During revising we are encouraged to Cut Cut Cut. Concise prose is highly valued.
I see that, I really do. But I am a major fan of Dickens and Gabaldon. I like wordiness. The more sensuous the words on the page, the more I enjoy the book.
Partly this comes from my early childhood reading experiences. My Mama read Dr Seuss stories to me practically from birth, and I learned to read at age 4 by bugging my older bothers to share the books they were reading in school. Consequently, I had a VERY developed vocabulary and reading ability at a young age.
The summer before my fourth grade year I ran out of books. We lived 30 miles from the nearest library and only went into town once each month. I had read everything on the shelf at home as was driving my mother insane with whinging. Finally, in desperation, she pulled Shakespeare's Complete works off the shelf and challenged me to read it.
She said, "You won't understand it the first time you read it, but just go back and re-read it until you do understand."
She was looking for a good way to get me off her back. It worked. I grabbed the dictionary and the Works and disappeared for the remainder of the summer.
I read it, and read it and read it again. The first time it was mostly gobbeldy-gook. The second time I began to get a sense of the rhythm and flow. The third I began to grasp the plots, and by the fourth time through I was completely enamored with the elegance of the language and the power of the stories.
In the end run, we must right what we know. I know and love words. My goal now is to communicate this well enough that others who feel the same will provide the market for what I write.
Of course I am still cutting, tightening and polishing my work. I just doubt that the word concise will ever be applied to my writing!
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Disgust, Disgust, Disgust
I just read about a video game that is about rape!?!?!?
In what universe is this ok? I understand the protests that you can't really regulate artistic expression - but really?!? It is ok for young men to play-act RAPE? I have long felt that video games are dangerous in the same way pornography is - small doses do no harm, but repeated exposure and obsession can lead to real mental problems. Garbage in = Garbage out.
So how do we fight back?
In what universe is this ok? I understand the protests that you can't really regulate artistic expression - but really?!? It is ok for young men to play-act RAPE? I have long felt that video games are dangerous in the same way pornography is - small doses do no harm, but repeated exposure and obsession can lead to real mental problems. Garbage in = Garbage out.
So how do we fight back?
Monday, March 29, 2010
Search for a Pen Name Part 2
Well, I don't think you can choose a pen names these days without googling it to see if any other person has claimed that name.
Looking just at the two options using some form of my own name reveals that Eddie Louise is already me - ie I have an established web presence (including a review in the Scotsman of an opera I wrote the libretto for. The only other Eddie Louise of note is a black male with a mugshot on line. Most importantly, no-one has the domain name eddielouise.com.
Louise Michaels is a bit more problematic, as there is an artist by that name and she has claimed the domain name.
So, unless I choose to go with a name unrelated to my own, Eddie Louise it is.
As a side note, Deuce Roadkill has announced that he is the secondary star of a YA novel. Evidently my 1950's heroine (whom I haven't met yet) is obsessed with the many adventures of Deuce Roadkill and is patterning her behaviors after him to the consternation of her conservative father and stay-at-home mom. Like most ideas I have that come at inconvenient times, I will note it in the small blank book I carry everywhere and save the story idea for a rainy day.
Looking just at the two options using some form of my own name reveals that Eddie Louise is already me - ie I have an established web presence (including a review in the Scotsman of an opera I wrote the libretto for. The only other Eddie Louise of note is a black male with a mugshot on line. Most importantly, no-one has the domain name eddielouise.com.
Louise Michaels is a bit more problematic, as there is an artist by that name and she has claimed the domain name.
So, unless I choose to go with a name unrelated to my own, Eddie Louise it is.
As a side note, Deuce Roadkill has announced that he is the secondary star of a YA novel. Evidently my 1950's heroine (whom I haven't met yet) is obsessed with the many adventures of Deuce Roadkill and is patterning her behaviors after him to the consternation of her conservative father and stay-at-home mom. Like most ideas I have that come at inconvenient times, I will note it in the small blank book I carry everywhere and save the story idea for a rainy day.
Friday, March 26, 2010
An Author's Bio and Pen Name
Taking a little break from editing (it is going really well today - but just need a moment to clear my head) and wondered about my author's bio. You know, the little blurb about me to put at the end of a book.
