars who were already so hooked that they had no one at home left to tell.

They bought it, which meant I could stop sleeping with a gun under my pillow.

The re-branding was the last step, and we’ve done pretty well for it all. Saturday is family day—officially, anyway—and we keep the family scenarios fresh. The Hawaii offer from the ad is particularly popular, and it keeps the kids and the adults coming back for more. What starts as a novelty becomes an indispensable family pastime.

I don’t do too badly for it, either.

Damn that dingling door, always bombing the tracks right in front of a good train of thought. “Adds to the homey atmosphere” my eye. Paul—another regular—came in strutting like a peacock with a branch up his arse. About normal. He asked for the Battle of Waterloo. Again. Most people would want some variety, perhaps even a little triumph. Not this master of the financial universe.

“Paul, have you considered trying out one of the battles Napoleon won?”

“No, no.” He dismissed the idea with an aristocratic wave of his hand. “If the first great emperor won the battle already,” he snorted, “Child’s play. I deserve the honor—no, the glory!—of a more difficult battlefield.” His smirk…god…it’s almost as if he likes getting his arse kicked as penance for his success.

“You know, if you want challenge, I could up the danger by having Napoleon captured rather than killed.” Now, to confirm my theory.

“Ah!” sucking the air in like a goddamn elephant, “Give the first great emperor a chance to defeat the enemy from inside their own encampment.” Anticipation grew on his face and he tucked his right hand into his coat front.

“You cut a dashing figure, my lord. Your doom awaits you in arena 2. You’ll find a fresh suit and helmet in the dressing room.” I handed him the code card with the enhancements and he accepted it with an air of indifference, before sticking his puggish nose in the air and striding back to the dressing room. The piglet as an emperor.

Before he did “Waterloo” he played in H/K programs as the prey. The moment he began to outfox the computer, he upgraded to hopeless battles. He’s been doing “Waterloo” for two months, five days a week. The program says the battle lasted the better part of a day and a night, but Paul started out with three hour runs and whittled it down to under one. Every time he and comes out glowing like he’d had the best sex of his life. I think he’s beginning to believe he is Napoleon. Still, he isn’t the most colorful face I see every week.

Falk takes the cake for that. He is our biggest hard-core customer. If what I’ve seen on the monitors is any indication, the man has more imagination and concubines than Solomon. His stamina is almost as impressive as his credit line.

Almost.

The owners love him, he drops more money here every week than any two other people combined. I love him too; he’s usually around all day, so if I ever get bored, the screen for his booth is only a click away. It ain’t just entertainment, he’s so hooked that I can jack up the prices on him and he doesn’t mind. As long as I don’t pump them so high that I lose him, the owners cheer me on rather than sending me a dinner guest.

I love this business.

I love the people. I love the challenge.

I loved staying after hours. I’d turn off the experience recorders and use a private room myself. I had this program that started with a long massage with a golden-skinned Mexican girl, and I could make that one last until my balls were blue as a summer sky and I couldn’t walk straight. Ah, yes…

The stiff kinda ruined it for me—made me cut back and not go in so much. One of my regulars, should have been outta the store long time before closing—he must’ve paid in advance…it was a bloody mess. Slid a scalpel down his own throat…nasty, nasty. Put himself right out. Eighteen months back, now—last straw for the protesters. Apparently his “Secret Tryst” program was up—why does every lazy two bit git name his program like it was a c-movie?–and he couldn’t take reality any more. Made us shut the place down for six weeks to clean the blood out of the carpet and retool our image.

After all that time, I still couldn’t go back into arena two, it gave me the squeamies just thinking about it. So, I was careful. I couldn’t afford to lose touch like that. Better than the real thing, those created worlds, but I had bills to pay.

Paul finished his battle in only twenty minutes, a new record. Came out struttin’ through the shop glowing like a pregnant woman—you coulda lit a good sized orgy with the smile on his face. I reckoned he’d have to upgrade to the siege of Jerusalem next. I resolved to give his captors some personality next time—maybe some nice broom handles and some Vaseline—let him get his full penance in. That’d keep him happy until he was willing to move to a more hardcore scenario.

The sunlight spilled in over the hills between me and the bay, and I thought about the night at head. I didn’t have anything scheduled. I had to be in early tomorrow to supervise the system upgrade. We were adding a holographic arena in the old hock shop next door. All the demos made it look pretty slick. No helmets, just a latex face laminate for touch sensations. The images are projected in real-time and can be seen with the naked eye. No more retina projectors or VR bullshit. For those with the means, this is the next phase. I may have to try it, just for kicks. Mayhap it’ll ship with a trainer program—or I could use old faithful. Maya, the Mexican massage goddess.

