Anyway, it reminded me of how much I like writing this particular pair of characters (if you want to find more of them, you can look here). One of these days I need to sit down and write the Chuck Chaykin novel that is quietly smoldering in a corner of my brain.

Chuck Chaykin Fights Some Shark Guys

A single serrated tooth jutted from Valeria’s arm, just below the elbow. Blood poured around the jagged edges to pool on the deck plating. Other lacerations scored the rest of her arm. She held the arm close, squeezing just above the wound. Chaykin knelt beside her, dropping his pistol onto the pilot’s couch.

“You should go,” Val said through clenched teeth. “If they reach the engine room-”

“Don’t talk,” he said. He gently touched the tooth. He heard a shark intake of breath from the young woman, and a burst of pain impaled Chaykin’s mind. He reeled back and gripped a control panel to keep from collapsing.

Sorry, she said, her words just echoes in his head. He didn’t like it too much either. Only thing that saved me. She tilted her head and her lips tightened. Sometimes involuntary projection works out for the best.

“Yeah, okay,” said Chaykin. “Any idea how many there are?”

Val swallowed and closed her eyes. Chaykin imagined her mind roaming the corridors of the Rhiannon, searching out the Xook pirates that had boarded them. He knew she sometimes had trouble reading alien minds, but she should have no trouble locating them, even if it were jibberish.

Three of them, she said. Two are in the cargo hold. The one who attacked me is just down the hall, in the kitchen. And it’s not jibberish. His name is Selach. The other two are Squaline and Benthic. Squaline totally has a crush on Selach.

“I don’t need the soap opera.” Chaykin retrieved his gun and crouched at the door. “There’s-”

A first aid kit under the chair, I know.

Chaykin nodded. “Sit tight. Keep this door locked.”

What’s your plan?

Chaykin keyed off the pistol’s safety. “I’m gonna go punch ‘em in the nose.”

#

As far as Chaykin knew, they’d picked up their guests at the last open port, Fittsburg, a little asteroid mining community. Routine stop, refueling, resupply, check the work board for bounties. Chaykin had spent a minimum of time at the local saloon, while the girl did the shopping. Normal pit stop.

I’m “the girl” now?

“Quiet, I’m concentrating.” Chaykin eased to the kitchen door, which Valeria’s attacker had half-closed after fleeing the bridge.

These guys are on the net, boss. Wanted in…where the hell is Pipe Springs? Worth a little alive.

Chaykin peered through the door. The kitchen was quiet, but the door on the opposite end was closed. Somewhere in there was a pissed off Chordata with a missing tooth and a headache.

“How much?” he whispered.

Grand each. Alive. Careful boss, they’re all coming in.

The door at the opposite end of the kitchen slid open, and in marched the pair of their visitors. Nearly three meters tall, the bipedal sharkmen had to stoop to get through the hatch, bending further at the knees to clear the fin on their backs. They wore simple work clothes, but the blasters in their hands were anything but cheap. Transparent hydro-bubbles over their fins allowed them to breathe.

“Long way from Pipe Springs, fellas,” Chaykin called. The Chordata scattered for cover and splashed the door with a few hasty shots. “Keep ‘em here, will ya?” Chaykin whispered. He pulled open a panel in the wall and ducked into the maintenance shaft.

Shall I charm them with some of your usual sparkling dialogue?

“Just make sure they keep their eyes on that door.”

“We’re not going back, Chaykin!” one of the Chordata yelled.

“All we need is your ship!” another called in a reasoned tone. “We can let you go.”

We can swim to the nearest port, I presume. Chaykin smiled at the hint of laughter in Valeria’s projection. He couldn’t hear whatever she was slinging back at them in his voice, but judging by the flurry of fire against the wall, he could guess.

Chaykin gingerly positioned himself at the center of the kitchen ceiling. He had a clear view of each of the three. He grimaced as they poured superheated plasma against what was becoming a slab of melted door. Without return fire, it wouldn’t take them long to assume he was dead, even with Valeria psychically throwing his voice at them.

“Might want to go dark, darlin’,” Chaykin muttered.

What? Why-

Chaykin lightly tapped at the corner of the maintenance hatch, and it swung down into the room. Three shark faces turned up at him in surprise. He put a bullet in each blunt nose in just a couple of seconds.

Ow. Motherfucker! Little more warning next time?

He dropped to the kitchen table and eyed the sharks for signs of movement. “Language, miss.”

You realize that’s three thousand credits we can’t collect.

“The door costs more than that, plus the run to the other side of the quadrant to Pipe Springs? No thanks.” He hefted the blaster pistols. “These fish are worth more dead.”