I am not sure 'learned how to tell great big lies at an early age' is quite the right thing. I am sure I can think of something!
As for a pen name I have thought of many - choose your favorite:
Using my own name or some deritive thereof:
Or an anagram:
Anybody got suggestions?
I am not sure 'learned how to tell great big lies at an early age' is quite the right thing. I am sure I can think of something!
As for a pen name I have thought of many - choose your favorite:
Using my own name or some deritive thereof:
Eddie Louise
Louise Michaels (this is my middle name + my husband's)
Or an anagram:
Lace Riddek (Eddie Clark)
Deuce Roadkill (Eddie Lou Clark) Hmmm... not quite right.
Anybody got suggestions?
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Rules for Writing?
There are many interesting things said in this Guardian article.
Truthfully - I generally just try to write something I would enjoy reading.
Truthfully - I generally just try to write something I would enjoy reading.
The Revision Process
I am neck deep in revision of Devil in Her Dreams. Making Nick more aggressive and dangerous - clarifying the roles of the triplets - correcting horrid grammar errors committed after too much tea and too little sleep. Basically, all those things you do to turn the rough, raw lump of stuff that came out of your brain into a readable book.
I have been given a bit of encouragement by an author friend of mine and will be submitting the manuscript to an agent she has recommended.I may never be a published author, but I will be damned if that is for lack of trying!
In the meantime I do daily battle with self doubt, read book after book for inspiration, and hold fast to the idea that I just want to tell stories!
I have been given a bit of encouragement by an author friend of mine and will be submitting the manuscript to an agent she has recommended.I may never be a published author, but I will be damned if that is for lack of trying!
In the meantime I do daily battle with self doubt, read book after book for inspiration, and hold fast to the idea that I just want to tell stories!
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Not a Winner - but Not Conceding Defeat Either
Thanks to my friends and family for the kind words of support. They have not fallen on deaf ears. I did not win at NaNo - but I am going to keep writing on this book. Even working 14 hour days and part or all of 3 weekends in November, I managed 10,000 words. Not only did I not have time to write, but I didn't have time to post what I have written here.
My story is gripping me and I am dreaming it which is always a good sign, so I am going to continue working on it. I will start posting again - maybe two or three times a week in 500 to 1000 word segments to make it easily readable in the BLOG format.
As I told Clarice - I WILL finish this book, and the revision of the first one, and the completion of the unborn first one (yes, Heather, The Gentry Witch will see her day!). I will continue to write - because it brings me joy, because the stories keep bubbling out of me, because of the love and support of my family and friends.
Thank you.
My story is gripping me and I am dreaming it which is always a good sign, so I am going to continue working on it. I will start posting again - maybe two or three times a week in 500 to 1000 word segments to make it easily readable in the BLOG format.
As I told Clarice - I WILL finish this book, and the revision of the first one, and the completion of the unborn first one (yes, Heather, The Gentry Witch will see her day!). I will continue to write - because it brings me joy, because the stories keep bubbling out of me, because of the love and support of my family and friends.
Thank you.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Plugging Along
I am still plugging along. This week hasn't been great, but it hasn't been awful either. I've been given Thanksgiving week off so If I can hit 30,000 or so by then I will be alright. Hope to get some writing in this weekend. Anyway here is the next section - I am trying to post in a logical fashion.
“Today’s the big day isn’t it Donnor”?
Donnor barely glanced up as he passed Mater Jones in the hallway.
“Do well now,” she called after him. “We’re counting on you.”
He raised his hand in half hearted acknowledgement and continued on to his class. He didn’t especially like being the ‘poster-child’ for the deten center’s success, but to deprive them of that brag would mean tossing off his own education, so he just lowered his head and let them take credit for all his hard work. He only had 3 more months in this place and then he’d be free again.
Two years had gone by pretty quickly. There had been nothing to do but study really. He had about as much in common with the petty thieves, thugs and troglodytes he was forced to live with, as a gay man has with a breast feeding mother. To top that off, brain tennas were completely disabled in deten, and nobody but his mother ever visited.