When I went back to get Mrs. Alverez I found her layin’ back on the overstuffed velor sofa. She’d flopped her trench loose over the back so the wool prickled out, and her long peasant boots restin’ on the coffee table like it was a footstool, one crossed over the other under the fringe of her schoolmarm skirt and reading the manufacture I’d programmed for her. But it weren’t from one of the normal readers. She’d sprung the extra ten bucks for a hard copy and was making notes in the margins with a pencil.

In a manufactured novel?

I came close up behind her and tried to read over her shoulder, but her head kept getting in the way, so I cleared my throat. She turned around and looked up at me from her seat on the couch.

“I’m closing up, Mrs. Alverez, it’s time to go now.”

She nodded and closed her book, saying “Thank you, Rick. I’ll be along in a moment.” As she said so she put her book in her handbag and handed me her credit card.

As I walked back to my counter, something prompted me to glance back at her. Her hair had fallen from its usual matronly bun and was cascading in delicate black curls around her shoulders as she used a coffee table to stretch her muscles for the walk home. Her button-up trailed open and the edges hung loosely about her hips, showing a black bodice comin’ up outta her brown skirt. She couldn’t really be in her fifties …could she?

She looked up and nearly caught me staring, but I ducked behind my counter and performed the swipe. I punched in the auth codes, and “Transaction approved” flashed on the screen, and the console spat out a receipt for forty dollars US.

I thought about dialing up a massage program, but as I shifted my weight around on my feet I chucked the notion. I wanted to get moving. Needed to find a party to pull, or something to do. All day sittin’ behind the counter, washing suits, watching the experience monitors…I needed to get out and relax. Find something active to do.

I shut down the console and started the arenas on spin-down.

Mrs. Alverez came out from behind the display case and picked up the card and receipt, and I pushed her out of the store as politely as I could. No customers, nothin’ left to do, and I needed the air.

I punched the lock code, turned to walk off. I nodded at her.

“Good night, Rick. I’ll see you soon.” She gave me an ‘alf smile and kept lookin’ at me outta the corner of her eye even while she walked away. Her heels clopped steadily on the concrete as she walked out to the parking lot.

I needed to go find a way to unwind, but the breeze picked up and I caught a little smell of flowered talc on the breeze. Her boots stopped, I looked back after her and saw her taking a moment to look up at the moon, faint and hazy through the dull red sky.

She’d been writing—writing!—in the margins of a manufactured novel. She’d wasted pension money—you can tell a lot about a bird by the card she uses—on a hard copy when I knew damn well she had a serviceable reader.

She wasn’t moving, just standin’ there on the corner. Hell, I didn’t have any plans anyway. It wasn’t more than a minute’s walk to where she was leaning on the telephone pole.

“What were you doing in there?”

She looked at me like I’d spit on her shoe. “Excuse me?”

“Making notes on the manufacture, why were you doing that?”

Mayhap I was intruding. She arched her eyebrow at me and I suddenly felt like a little kid. Out from behind the counter, not working a party, not trying to chat someone up, I suddenly realized I had no clue what I was doing.

“Why the sudden interest, Rick? I’ve heard of stranger things happening in that shop of yours.”

“It just ain’t…normal. I mean, it’s a machine-made book; why…” It wasn’t a text book, wasn’t a croquet manual, wasn’t a bleedin’ astrophysics paper. It was a manufacture—pure entertainment. “It’s weird.”

She sighed into the night. “It’s a long story, Rick. Why don’t you walk me home and I’ll tell you about it?”

I hesitated, the cold city night tickling the back of my throat.

“Come on, I’ll cook you dinner.”

End of sample. ©2007 J. Daniel Sawyer, All Rights Reserved

Read the rest at Amazon and Smashwords.

You can find the story at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords. Below, you can find a sample.

Enjoy!

—Story Sample Below The Cut—

Tap, tap, tap.

The cane foot tapped measuredly on the plank, hammering out a steady tick-tock rhythm. It was not a rubber foot, such as had been common on cane-feet for a century now, but a proper pinned steel cane foot, suitable for a weapon or a prop to lean on or a scepter with which to gesticulate. It kept its clock-like rhythm even as a steam engine pulled out of the station, a few feet from the bench where its owner sat in his frock coat and top hat, measuring the minutes in percussive time.

The late afternoon summer was dry and hot, save for the oppressive blasts of humidity that coated the ticket window with fog for a few brief moments when a locomotive deigned to grace the lonely platform with its presence. The endless in-between times stretched on like the deep-split grain of the wooden planks that seemed to continue uninterrupted from one floorboard to the next. Across the double-tracks, past the far platform, flies and weevils swarmed above the autumn grain, taking from it what pickings they could before the harvest.