#

I’m thinking of making a regular series of articles here about the sort of thing featured in that post. Each week feature something that I think is awesome to write about. I’d talk about why they are important to storytelling and point out what I think are a few good examples. Any interest in that?

Whatever attempt at NaNo I might have made is a complete bust. I simply haven’t had any time with all this overtime at work. But at lunch last week I managed what may be the first rough paragraph of a Chuck Chaykin novel. Enjoy.

Chapter 1

Chuck Chaykin cast a glance toward the end of the bar, where an old Model A7500 named Pods nursed a grimy bottle. The A7500s were an ugly bunch, all transistors and gears stuffed into metal boxes barely big enough to hold them together. Pods had a rubber belt serving as a pulley for his left arm, and the scarred shoulder joints suggested it wasn’t a voluntary modification. Pods’s right eye occasionally blinked in Chaykin’s direction. They each knew the other had been spotted.

However, I think I may take advantage of the extra write-ins and the spirit of productivity that NaNo creates to work on expanding my Chuck Chaykin story into a novel. It’s already over 8,000 words, which is a little long to sell to a short story market anyway, and could easily be expanded. It’s the kind of story in which a publisher like Baen or Tor might be interested.

The trick will be weaving the two characters together. Chaykin is a rough and bitter mercenary, albeit one who is a bit of a softy deep down. His sidekick, Val, is a teenage orphan girl raised in a prep school for psychics. They have certain shared experiences that bring them together, and I know there’s a fun chemistry between the two, but their stories before they meet are so vastly different that it may be difficult to easily switch between the two plots. Or should I skip her story and not introduce her until they meet? I don’t want to shortchange her, but I’m afraid it would seem like two completely different books crammed together.

I’ll have to do a little world (or universe, rather) building. I have a general idea of how the setting works, but I haven’t worked out specifics.

More importantly, I’ll need to design the ship. In any setting where the heroes spend their time mostly aboard some sort of vessel instead of a particular city or planet, the ship becomes not just the setting but a character unto herself. I’ll need to work out how big Chaykin’s ship is, how many rooms, how it’s laid out, etc. The ship isn’t really featured much in the short story, so I didn’t have to worry about it before. Heck, I had a hard time even coming up with a name.

At any rate, you get the idea. I’ll probably spend the next few weeks working on these issues and if I can come up with a decent working outline I may go for it. I don’t know if I’ll go for the insane NaNo pace, but with a little energon and a lot of luck I’ll get a significant amount of work done.

Something that I haven’t really had to worry about before is how to handle character development and description for characters who I’ve already written about (and, hopefully, published). It’s something I’ll have to start thinking about if I keep writing about these two particular characters. I can’t assume that people have read a previous Chuck Chaykin story, so some basic retreading will be required. But at the same time, I won’t want to bore returning readers (hah!) with the same exposition every time.

I’m getting ahead of myself, of course. But it’s fun to imagine that someday that might be an issue.

I’ll need to finish polishing up “Telepath’s Lament” and get that submitted before really working on anything else, but this might make a fun flash piece some time. About 300 words so far, currently untitled. The last line is silly, so I apologize in advance.

Title

A single serrated tooth jutted from Valeria’s arm, just below the elbow. Blood poured around the jagged edges to pool on the deck plating. Other lacerations scored the rest of her arm. She held the arm close, squeezing just above the wound. Chaykin knelt beside her, dropping his pistol onto the pilot’s couch.

“You should go,” Val said through clenched teeth. “If they reach the engine room-”

“Don’t talk,” he said. He gently touched the tooth. He heard a shark intake of breath from the young woman, and a burst of pain impaled Chaykin’s mind. He reeled back and gripped a control panel to keep from collapsing.

Sorry, she said, her words just echoes in his head. He didn’t like it too much either. Only thing that saved me. She tilted her head and her lips tightened. Sometimes involuntary projection works out for the best.

“Yeah, okay,” said Chaykin. “Any idea how many there are?”

Val swallowed and closed her eyes. Chaykin imagined her mind roaming the corridors of the Rhiannon, searching out the Xook pirates that had boarded them. He knew she sometimes had trouble reading alien minds, but she should have no trouble locating them, even if it were jibberish.

Three of them, she said. Two are in the cargo hold. The one who attacked me is just down the hall, in the kitchen. And it’s not jibberish. His name is Selach. The other two are Squaline and Benthic. Squaline totally has a crush on Selach.

“I don’t need the soap opera.” Chaykin retrieved his gun and crouched near the door. “There’s-”

A first aid kit under the chair, I know.