If it wasn’t for the center library he would have degenerated to the level of his cell-mates long ago.
The deten center was nice as far as these things go. He had a fairly private room with a half-wall dividing his sleeping area from his bunk partner. Reclining on the bed gave you a modicum of privacy – if you ignored the 24 hour vid feed that reported your every move to security robots, which then analyzed the behaviors and reported anything suspicious to the Maters.
Unfortunately for the teenaged boys incarcerated here, masturbation was included on the list of ‘suspicious’ activities. More than one boy had been drug before the tribunal to suffer the indignant examination of the Maters and be warned about ‘deviant’ behavior.
Other than the over-zealous guards however, the center, for all intents and purposes would appear as a wealthy university campus. Fine brick buildings, ivy covered walls, cavernous dining hall and spacious grounds, filled with flowers, shrubbery and trees.
Donnor was allowed to walk the pathways through the lawns and gardens as much as he wished, but should he attempt to step over the bright blue barrier line it would trigger the chip they had implanted in his brain and he would be instantly paralyzed. It was like your body turned to
stone. First you would freeze, then you would topple.
When he first came to this place he flirted with temptation almost daily, but after being ‘stoned’ 15 or 20 times the novelty wore off. There was never any change – he would freeze, fall, lie there staring at the ground close up until the orderlies came and carried him back to his room, then lie frozen on his bed until the next auto-sweep when the computer mainframe would re-set his chip which would cause his bowels and bladder to release. In the end run the mess was more bother than it was worth.
So, he had ended up spending most of his sentence in the library accessing information in the most archaic way possible – with actual computer terminals.
Today’s test was his rite of passage. The beastly hard competencies, the endless re-iterating of sociological ramifications and the complex understanding of the degrees of separation required by the 12 hour exam had broken more than one student. If he got a high enough score his future would be set, and he would have the pick of a host of interesting careers. If his score was unimpressive he would be relegated to the trades. Its not that Donnor had anything specifically against plumbing – he had a real talent for mechanical things, and was pretty sure that he would enjoy the actual labor, it’s just that guys in the trades rarely rated a candy girl and he had zero interest in going about his life without a girl on his arm.
He pushed open the door of the invigilation chamber and squared his shoulders against the onslaught of scholarly fustiness. The panel of examiners sat on a raised dais in the far end of the room. Soaring windows, heavily draped offered the promise of light, if not the actuality. The composite floor was patterned in a mosaic effect which made you dizzy if you stared at it too long. At first glance it was simply a wash of color – blue, red – but then you could begin to pick out shapes – a picture hidden in the swirling colors. Supposedly it was a copy of a famous piece of 200 year old art. The cavernous space between the door and the dais echoed with his footsteps as he approached the enquiry box.
“Today’s the big day isn’t it Donnor”?
Donnor barely glanced up as he passed Mater Jones in the hallway.
“Do well now,” she called after him. “We’re counting on you.”
He raised his hand in half hearted acknowledgement and continued on to his class. He didn’t especially like being the ‘poster-child’ for the deten center’s success, but to deprive them of that brag would mean tossing off his own education, so he just lowered his head and let them take credit for all his hard work. He only had 3 more months in this place and then he’d be free again.
Two years had gone by pretty quickly. There had been nothing to do but study really. He had about as much in common with the petty thieves, thugs and troglodytes he was forced to live with, as a gay man has with a breast feeding mother. To top that off, brain tennas were completely disabled in deten, and nobody but his mother ever visited.
If it wasn’t for the center library he would have degenerated to the level of his cell-mates long ago.
The deten center was nice as far as these things go. He had a fairly private room with a half-wall dividing his sleeping area from his bunk partner. Reclining on the bed gave you a modicum of privacy – if you ignored the 24 hour vid feed that reported your every move to security robots, which then analyzed the behaviors and reported anything suspicious to the Maters.
Unfortunately for the teenaged boys incarcerated here, masturbation was included on the list of ‘suspicious’ activities. More than one boy had been drug before the tribunal to suffer the indignant examination of the Maters and be warned about ‘deviant’ behavior.