It was the last day of summer. Soon the dust would rise from the fields and the northern world would hunker down for a winter season that was comfortable and warm, circumscribed by brick and fiberglass, hearths long since replaced by electric heaters. The days when people froze to death for want of wood, or heating oil, or gas were well gone, but the anachronistic frock coat and cane went seemingly unnoticed on the forgotten railway line, where steam power serviced the nostalgic aging population whose automated homes drew nuclear power from the worldwide grid. The coming months would be a time of hibernation for Europe, but neither the cold slow yearly death the old world had endured, nor the slowed down fallow time of the new world were in the future of this man from out the storybooks of Conan Doyle or the misty streets of Whitechapel. And yet for all his out-of-place formality, the bench he sat on was wrought iron, and the foot of his cane kept perfect time. He seemed a fixture in the weatherbeaten station.

The steel band left small indentations in the old, grey oak, and the cane’s wielder was beginning to regret his promise to await the train from Bonn. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world. Leaving Gibraltar, they each had business to attend to, loose ends of past lives to tie up before they embarked together for the new frontier. She could have flown in, of course, the airport was near enough from their ship’s moorings. Or she could have driven, but somehow, even back in Morocco, the steam train had seemed best. It had seemed fitting that they leave their old world behind in its proper style, and the Orient Express and a few of the other remaining locomotives on the planet ran right past their destination.

So, it had been settled. They had kissed goodbye with promises to meed in two months. There had been chats, and vid calls, and letters, and every other sort of communication that was available to them, and when they got busy and went without each other for a few days or a week, their reconnection was that much sweeter for the absence. She was a hunger for him, as real as his need for meat and far more dearly sought, while he was to her like water. That’s what she had said, over and over again.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

That was what she had said, and he had believed her. But he had been here, waiting on the Orient Express, its last run of the summer, for two days. It had been delayed, there had been no word. Perhaps a mechanical breakdown had stranded it in a high pass – but he discarded the notion as soon as it occurred to him. This wasn’t the nineteenth century – there were were sat phones and radios, and if nothing else the ticket agent should know something.

But if he knew anything, he wasn’t telling.

She was a practical woman, not one to wait around for repairs. If the train were stranded she’d probably found a flat to let while she waited, even though the train had comfortable accommodations, she’d want to take advantage of a last chance to explore an alpine village. She’d dig in and sample the culture, find a club with a good local band and drink microbrews. She’d tour the local historical monuments and maybe have a long conversation over chess in whatever language was spoken in that remote corner of the world.

She spoke all the languages, she’d have no trouble blending in. But when her train departed she’d be on her way to him again, forsaking whatever brief affair she found to occupy her time, to be her last hurrah.

Assuming she had gotten on the train at all. Assuming she would tear herself away from her new life by the stranded train.

Tap. Tap. Tap…

—

End of sample. ©2007, J. Daniel Sawyer. All Rights Reserved

Read the rest atAmazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords.

My friend Danny Schade has now soundtracked two and a half books for me over the last couple years. For Predestination, he composed upwards of nine hours of music, and it made such an impression that people started immediately clamoring for versions they could listen to without the story talking over it.

A year ago, Schadey came out to ArtisticWhispers where he and I brought in veteran producer Mary Mason, and the three of us proceeded to rework the music into an album. In that first glorious weekend, we culled those original nine hours down to nineteen emblematic tracks with a running time target of between fifty minutes and an hour. Then, over the year since, in stolen moments, Schadey composed and recorded new material and arrangements at his home base in Colorado, while we here in California re-mixed, produced, sweetened, polished, and sometimes re-orchestrated the original material, blending the old with the new to bring Schadey’s audio vision snapping to the fore. The result is one we now proudly present to you, for the first time anywhere: A one hour instrumental genre-spanning rock opera. Predestination: The Soundtrack.

Available now as a DRM-free MP3 download.

Also, don’t forget that the novel which started it all is now available as an ebook, with all new scenes and other material to deepen the world and set you up for Free Will, which is coming in June. Get it now for Kindle, Nook, and for all other readers on Smashwords. And, of course, if you like the artwork, you can get a signed and numbered limited edition poster print for your private gallery.

And remember…
…It isn’t whether you win or lose. It’s how you rig the game.

When last we left Rick, he was having a pleasant–if confusing–day. But will it last?

Find out, in the conclusion to We Create Worlds.

This is the story of Rick. He’s a scurrilous, irascible scoundrel, with a heart of gold. Not in the sense of being warm and fuzzy and good underneath, but in the sense of having a heart totally devoted to gold. His favorite goldmine is his shop, an entertainment venue where he vends virtual reality and manufactured novels to his latter-day escapist customers. He runs a tidy shop, he keeps his customers happy, and he always knows the right party to hit to find a pliable college girl with more cocaine than sense. Life is good. But life has a way of doing unexpected things, and the world has a way of changing around the most adaptable people.