Chaykin nodded. He barely even noticed her telepresence anymore. “Sit tight. Keep this door locked.”

What’s your plan?

Chaykin keyed off the pistol’s safety. “I’m gonna go punch ‘em in the nose.”

#

In the meantime, I have a flash piece to write for a new market. I’ve started but I’m not sure I like the beginning.

On the television front, I’m greatly saddened by all the rumors of cancellation swirling around Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles. It’s not a perfect show, but when it’s good it’s really good, and the season finale left us on a hell of a cliffhanger.

I think I’m done with Dollhouse. I suppose it has clawed its way from mediocre to, what would be above that, tolerable? But tolerable doesn’t make it worth my time. I find the premise boring and the characters to be uninteresting or poorly drawn. There have been some fun plot twists and a few cool scenes, but overall it has failed to engage me. And, seriously Joss, finding new excuses every week to have hot girls dressed in nothing doesn’t help the feminist cred.

Maybe if this week they kill off three quarters of the cast and shift the focus of the series I might stick around. But I imagine that won’t happen.

It’s odd. For the first time in a long time there won’t be any geeky television for me to watch. Battlestar is done. Terminator may not be back. Everything else is either terrible, didn’t catch my interest, or I missed out on the beginning. All I have is a sitcom or two and a cop show, and I’d probably be okay with losing those (except 30 Rock, that show is too good to end). Very odd situation to find myself in. There’s pretty much always been something on or something to look forward to.

Well, there is this. But I don’t want to get my hopes up too early.

Look in this space next week for a post about how I hate the story and it needs heavy revisions.

As I await judgement from my peers, I move along. I’ve been invited to submit to a new market, which is pretty exciting. This morning as I rose from the old coffin I came up with a fun idea for them. All I will say: pasty librarian + ancient undersea civilization.

It kind of tempts me to dig up the stories I wrote back then. Then I remember that they were about a tyrannosaur with a predilection for pizza.

I don’t really know kids all that well, which might sound odd based on many of my hobbies and interests. I’m not really around kids much, and I never really know what to do with them when I am. It’s only in the last few months that some of my friends have been popping up preggers. I have a couple of nephews and a niece, but only one is at what I would consider usefully sentient, at the age of nine. Babies don’t really have much to offer, other than seeing how the adults around them react.

So in general I don’t really know how to write kids, which I consider something of a deficiency. I encountered this problem when I wrote “Aftershocks,” which features a young girl. Mostly I just wasn’t sure what age to make her exactly – is X age too old to exhibit this behavior? And physically, would she be able to do what the story needs? And this wasn’t even a character who needed to speak or narrate. I envy those who can really capture a child’s voice believably.

In “Telepath’s Lament,” the space western I’m working on, Chuck’s co-star is Val, a young telepath of about 16-18. I find myself worrying not so much about her voice and behavior – I’ve already written a couple of flash pieces featuring her at a somewhat older age, so I think I have her personality pretty well established. In general I think young people are easier to write once they get into their teens. Or at least, I remember what it’s like to be that age, which makes it easier.

There are a couple of things to watch for, though. By making her young, do I risk inadvertently creating a new Jubilee? (I actually like Jubilee, but lots of people despised the mallrat Kitty Pryde proxy like she was the second coming of Gambit. Whom I also don’t mind.)

Non-geek translation: I don’t want the audience to be annoyed by her. Teenagers are by definition annoying, so I’ll have to be careful.

Something else I’ll have to keep in check is potential sexual tension between her and Chuck. It shouldn’t be there. I’m aiming for him to initially be a father figure, then as she matures it’ll be more of a partnership. It’s impossible to predict how people will read into something, but the last thing I want is to inadvertantly create a creepy situation. It should be easy to avoid, and it’s a lesser concern than the first point, but definitely something to keep in mind as I figure out their banter and the rhythm of their relationship.

Anyone with opinions on writing kids? Not writing for kids, that’s a whole other subject, but actually capturing a realistic child-like voice and manner? Chime in!

I’ve had a major breakthrough on my space western. Several, even. I’m pounding out a working outline/summary, which it seems is what I have to do any time I write a story that’s longer than 1,500 words. I’m rather liking it. Which is good, because it’s due to the writing group for critique in a little over a week, I think. If I can actually get the story written in that time, it’ll be pretty fast, for me anyway.

So here’s the beginning, the opening hook, if you will. The details will likely change as the rest of the story shapes up, but I think it’s a pretty fun beginning. (I’m not sure about the villain’s name, for example; it sounds appropriately evil, but I feel like I’m accidentally stealing it from somewhere that I just can’t remember.)