Other than the over-zealous guards however, the center, for all intents and purposes would appear as a wealthy university campus. Fine brick buildings, ivy covered walls, cavernous dining hall and spacious grounds, filled with flowers, shrubbery and trees.
Donnor was allowed to walk the pathways through the lawns and gardens as much as he wished, but should he attempt to step over the bright blue barrier line it would trigger the chip they had implanted in his brain and he would be instantly paralyzed. It was like your body turned to
stone. First you would freeze, then you would topple.
When he first came to this place he flirted with temptation almost daily, but after being ‘stoned’ 15 or 20 times the novelty wore off. There was never any change – he would freeze, fall, lie there staring at the ground close up until the orderlies came and carried him back to his room, then lie frozen on his bed until the next auto-sweep when the computer mainframe would re-set his chip which would cause his bowels and bladder to release. In the end run the mess was more bother than it was worth.
So, he had ended up spending most of his sentence in the library accessing information in the most archaic way possible – with actual computer terminals.
Today’s test was his rite of passage. The beastly hard competencies, the endless re-iterating of sociological ramifications and the complex understanding of the degrees of separation required by the 12 hour exam had broken more than one student. If he got a high enough score his future would be set, and he would have the pick of a host of interesting careers. If his score was unimpressive he would be relegated to the trades. Its not that Donnor had anything specifically against plumbing – he had a real talent for mechanical things, and was pretty sure that he would enjoy the actual labor, it’s just that guys in the trades rarely rated a candy girl and he had zero interest in going about his life without a girl on his arm.
He pushed open the door of the invigilation chamber and squared his shoulders against the onslaught of scholarly fustiness. The panel of examiners sat on a raised dais in the far end of the room. Soaring windows, heavily draped offered the promise of light, if not the actuality. The composite floor was patterned in a mosaic effect which made you dizzy if you stared at it too long. At first glance it was simply a wash of color – blue, red – but then you could begin to pick out shapes – a picture hidden in the swirling colors. Supposedly it was a copy of a famous piece of 200 year old art. The cavernous space between the door and the dais echoed with his footsteps as he approached the enquiry box.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Tuesday 10th - Day 10 Hopelessly Behind
I am struggling. Working 12 and 14 hour days so I have been too exhausted to write effectively. Not giving up though. I can still make it if I write 2000 words a day which is what my average was last year. Work has calmed down this week so I will keep slogging on. Anyway, here is the next installment.
Donnor was jolted awake by the opening of the supply hatch on his cart. The hum of electricity and the swaying motion of the cart had conspired to lull him to sleep. As the hatch opened the compartment was flooded with electra-sun and he had a brief glimpse of the plant filled corridor of the secret lab before a fairly large piece of furniture was rolled into the cart by the robot arm.
It seemed to be some kind of bed – maybe for a very small child or an animal. Were they conducting some kind of hideous experiments on animals here? Donnor thought that kind of cruelty had been stopped, but the mattress held a bundle securely wrapped and obviously incapacitated.
Whatever it was, there was no real time to react - it was coming in and Donnor was trapped between the back wall of the cart and the encroaching furniture. He had to stand, and suck in his stomach to allow room for the bed, which caused him to lean over its occupant.
“Don’t worry,” he heard a voice say, “He’ll be fine in the conveyor, and protected from exposure to any possible infection. He’ll be safely at the outtake hatch in 10 minutes. We’ve never lost one!”
The supply hatch whooshed closed, shutting out the bright light and Donnor felt the cart begin to move. Filled with morbid curiosity, he dialed up his pocket sun and reached to flick back the blanket covering the bundle in the center of the bed.
It was hideous. Small, pale, nothing more than a fuzz of hair over its eggshell head. Hands that were so curled and wrinkled they appeared ancient. Were they conducting some kind of shrinking experiments on the old? He had heard rumors that they were trying to find ways to reduce body mass to allow for longer space flight but this was crazy. This poor person was obviously completely incapacitated. Small yes, but incapable of managing even the lightest work load.
Staring at the wizened, sleeping face Donnor wondered what wisdom had been lost. He reached out a finger to stroke the poor thing’s cheek.