So, please step into Rick’s parlor. Don’t mind the bell on the door or the old fashioned cash register. Buy a manufactured novel, fresh from the computer, a first edition. Sit in the easy chair or lay out on the sofa. Strap on a helmet and a skinsuit and take a swim on Europa. He can be trusted, really. It says so on the door. He’s completely upfront with his advertising. In ten foot high letters, right above the shop front, he tells you what they do in his place:
“We Create Worlds.”

And he does it on the cheap.

Mondu, once an AI designer at the top of the Nigerian IT industry, needed to escape from a life that was eating him alive. He found refuge as a shopkeeper in the depths of the Amazon, at a unique resort. It’s a preserve for all forms of Amazon life–reptiles, mammals, and human and material culture. No modern technology allowed.

In a world of dictators and perpetual surveillance, it is one place where a man can disappear–and Mondu isn’t the only one who knows it. When the tourist traffic is driven out by torrential rains, only the businessmen and the scientists remain–until the day when a man walks into Mondu’s shop. He wants to disappear–and the Yakuza are hot on his tail.

The story is now available at Amazon and Smashwords, and is coming soon to other retailers.

Those of you familiar with The Antithesis Progression will recognize the characters and the universe, but this story stands alone. Consider it an appetizer for the main event coming later this month. But until then, I invite you to join me for an excursion into the heart of the Amazon for a tale as close and dangerous as the jungle itself…

The Man In The Rain
An Antithesis Adventure
by J. Daniel Sawyer

Read the rest! Purchase this story for Kindle at Amazon, and for all other readers and in all other formats at Smashwords.

In 1860s Manchester, young Jamie Broadman wasn’t much to look at, and he was even less to talk to. His wealthy industrialist father wasn’t impressed with him, his brother was a prodigy engineer, so they both allowed him to drift into a life in the stables. It was a life he wanted–working with horses, keeping company with servants, living in the country far from the concerns of education, business, culture, and politics.

With the kind cooperation of the British Museum and the Broadman Estate, these are the edited diaries of the man who single-handedly created the modern world…by accident.

The story is now available at Amazon and Smashwords, and is coming soon to other retailers.

And now, a sample to whet your appetite:

Cold Duty
Selected Readings from the Diary of a Gelusian Repairman
by J. Daniel Sawyer

Preface

What follows are edited transcripts from the audio diary and excerpts from the written journal of James Broadman, technician and stockholder, Broadman Royal Materials Corporation. These transcripts were created from the original handwritten journals and the recordings on prototype Seanaic wax cylinders with a grant from the Broadman Estate and was committed to the British Museum historical collection, July 1, 1940.

15 November, 1860
Source Medium: Wax Cylinder #109

It ain’t every day a man gets his first real job. I probably wouldn’t ha’ gotten it had me father had his way. He pegged me as shorter on brains than me brother when I was a young’n, and sure’n if he weren’t proper in that. I don’ mind. I liked me work in the stables, keepin’ the horses clean and fed and healthy when I was a lad. The rest of the track ran around me, with a Watts engine runnin’ the Davy arcs and the well pump and the starter gates and old Jimmy keeping the Watts in good nick. I kept the animals happy. First just the family’s, then all the boarded ones. I wasn’t supposed to have nothin’ else to do. But time came when the old Jimmy couldn’t keep on his feet anymore for the drink, and I didna wanna see the old goat get shipped, so I gave him a fresh bottle of whisky and stole his tool belt from him.

Turned out to be no great thing to replace the gaskets, or clean the valves, or service the giant puffer. Nobody told me how, it was just came kinda natural to me, fixin’ things—no different than finding a little rock in an animal’s hoof.

I’ve always reckoned I’d run the stable for the rest of me life, and you know, that woulda suited me just fine. Me days filled with the horses and the smithee and the sounds of the engine, me nights taken down at the pub with Simon or trying to coax Charlotte out onto the green.
But it was me brother Sean that finally caught me at it, last night. The turbine on the Watts engine had gone, and the two Davy’s arcs were dim. They were supposed to stay lit, and with everyone else gone home, it was down to me to get it up again, and without settin’ the shop on fire with the candles or the gaslights.

When I got the pressure vented and the turbine cowlin’ open I found a few copper brushes set to stroke against some brightly colored disks that the turbine spun. I’d seen inside before, when I were nine and Jimmy replaced one of the disks. I remembered then that the brushes were actually supposed to drag along the discs, but tonight several of ‘em brushes weren’t makin’ contact anymore, and two of ‘em were worn all down to the nub. Old Jimmy wasn’t anywhere about, and I’d never needed to do up any of the generator parts from scratch before.

Lookin’ around, I found a couple of the brushes at the left end of the turbine were new and had a lot of slack on ‘em. I could tell Jimmy in the morning that he needed to make new ones—for now, I’d just snip the slack and use it to replace the ones that had gone off, which was all well and good until I heard Sean’s voice behind me when I was closin’ the cowlin’.