I’ve had the “gift in German” trivia rolling around in my head for years waiting for a story. Literally like a decade. Seemed like a good time to use it.

I’m actually starting to get excited for this story. That will make my inevitable failure all the more sweet…

#

Angus McClure tilted his face toward the midday suns. Sweat rolled across his browned, leathery hide and soaked into the creases at the corners of his eyes. He scratched beneath his hat. Then he shot the man at his feet without bothering to look down.

Chaykin didn’t flinch at the gun’s report, or at the fine spray of blood that spattered his boots. He gave his bonds what he expected would be a last experimental tug and glared up at Angus as the man reloaded and stepped up. The echoes of the blast still rang over the desert. The horses stirred, but this apparently wasn’t anything new to them, either.

“Well if it isn’t Chuck Chaykin,” McClure drawled. His two cohorts, a fellow with white hair and a Hurulean with lavender skin, chuckled.

“You already said that,” Chaykin reminded him.

McClure smiled. “You know, the people down at that town down there, they viewed you as something of a miracle. A gift from on high.” He gestured in mock piety to the sky. “You were supposed to save the day.”

“Plenty of daylight left, Angus.”

McClure’s smile faded. He lifted Chaykin’s chin with his rifle, poked him in the chest with the barrel. “You know the meaning of ‘gift’ in Old German, Chuck? It meant poison.” He squeezed the trigger.

#

There’s a long proud line of these sorts of characters. Han Solo, Malcolm Reynolds, Heath Huston. These characters and their stories are undeniably fun and some of the most endearing heroes in science fiction. They’re mercenary, but cuddly. They are simple to understand, with pretty clear motivations, but they’re also layered in a way that makes them complex and interesting despite that. They have a nobility about them that fans can innately sense. Above all, they are relatively ordinary people who have the capacity for greatness.

And they usually have some cool spaceships.

That’s basically what I’m aiming for with Mr. Chaykin and his cute telepathic comrade, Val. Set in a space western-style universe, they have adventures hunting down robot pirates and protecting small towns from tentacled bandits. I may sit down and write their first adventure together as my story for this year’s Writer’s Ink themed collection.

It’s an interesting puzzle to work out what words to use to describe Chaykin and Val’s mental conversations. Should I just replace every “said” with “thought” ? What happens then when they really just think something to themselves? Or should I simply establish that they’re conversing telepathically and then use standard dialogue tags (this is what I’m leaning toward)? It’s something I’ll have to work out. Anyone have any recommendations of books with lots of telepathic interaction?

So here’s another quick Chaykin sketch, in which our heroes find themselves in dire straights! Just a few hundred words.

Chuck Chaykin and the Gearjack Gang

Chaykin leaned against the door, as though his extra eighty kilos would make a difference to the thing pounding against the other side of the hatch. He holstered his blaster. His shots had just glanced off anyway. He felt the heavy door shiver as the metallic monstrosity in the corridor outside slammed heavy fists against it.

“Val!” he called out with his mind, hoping his partner still lived. “Val, report!”

“Here, boss,” she answered, the tone of her thoughts distracted. “Still on the bridge. Getting hot in here. There’s two of them outside the door.” Uncharacteristically short for her, Chaykin immediately knew she was in bigger trouble than she was letting on.

“Goddamn Gearjacks,” he muttered. Chaykin looked around at his options. He was trapped in the container bay, the only illumination emanating from dim red emergency lights. He and Val didn’t haul cargo, so this was mostly storage space; stacks of boxes labeled with cute stickers lined the walls and tumbled across the floor. The only way out, other than the door, was the container airlock, but it was awfully chilly out that way. Theoretically, the bay could uncouple from the ship, and even had limited maneuvering thrusters, but Chaykin had never bothered to learn how any of that worked.

“Fifteen years of boredom on this ship and you never bothered to read the manual,” Val gently chided.

“Where’s the Gearjack ship?” he snapped.

“Listing off our port side,” she reported. “You took them by surprise.”

“That won’t last,” he said. “Get us away-”

“Already on it, boss,” Val said. “Moving at top speed, which at the moment is not much. How about you worry about our boarders and I worry about their ship.”

The pounding had stopped. Chaykin eased up to the small window set in the container bay door and peered out. The corridor was swathed in a fine swirl of smoke tinted red by the emergency lighting. Of the robot, there was no sign. Chaykin tugged his blaster from its holster and keyed open the door.

#

A little over 900 words. I really need a name for Chuck’s ship.