“Were you a promising Roboticist? A Fusion expert? No probably not. They wouldn’t run an experiment this dangerous with anybody important. I bet you were the janitor.”
The touch of his finger triggered movement as the hapless victim of science opened its eyes and turned its head questing for the tip of Donnor’s finger with an obviously hungry mouth.
“Oh you poor thing. They shrink you, destroy your life, and don’t even have the decency to feed you?”
Donnor’s body was wedged securely upright and he could not work his arms to the pocket of his pants – otherwise he would have pulled out the remains of his energy bar from lunch to share with the… person? in the bed before him.
Having nowhere to go, and forced into the uncomfortable stoop over the bed there was nothing to do but study the strange little occupant. It seemed to have no control over its arms and legs, waving them randomly in the air. It had lost all bowel control as well, judging by the tiny hygiene control pants it was wearing.
Donnor felt a powerful urge to pick it up and give comfort. Whatever had happened to this poor being, they didn’t deserve it. How awful it must feel to be so small and helpless.
He reached out, and gathered the bundle of blankets and warm humanity into his arms. And he knew, just like that, this wasn’t a victim of some crazy experiment, this was a baby.
Donnor had never seen a baby, and the pictures they had shown in 2nd grade biology were a hazy memory. He knew that women had them, but they were not part of society until the baby was 2 years old and looked like a miniature person. Babies were not part of his world.
He could feel the tiny fluttering heartbeat, sense the laboring of the lungs. It was so fragile. How did humans ever survive this tenuous beginning? He felt a sense of protectiveness towards the tiny being in his arms – a sense of purpose.
“I’ll keep you safe baby,” he cooed. “No-one is going to hurt you.”
He was so wrapped up in the wonder of the moment that he didn’t sense the cart coming to a halt. The doors whooshed open and the bed began to trundle out. Donnor looked up to see a woman frantically searching the empty bed, her face a mask of terror.
“No, no, no,” she moaned “Where is my baby? Where – is – my – baby!”
Donnor stumbled out of the supply cart, still clutching the baby to his chest.
“Its here,” he mumbled. Then, clearing his throat and speaking louder, “He’s here, he’s safe.”
The woman looked up at him, a series of emotions flickering across her face, confusion, relief, fear, anger.
“You give me my baby!”
Numbly, Donnor held the bundle out to her feeling an unreasoning sense of loss as it was taken from him. He was so dazed that he didn’t even think to run, or try to evade hospital security. He could still feel the slight pressure of the baby’s weight. His nose was filled with the powdery soft odor of his skin. His fingers ached for the velvety feel of the newborn skin.
Donnor went meekly and silently with the hospital Goon, too profoundly caught up in his new internal landscape to give any thought to the punishment that was coming.
Donnor was jolted awake by the opening of the supply hatch on his cart. The hum of electricity and the swaying motion of the cart had conspired to lull him to sleep. As the hatch opened the compartment was flooded with electra-sun and he had a brief glimpse of the plant filled corridor of the secret lab before a fairly large piece of furniture was rolled into the cart by the robot arm.
It seemed to be some kind of bed – maybe for a very small child or an animal. Were they conducting some kind of hideous experiments on animals here? Donnor thought that kind of cruelty had been stopped, but the mattress held a bundle securely wrapped and obviously incapacitated.
Whatever it was, there was no real time to react - it was coming in and Donnor was trapped between the back wall of the cart and the encroaching furniture. He had to stand, and suck in his stomach to allow room for the bed, which caused him to lean over its occupant.
“Don’t worry,” he heard a voice say, “He’ll be fine in the conveyor, and protected from exposure to any possible infection. He’ll be safely at the outtake hatch in 10 minutes. We’ve never lost one!”
The supply hatch whooshed closed, shutting out the bright light and Donnor felt the cart begin to move. Filled with morbid curiosity, he dialed up his pocket sun and reached to flick back the blanket covering the bundle in the center of the bed.
It was hideous. Small, pale, nothing more than a fuzz of hair over its eggshell head. Hands that were so curled and wrinkled they appeared ancient. Were they conducting some kind of shrinking experiments on the old? He had heard rumors that they were trying to find ways to reduce body mass to allow for longer space flight but this was crazy. This poor person was obviously completely incapacitated. Small yes, but incapable of managing even the lightest work load.