“How long have you been doin’ that, now?”

I jumped. Me brother never came down to the track except for the races. Turning round to face him, I saw his arms crossed and his eyebrows raised. “Who taught you to fix the Watts?”

I told him nobody taught me, it just had to be done.

“Good with machines then, are ya?” Sean had his full dress on, military from toes to crown. I felt shabby standin’ in front of the family genius, but then I always had done. I took my ‘cerchief out of my pocket and mopped the oil off my hands.

“I reckon so.”

“Clean it up. Guv wants you down at the house.”

He spun around on his heels and strode out of the stable. When his back was turned I didn’t feel like a kid so much anymore.

I thought cleanin’ up would be enough, but when I walked into the Guv’s study I felt like a grease monkey all over again. Sean was there, sitting with a brandy in his hand in one of the Guv’s matched wingbacks. Opposite him the Guv had his pipe going, and right after I come in he moved his horse and said “Check.”

“’Scuse me, Guv?”

“Jamie, good.” He didn’t really even turn to look at me. I didn’t really expect him to. “We’re taking Brass Farthing down to run her in the Royal Ascot. Have her ready to board the eight fifteen tomorrow.”

“Yes sir. I’ll have ‘er up for ya.” I made to go, but after Sean made his move they both stood an’ Lord above if the old Guv didn’t walk straight up to me and clap me on the shoulder.

“Jamie, your brother here tells me you’ve got a way with machines.”

Now I don’t know how this’ll change now that this all gone down, but Sean and I never were the best of friends. He’s six years older than me and smarter than an owl—got himself learnin’ at university and all—and he always made sure I knew I was dim as candle drippings. But he looked pleased, in that kinda friendly way, and not mean at all, so I decided not to lie to the Guv.

“Yes sir, I s’pose I do. They just makes sense to me, and I ain’t never met one I couldn’t get along with. They got spirit, like a good horse, but they ain’t as hard to talk to.”

The Guv nodded his head in some earnest, like he just found the final piece to a puzzle. “Well then, you’d better pack your bag then too. We could use a man like you at the plant in London. Someone in the family, someone we can trust. Yes, pack it well, my boy. If you work out, you’ll be vital to our operation.” He gave me a final nod, then looked back to Sean and said. “Well, that’s done. Who’s move is it?”

The two of ‘em went back to their game like I wasn’t even there. I s’pose I shoulda been put out, but I was set and fit to bust. I took the carriage back out to the track and brushed Brass Farthing down, packed in her tack, and then sidled up to my quick room above the stables. I got me bed and room all proper down at the estate, but I stay here most nights. I got me kit all packed now, everythin’ I might need for weeks. I wanted to go tell Simon and Charlotte the news, but I ain’t gonna get the chance before we’re off in the morning, so I’ll have to post them from the train.

It ain’t every day a man gets offered a job on merits. Not every day at all. But Jesus come home, it sure is a fine thing.

What if somewhere in the universe there was a room, and in that room was a creature, surrounded by screens and dials and controls? In his room, he sees all, knows all, manages all. He directs the thoughts and actions of every being in the cosmos. Would such a creature be God? And what would it be like to be that being, spending your days and nights watching the screens, and managing the affairs of all beings from a control room?

Have you ever seen that well-dressed man at the airport, or the station, who stands patiently by as if he has all the time in the world? Have you wondered who he was waiting for, and how long he’d stay? Have you ever been that man, stuck in the hours between delay and disappointment, with no way to know if the person you’re waiting for will show? Join me in this episode as I take you to the mountains of Northern Italy at the dawn of the 22nd century for the story of a woman and a train–and of a walking stick and the man who owns it, as he waits for Train Time.

Vanity
For your starter today, I’ve recently finished Sam Harris’s book The Moral Landscape. We recently had a three episode set discussing the premise and arguments Harris addresses in the book. I’ve also posted a review at Goodreads. It’s an interesting and provocative book–if you have an interest in ethical philosophy, I highly recommend it.

Whimsy
This is an oldie, but goodie, video of a squid filming its own escape from a skin-diver.

Civil Liberties
Are you offended and frightened by the recent shooting? Wish you could silence people who are talking about “targeting” and “taking down” the opposition? Think that such speech is the moral equivalent of a terrorist threat? I humbly suggest that you might want to rethink your position in light of this excellent piece from Slate.

In a similar vein, the attempt to silence political speech on the Internet has been whole-heartedly embraced by the Obama administration. EFF brief here.

Politics
In the “I reserve skepticism but it’s starting to look like I was wrong” department, there’s encouraging news about the early effects of the new health care bill.

Business and Writing
In the “cool research for Steampunkers” department, the Guardian talks about the FEMALE criminal underworld in Victorian London.