Chuck Chaykin and the Pirates of Kallaris Point

The starport suspended at the edge of the Kallaris VII star system, officially title Kallaris Point, had seen better days. Chaykin didn’t know how rust could form in deep space, but Kallaris Point had managed it. The airlocks groaned and screeched at every opportunity. The oxygen scrubbers only worked at half capacity, lending a stale smell and taste to the air on board. The station never seemed to have any hot running water, and a third of the corridors were shut down for maintenance at any given time. Their connection to the stellar networks was spotty, so sometimes they’d get flight plans and knew to expect visits, and sometimes not. Worst of all, the bars served some of the worst homemade swill this side of the Antares border. As Chaykin guided his ship toward the number five docking pylon, he wondered absently if they’d cleared the barnacles off the outer hull yet.

“Still no response,” Val called from her station to Chaykin’s left. Her hair was purple this week.

“Their network must be down again,” growled Chaykin. He slowed the ship—crashing into a docking collar that wasn’t looking for them would do no one any good.

“No, I mean, no response at all,” Val said. She stepped up beside his flight console and peered out the front port. The sprawling collection of hull plates and girders that comprised Kallaris Point slowly rotated just ahead. “Nothing on the comm., but I’m not hearing anything from in there, either.”

Despite its condition, Kallaris point hosted a crew of several dozen, and a few hundred merchants, mercenaries, and scouts called the place home. Visiting traffic alone could account for upwards of another thousand a day. A telepath, Val should be picking up all sorts of stray thoughts, even at this distance.

Chaykin frowned and for the first time really scrutinized the station. Several other ships docked at the upper pylons. One shuttle bay gaped open. Lights illuminated about half the station, and flickered off and on in other sections, though there was nothing unusual about that. But he saw no tugs drifting amongst the outer space lanes. No freighters stood by at the cargo containers clustered on the dorsal side of the station. There was no real sign of life.

“Automated beacons are still on,” he said, pointing to the flashing lights near the empty docking ports.

“A trap,” Val whispered in his mind.

“Probably,” he said.

The automated docking procedure worked smoothly, linking with Mina, Chaykin’s computer, and guiding them in to Pylon 5 and transmitting the standard welcome greeting across the airlock speakers. It made them all the more suspicious.

Chaykin quickly suited up and checked the charge on his blaster. Val knocked on his visor to get his attention.

“Just so you know, if I don’t hear from you in twenty minutes, I’m outta here,” she said, her mouth twisting in a wry smile.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he told her.

The airlock groaned and screeched with its normal grouchiness. Chaykin felt the normal shiver of the station beneath his feet, and according to the computer terminal near the interior airlock, station systems were nominal. The lights overhead flickered as he proceeded down the corridor and into the lift. As the lift swept him toward the main deck, he turned options over in his head. Pirates wouldn’t have left all the ships and goods behind. A war would have destroyed the place, or left behind a garrison. Nanobot rebellion?

“We already took care of the Binary Brigade,” Val reminded him. “I believe you made some crack about how you wouldn’t take yes or no for an answer.”

“Oh, yeah,” Chaykin muttered. He took cover against one side of the lift as it opened. The doors screeched apart, and a man who’d been leaning against them tumbled onto the floor at Chaykin’s feet. He lay still. Chaykin knelt and checked for vitals. Just like the station itself, everything seemed to be functioning. But no matter how much Chaykin shook him, the man remained unresponsive.

“This guy’s alive, Val,” he said. “You sure you’re not getting anything?”

“Nada, boss.”

Chaykin stepped from the lift, but immediately stopped in shock. The Central Deck stretched out in all directions. Shops were still lit, monitors still active. The televisions in the bar, not far from the Pylon 5 lift, silently played crossball matches from Terra while the stereo blasted the latest wretched industrial jazz punk. And everywhere he looked, the crew, inhabitants, and visitors of Kallaris Point slumped. They lay on the floors, sprawled across tables, slouched in chairs, and leaned awkwardly on railings and against walls. Just like the man in the lift, they were all alive. But none of them stirred at Chaykin’s presense. He experimentally kicked a few for good measure.

“What’s going on? Is it zombies?” Val asked. “I have a bet with Mina that it’s zombies.”

“Have Mina talk to the Kallaris computer,” Chaykin said. He picked his way amongst the bodies toward the bar. “Check the ventilation systems.”

A few moments later, Val thought a smile at him. “That’s it, boss. The place has been flooded with fharrin gas. Nonlethal, but it keeps you under indefinitely as long as you’re breathing it in. We’d better clear it out before these people start dying of thirst or something.”

“First things first,” Chaykin said. He leaned across the bar to shut off the stereo and grab a bottle of greenish swill. “Whoever set this up will show up soon. We’ll have to prepare a welcoming ceremony.”

#