Staring at the wizened, sleeping face Donnor wondered what wisdom had been lost. He reached out a finger to stroke the poor thing’s cheek.
“Were you a promising Roboticist? A Fusion expert? No probably not. They wouldn’t run an experiment this dangerous with anybody important. I bet you were the janitor.”
The touch of his finger triggered movement as the hapless victim of science opened its eyes and turned its head questing for the tip of Donnor’s finger with an obviously hungry mouth.
“Oh you poor thing. They shrink you, destroy your life, and don’t even have the decency to feed you?”
Donnor’s body was wedged securely upright and he could not work his arms to the pocket of his pants – otherwise he would have pulled out the remains of his energy bar from lunch to share with the… person? in the bed before him.
Having nowhere to go, and forced into the uncomfortable stoop over the bed there was nothing to do but study the strange little occupant. It seemed to have no control over its arms and legs, waving them randomly in the air. It had lost all bowel control as well, judging by the tiny hygiene control pants it was wearing.
Donnor felt a powerful urge to pick it up and give comfort. Whatever had happened to this poor being, they didn’t deserve it. How awful it must feel to be so small and helpless.
He reached out, and gathered the bundle of blankets and warm humanity into his arms. And he knew, just like that, this wasn’t a victim of some crazy experiment, this was a baby.
Donnor had never seen a baby, and the pictures they had shown in 2nd grade biology were a hazy memory. He knew that women had them, but they were not part of society until the baby was 2 years old and looked like a miniature person. Babies were not part of his world.
He could feel the tiny fluttering heartbeat, sense the laboring of the lungs. It was so fragile. How did humans ever survive this tenuous beginning? He felt a sense of protectiveness towards the tiny being in his arms – a sense of purpose.
“I’ll keep you safe baby,” he cooed. “No-one is going to hurt you.”
He was so wrapped up in the wonder of the moment that he didn’t sense the cart coming to a halt. The doors whooshed open and the bed began to trundle out. Donnor looked up to see a woman frantically searching the empty bed, her face a mask of terror.
“No, no, no,” she moaned “Where is my baby? Where – is – my – baby!”
Donnor stumbled out of the supply cart, still clutching the baby to his chest.
“Its here,” he mumbled. Then, clearing his throat and speaking louder, “He’s here, he’s safe.”
The woman looked up at him, a series of emotions flickering across her face, confusion, relief, fear, anger.
“You give me my baby!”
Numbly, Donnor held the bundle out to her feeling an unreasoning sense of loss as it was taken from him. He was so dazed that he didn’t even think to run, or try to evade hospital security. He could still feel the slight pressure of the baby’s weight. His nose was filled with the powdery soft odor of his skin. His fingers ached for the velvety feel of the newborn skin.
Donnor went meekly and silently with the hospital Goon, too profoundly caught up in his new internal landscape to give any thought to the punishment that was coming.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
NaNo Post Wednesday 4 - Day 4
Rising up from the warm tile floor, Donnor went in search of a service hatchway. Not more than 40 steps from his observation post he found the first one, and lucky for him, it was for the exact supplies carts that were going into the mystery door. He waited for a cart to come out of the hatch and dove through the opening before it could close behind. He landed roughly on the metal mesh cart track, scraping a gash into his elbow and taking a mild shock from the electrified grid before he could get to his crepe-soled feet to protect himself.
Gripping his bleeding elbow, Donnor looked around at the world of automated service machines he had entered. Everything was precise, sterile and hermetically sealed. Metal gleamed, rubber shone softly, and robot arms reached and placed, filled and filed all with a quiet whooshing sound like a heartbeat. Hospital infection rates were controlled partly by this quiet and clean efficiency behind the scenes. He felt momentarily guilty for the drops of blood that were falling to the mesh floor, but quickly banished the thought – he had never been sick a day in his life so there was very little chance he was carrying an infection, and besides a few drops of blood were nothing compared to his planned vandalism.