Ever wondered what the real scoop is on the most important part of you’re book’s marketing (i.e. the cover)? Turns out that Laura Resnick did a very extensive series of articles a few years back that goes in depth on how the whole business of covers works. Well worth the read.

The charming Kate Elliot posts a great article at SFWA offering advice to teen writers from someone who’s been there. If you’re a teen writer, check it out.

Bob Mayer expresses admirably why I’ve not yet done a book trailer, and why it would take a special project for me even to consider it. A quick read, worth the click.

For your treadmill-listening pleasure, Gail Carriger gives a delightful and characteristically witty interview with SF Signal, discussing the impact of social media on the book industry and the author’s business model.

Nathan Lowell’s publisher Robin Sullivan does a guest blog for J.A. Konrath in which she busts some myths about indie publishing and talks about the sales growth curve of her authors. Interesting, useful stuff.

If you thought 2010 was tumultuous for the publishing industry, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Borders is in the process of a crash-and-burn, and depending on how it goes down, it could do anything from expanding the print-book market to seriously shrinking it over the near-to-medium term (though I doubt it will actually sink any of the publishing houses along the way, it may mean a lot less cash going around to buy new titles). If you have print books on the market or on the way to market, it behooves you to read Joshua Blimes’s excellent and thorough Borders post-mortem report.

Science and Technology
As an enthusiastic tender of a bacteria culture (lacto bascillus San Francisco), this kind of stuff fascinates me. An in-depth article, with sub-links, on the unique ecosystems that exist within cheeses.

Perhaps I’m showing my age–and I can’t believe I just said that–but I’m still blown away by the return of lay people to the sciences. Last week, a ten-year-old girl discovered a brand-new supernova, and setting a world-record in the process.

The Singularity (in the loose sense) continues apace with the development of contact lenses that display information directly in the field of vision. This is the very epitome of “augmented reality” technology. Wonder how long it’ll be until we can buy them at Walgreens.

Another nifty extra-solar planet discovery–this one very like Mercury.

It’s early days yet, but there’s more rumblings from legitimate autism research that might just have nailed down one of the reasons for increasing incidence and prevalence of Autism Spectrum Disorders in the last couple decades. Encouraging news, as this one is completely preventable. Also weird as hell, which tickles my interest-o-meter.

In archeology news, physicists seem to have cracked the secret of the Mayan ability to make dyes that last forever.

At the end of December, the BBC did a wonderful 1-hour documentary on the most world-shaking scientific and technological advantages which, thanks to the marvels of YouTube, you can now see for yourself.

Along similar lines, here’s an article on 8 Science Fiction gadgets and plot devices that became a reality in 2010.

Laser weapons deployed for use on the high-seas! That’s right, non-lethal stun lasers are now being tested for use against pirates. No joke!

And, for the sake of great science-fictiony fun, here’s a great essay by Ronald Bailey speculating on the GOOD things that the lack of ET signals could portend.

Orwell
In other news, moral crusaders continue to Bowdlerize and lie about history “for the sake of the children.” If I can point to the single most harmful strand of human nature, aside perhaps from the propensity to commit genocide, this is the one I’d pick.

On the other hand, there are people of genuine moral fiber still circulating in the world. If you want something that will make you cry or stand up and cheer, check out this statement by the father of one the 9-year-old girl slain in the assassination attempt this week. Someone who takes his responsibility as a member of the body politic seriously enough that he’s unwilling to call for the curtailment of the civil liberties of others as salve for his grief? Uncommon! And displays most excellent character.

Weird Apps
Digital Life has info on an app for all you iPhone folks that will tell you when you can leave the theater to hit the bathroom without missing any plot points in currently-released movies. Behold, RunPee!

And that’s it for this time. Catch you around next time the world gets weird!

Also, they’re fun to rant about.

So, for the first entry in this series: Plots that depend on thinly-justified character derailment.

1) Characters act out of character because an alien took them over
Invariably, the “acting out of character” is so obvious that a blind macaque could spot it at a hundred yards, and yet their friends never notice until it’s convenient for the plot. Also, see #5

2) Characters act out of character because a virus is running rampant
There are viruses that do this. Recent research suggests that a virus might even be responsible for schizophrenia. However, such viruses aren’t cured by a quick zap by the magic thingamajig. They don’t cause the most plot-convenient conflict. And people don’t magically forgive injuries done to them by a virus-maddened former-friend who’s now trying to kill them, steal their spouses, and sexually molest their pet parakeets.

3) Characters act out of character because a computer replaced them with a hologram.
Really, guys, is this the best you can do? A computer wants to feel what it’s like to be human so it takes over someone’s life? Again? Didn’t I see this on every other SF show ever produced? And didn’t it really suck then too?