Moving cautiously along the grid, Donnor worked his way past the first rank of robot arms and deeper into the system. He needed to get far enough back to reach the un-activated carts. That way his tinkering wouldn’t set off any alarm bells.
The further back he moved the dimmer the light became, as fewer machines had active sensor lights. Gradually, his vision was reduced to the faint glimmer of the track below his feet, and the infrared glow of his embedded watch. He turned his wrist so that the pale light added what strength it could to his path.
Feeling his way carefully with his toes, Donnor inched along the path until he came to the cart storage facility at the end of the line. Here was rank after rank of supply carts, returned from the sterilization wash, sitting in standby mode, waiting to be summoned from electronic slumber.
Donnor pulled his pencil box from his pocket. The box was his own invention, built in applied robotics. Any casual scan simply revealed a very old-fashioned container for holding pencils and other archaic writing implements. He had told his teacher it was for storing some antiques inherited from his Grandmother. In fact, each of the 6 ‘pencils’ stored inside were highly advanced multi-tools. He had ‘found’ most of the technology in the University Robotics lab while on a field trip there when he was 13.
It had taken him two years of fiddling to discover what he had and how to use it. In the end run, by combining what he had found at the University with the basic student kit in his robotics course he had been able to direct his robots to build a red and blue laser, a fuser, a pocket sun, a holo-jector, and a flexi-chip interface; all cleverly disguised as harmless mementos that would evade security scans.
Power for the tools came from a perpetual fusion battery disguised in the base of the box.
Donnor pulled pocket sun from its cradle in the box, automatically activating its power. He projected his sun just above his head, and dialed up the light just enough to be able to see the electric panel on the front upper corner of the first cart. He slid the sun pencil into the chest pocket of his shirt (a fashion faux pas that he took a lot of grief for at school – pockets in shirts are entirely L.C.) and picked up the red laser. With quick deft strokes he removed the faceplate of the cart in front of him.
As he had expected, the electronic workings of the cart were all grouped to the front in a narrow space between the outer paneling and the break-wall that sealed off the supply hatch. This way, if a loaded cart needed repair or service, the technician never came in contact with the supply chamber.
Rising from his crouch, Donnor went around the cart to check out the supply hatch. It was his bad luck to have chosen a medicine dispenser cart first. This cart’s supplies space was entirely taken up by a complex system of conveyor belts which could feed the correct medications to patients one by one. No room for a teen-aged boy in this cart.
Donnor used his blue laser to seal the damage to the cart and moved down the line. This time he checked the supply chambers on the carts first. Food carts with larger versions of the medicine dispenser system; dirty laundry carts which would douse the contents with boiling steam as soon as the hatch door closed; clean laundry carts which had too many narrow shelves to allow space for a teen-aged boy; cart after cart proved useless and Donnor was beginning to think he would have to abandon the plan when he came to a row of carts that were slightly longer than the others.
The space in this cart was more than ample to allow for Donnor’s presence and judging by the size, his weight would not trip any sensors. All he would need to do now is program the sensor to tell the robots the cart was already full, and ride it into the room behind the forbidden doors.
A few minutes of work had the front panel open, and the interface tool effectively inserted. Donnor studied the holographic image his tool projected in the air above the panel. He found the appropriate switch, triggered it into the ‘full’ position and then used his fuser to seal it that way. For a few days this cart would both exit and return to the cleaning and storage facility labeled ‘full’ – until auto maintenance caught the problem and alerted a technician.
Sealing the control panel closed once again, Donnor maneuvered the cart out of the storage row and onto the electrified path. It began to move forward immediately and he jogged to catch up and climb into the supply hatch, pulling the door closed behind him. In the enclosed space of the cart his pocket sun was blazingly bright and he quickly dialed it down to a dimmer setting.
All he had to do now was wait for the automatic system to deliver him behind the door.
Gripping his bleeding elbow, Donnor looked around at the world of automated service machines he had entered. Everything was precise, sterile and hermetically sealed. Metal gleamed, rubber shone softly, and robot arms reached and placed, filled and filed all with a quiet whooshing sound like a heartbeat. Hospital infection rates were controlled partly by this quiet and clean efficiency behind the scenes. He felt momentarily guilty for the drops of blood that were falling to the mesh floor, but quickly banished the thought – he had never been sick a day in his life so there was very little chance he was carrying an infection, and besides a few drops of blood were nothing compared to his planned vandalism.