4) Characters act out of character because someone stole their DNA.
Because, really, if you were jealous of someone’s life, you couldn’t think of a better way to get petty vengence than by putting your body through a painful and likely fatal mutagenic process just so you could attempt to pass for them and kiss their significant other? Whatever happened to framing someone for murder, besmirching their character, or doing something else that might,for example, leave you alive and able to feast on the spoils of your victory instead of dying a horrible death at the hands of your own experiment? Or worse, getting contrived forgiveness after everyone you just greviously wronged manages to save your sorry ass from your own blinding stupidity?

5) Characters act out of character because someone stole their body/swapped bodies with them.

The personality exists in the brain, which is part of the body. If you’re going to swap bodies, you’re going to have to do a brain transplant. If, in your fictional universe, there is an immaterial soul that carries the personality, is it really going to sit around defenseless while you try to redirect it into another body by clever manipulation of television antennae (or the functional equivalent)? If your soul is so fragile that it’s vulnerable to anything nearly as flimsy as the Mcguffin’s in Science Fiction, then having one is clearly overrated in the first place–or your fictional universe would have fallent to pieces at the drop of the hat far before the time when your story takes place.
This story is dead, really. Heinlein did this one first, and best, with The Puppet Masters. The rip-off, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, was almost as good. When something’s been done as good as it can be done, you just stop. Period. In both cases, these worked because they paid attention to the way human anatomy, physiology, and psychology work: The Puppet Masters hijacked the nervous system but left the original personality intact, while the Body Snatchers made a cosmetic copy of the body and killed the original person off while they slept, but copied over memories to avoid confusion.

6) Characters act out of character because an imaginary scientific anomoly is driving people crazy
Because, in real life, when astronauts go through the Van Allen belt, or walk on different planets, or breathe a different oxygen mixture, or look at the sun without sunglasses, or get exposed to radiation, or inadvertently eat bad food, they always go on a psychotic killing rampage or a nymphomanicial sex bender or feel the irrepressible urge to reconfigure their equipment to enable an alien invasion.

7) Characters act out of character because of an external influence because it’s the only way to get the characters to have sex.
Because we all know that post-pubescent and otherwise apparently mature adults (particularly unrealistically attractive single ones who are constantly flirting), never, ever have sex with anybody–and if they do, they’re completely embarassed and self-conscious for several episodes, unless they can claim that an alien plague made them do it.

Characters act out of character because the plot requires them to be uncharictaristically stupid.
Because really, where’s the drama potential in a cast of highly intelligent, eccentric characters with opposing interests and differing vaules all being forced to work together (i.e. the plot of every series drama ever written)? You could never get conflict out of that. What you really need is for someone to accidentally lick an experimental battery and decide to take over the world.

9) Characters act out of character because it’s the only way to generate enough conflict to keep the story interesting.
See #8, but remove the experimental battery justification.

10) Characters act out of character for any bullshit reason involving made-up science, magic, violations of the laws of physics, or an insult to the viewer’s intelligence.
Granted, this would kill over 90% of all televised science fiction, but you can’t make an omlette without killing a few writers.

But first, I begin with a special treat for my free-wheeling brewer friends. Beer has always been a problem in space — not because of drunk piloting, but because weightlessness does weird things to the sense of taste. There’s also the question of what the bubbles will do to the body, and how drinkable beer will be in zero G anyway. Fortunately, someone is officially working on these problems so that we can take into space with us the drink that made civilization possible in the first place: Click here for Space Beer!

Now, on to the main courses:

Consumerism
As part of the Book Retailer wars, Sears will double your Christmas shopping budget by effectively giving away free books.

Autodidacticism

Can’t afford a Harvard education, but have the drive and desire to get one? Well then, today’s your lucky day. Harvard has started offering some classes online for free

History
Bet you, like most people born after WW2, thought Color Photography didn’t really get going until the late 1930s, right? Well, think again. Here’s some gorgeous Color Photos from the great depression in Colorado and some even more amazing Color photos from Imperial Russia (the Ukraine and Uzbekistan, near as I can make out).

Writing
If you live with a writer, or are dating a writer, or think writers are sexy (we are), there are a few things you should know.

Here’s some advice I should pay more attention to: How to write magnetic headlines

An attempt to make an IMDB for Speculative Fiction books and audio: SpecFicDB

For those of you looking to get press for your new indie book, or those of you looking to sample something that’s not just published slush, here’s an Aggregate list of indie book reviewers

Some delightful fan mail from the Golden Age Science Fiction magazines, all written by girls.

Jordan Summers has a series of reports from the Novelists Inc. conference on piracy, some low-down contractual moves by publishers as they panic in the new marketplace, and more. A must read for any writer.

Vanity
Fair Warning: These next couple writing-related links feature me. First, my post on The Creative Penn’s blog about How To Survive the Ebook Apocalypse

And then, there’s an hour of me talking turkey and story with Mark Jeffrey on his video podcast This Week in Books The goofy looking guy is me.