Moving cautiously along the grid, Donnor worked his way past the first rank of robot arms and deeper into the system. He needed to get far enough back to reach the un-activated carts. That way his tinkering wouldn’t set off any alarm bells.
The further back he moved the dimmer the light became, as fewer machines had active sensor lights. Gradually, his vision was reduced to the faint glimmer of the track below his feet, and the infrared glow of his embedded watch. He turned his wrist so that the pale light added what strength it could to his path.
Feeling his way carefully with his toes, Donnor inched along the path until he came to the cart storage facility at the end of the line. Here was rank after rank of supply carts, returned from the sterilization wash, sitting in standby mode, waiting to be summoned from electronic slumber.
Donnor pulled his pencil box from his pocket. The box was his own invention, built in applied robotics. Any casual scan simply revealed a very old-fashioned container for holding pencils and other archaic writing implements. He had told his teacher it was for storing some antiques inherited from his Grandmother. In fact, each of the 6 ‘pencils’ stored inside were highly advanced multi-tools. He had ‘found’ most of the technology in the University Robotics lab while on a field trip there when he was 13.
It had taken him two years of fiddling to discover what he had and how to use it. In the end run, by combining what he had found at the University with the basic student kit in his robotics course he had been able to direct his robots to build a red and blue laser, a fuser, a pocket sun, a holo-jector, and a flexi-chip interface; all cleverly disguised as harmless mementos that would evade security scans.
Power for the tools came from a perpetual fusion battery disguised in the base of the box.
Donnor pulled pocket sun from its cradle in the box, automatically activating its power. He projected his sun just above his head, and dialed up the light just enough to be able to see the electric panel on the front upper corner of the first cart. He slid the sun pencil into the chest pocket of his shirt (a fashion faux pas that he took a lot of grief for at school – pockets in shirts are entirely L.C.) and picked up the red laser. With quick deft strokes he removed the faceplate of the cart in front of him.
As he had expected, the electronic workings of the cart were all grouped to the front in a narrow space between the outer paneling and the break-wall that sealed off the supply hatch. This way, if a loaded cart needed repair or service, the technician never came in contact with the supply chamber.
Rising from his crouch, Donnor went around the cart to check out the supply hatch. It was his bad luck to have chosen a medicine dispenser cart first. This cart’s supplies space was entirely taken up by a complex system of conveyor belts which could feed the correct medications to patients one by one. No room for a teen-aged boy in this cart.
Donnor used his blue laser to seal the damage to the cart and moved down the line. This time he checked the supply chambers on the carts first. Food carts with larger versions of the medicine dispenser system; dirty laundry carts which would douse the contents with boiling steam as soon as the hatch door closed; clean laundry carts which had too many narrow shelves to allow space for a teen-aged boy; cart after cart proved useless and Donnor was beginning to think he would have to abandon the plan when he came to a row of carts that were slightly longer than the others.
The space in this cart was more than ample to allow for Donnor’s presence and judging by the size, his weight would not trip any sensors. All he would need to do now is program the sensor to tell the robots the cart was already full, and ride it into the room behind the forbidden doors.
A few minutes of work had the front panel open, and the interface tool effectively inserted. Donnor studied the holographic image his tool projected in the air above the panel. He found the appropriate switch, triggered it into the ‘full’ position and then used his fuser to seal it that way. For a few days this cart would both exit and return to the cleaning and storage facility labeled ‘full’ – until auto maintenance caught the problem and alerted a technician.
Sealing the control panel closed once again, Donnor maneuvered the cart out of the storage row and onto the electrified path. It began to move forward immediately and he jogged to catch up and climb into the supply hatch, pulling the door closed behind him. In the enclosed space of the cart his pocket sun was blazingly bright and he quickly dialed it down to a dimmer setting.
All he had to do now was wait for the automatic system to deliver him behind the door.
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