Science
The man who gave us The Thumbprint of God, Benoit Mandlebrot, died this week. Check out his glorious TED talk here. If you don’t know who Mandlebrot was, or how he and a few of his friends fundamentally changed the game in ever sphere of life, check out This BBC Documentary

Over in Climate-change land, the fight has broken into four camps: The alarmists, for whom we are all doomed and deserve it as punishment for our technological/capitalistic sins; The Warners, who think we’d better do something so we don’t royally screw ourselves; the Skeptics, who are cautiously doubtful of policy prescriptions but also cautiously accepting of a preponderance of evidence; and the Deniers, who think it’s all a left-wing anti-business plot (this taxonomy stolen shamelessly from Stuart Brand). Sometimes, there’s an interesting dataset that allows the skeptics and Warners to make common cause, despite any underlying differences, because they share the same respect for good science. Here’s one such instance, very intelligible to laypeople: a climate history that takes into account all known natural climate cycles AND anthropogenic effects.

If you ever lost a pet as a child, chances are you heard some version of the “Doggie Heaven” story. The one I heard was that Heaven will be happy, and if I want my dog when I’m there, she’ll be there waiting for me. Of course, as we get older we realize that this is a lie told to us by well-meaning parents who, regardless of whether they believe in human heaven or not, don’t really believe in doggie heaven. After all, dogs don’t have a spirituality, do they? Well, according to new neurological research, if humans have anything that can be called “spiritual awareness,” then so do dogs, and most other higher animals.

Social Scientists have a lot to say about educational policy,economics, politics, family values, and culture, so sometimes it’s important to step back and take a long hard look at what they do and do not actually know at this point in history. (This is an excellent article)

Ethics:
And, finally, from the philosophy of ethics department, a paper that argues lucidly that you can’t be good without Science Fiction.

More Reprobates and the final Balticon Adventure next week!
And don’t forget to buy the new Clarke Lantham mystery And Then She Was Gone next Friday!

And now, Episode 4 of Free Will and Other Compulsions. Story So Far by Steve Riekiberg, host of Geek Cred.

Cast this week (in order of appearance):
Nathan Lowell as Senator William Shelley
Miss Kalendar as Ali Hartman
Kitty Nic’Iaian as Fugitive and The Answering Service
Andrea Fender as The Moon Girl
Michael Lemonjello as The Fish Man
Mark Smith as The Jet Pack Man

And now, Episode 3 of Free Will and Other Compulsions. Story So Far by Blake Charlton – find his book Spellwright, forthcoming from TOR at his home page.

Cast this week (in order of appearance):

Miss Kalendar as Ali Hartman
Stephanie Sawyer as Cassy Orinthal
Kitty Nic’Iaian as Fugitive and The Answering Service
Kim The Comic Book Goddess as Val

Part three of three of the live call-in show that launched Down From Ten — this one plays almost like a Reprobates Hour episode on the history of the podcast novel. A change of pace from the previous episodes, and a very interesting one.

This one features Miss Kalendar along with Chris Lester and Kitty Nic’Iaian.

This is part two of the final round of Dealing In. Part three will be coming next week. You guys rock!

In this episode, we deal with some very particular and intelligent criticisms of Predestination voiced by Paul Fischer and Michael Spence.

-Dan

This one features Miss Kalendar along with Chris Lester and Kitty Nic’Iaian.

This is it, folks, the final round of Dealing In before we get to Down From Ten. We toast the successful conclusion of Predestination and look forward. Some info on Down From Ten here, as well as some very involved conversations about the themes of Predestination, the possible interaction of quantum mechanics and consciousness, and the nature of trust. Not to mention a LOT of laughs, some inside information on what I’m like as a director, and lots of other stuff. This is one of three episodes in this final Dealing In saga — 61 minutes of audio goodness here. Enjoy!!!
-Dan

Part 1 of the final Dealing In (well, the final one before the end of the book) is here! This week’s serves up a mountain of your emails on a range of topics including:

Old Europe
Bastiat’s Principle
Buried Alive In The Blues
Steampunk (Van Der Meer, Broadmore, Carriger)
Soulless by Gail Carriger
The Red Panda and Black Jack Justice — Decoder Ring Theater
Heather Welliver
The basics behind stereo imaging
McCarthyism and Bill Shelley
Flight of the Conchords “The Humans Are Dead”
Easter Eggs in Predestination
First Gulf War
Xanatos gambits and bounded perspective
Is stealth technology in space possible?
Chicken Scissors
Tom Lehrer
Man Love in Metamor City and on Erotica A La Carte
Scott Sigler’s The Crypt
Angels Unawares

Kitty Nic’Iaian and Chris Lester join, once again. Enjoy!