Category Archives: A Writing Life

129. Poetry on Cyan

What do you do at the end of a long day of exploring a new planet like Cyan? Watch TV? Read a book? Maybe a western shoot-em-up, since science fiction wouldn’t be much of a change of pace.

If Uke Tomiki were one of your colleagues, you might write poetry.

It was late.  Beyond the meadow, the jungle was predominantly blue-green with spots of color where flowers of innumerable variety grew, and where tiny, flower-winged amphibians fluttered.  Globewombs glittered in the tree tops like a scattering of jewels in the dying light.  Procyon was setting as they watched, and night flying amphibians were coming out to catch the chitropods.  A small herd of dropels grazed just beyond the fence.

Tasmeen said:

Sunlight pearls,
Treetop caught.
Wombs of glass wherein
Tomorrow waits.

“Nice,” Keir said.  “Did you just compose it?”

“Oh, no.  I’ve been working on it for days, but it won’t come right.  What do you think?”

“Maybe a bit too clever at the end.”

“Too sweet?”

“Something like that.”

“Any suggestions?”

Keir smiled.  “You’ve heard my poetry.  You know I’m not the one to ask.  What would Uke tell you?”

Tasmeen made a face.  “Less is more.”

“So I humbly submit – bearing in mind the humility that Uke’s poetry has forced upon me . . .”  Tasmeen hit him in the arm, and he grinned, “that you take an axe to it.”

She sighed and said, “I knew you were going to say that.”  She repeated the poem, now abbreviated:

Sunlight pearls,
Treetop caught.
Wombs of glass.

Keir spread his hands.  “That’s it.”

“It will require a more knowledgeable audience than the first version.”

“Hey,” Ramananda demanded, “ain’t we sophisticated enough for you?”

Sometimes Keir thought that Tasmeen and Uke’s poetry caught more of Cyan than their scientific findings.  After sex and discussing their research – probably in the other order – making poetry had become their primary form of recreation.  

Tasmeen recited several of her newer poems, then teased Keir, “Do you have any new bordello rhymes for us?”

Keir knew that Tasmeen would only badger him until he relented, so he recited his latest.

Call me Gomorrah, she said.
Nothing more —
Unless you count her straining
          breasts as speech.
Call me Gomorrah —
          It told me all I had to know.

Ramananda shook his head in mock distaste.  “Always the dirty mind.”

“I like it!”  Tasmeen protested, then took Keir’s hand and said, “You can call me Gomorrah any time you want to.

128. Science Fiction in the Wild

If you are what you eat, I used to be beefsteak, fried okra, and hominy. That comes from growing up in Oklahoma. I also lived outdoors most of the hours of every spring, summer, and fall day, and way too many hours of every winter day. That comes from growing up on a working farm.

If you are what you read, then I used to be an Andre Norton protagonist, at least in my imagination. Although I never met or corresponded with her, Andre Norton was something of a long distance mentor.

Alice Mary Norton legally changed her name to Andre Norton early on, in an era when being a woman was no help to a science fiction writer. I didn’t know that when I first read her; I thought Andre Norton was a man. Not that I thought about it much, but she didn’t write like a girl. Looking back, I see that she actually wrote like a person, but I wasn’t that sophisticated then.

One reason Norton got away with writing gender neutral fiction was that her characters spent most of their time alone. Even in their relationships with others of their own kind, they were loners, if not complete outcasts.

Star Man’s Son was the first Norton I read. In it, Fors spent all but a few pages on a quest away from his people; that was a pattern to which Norton frequently returned. I could easily identify with the solo quest while I spent endless hours alone on a tractor. The only variations in my daily life were whether I was pulling a disk or a hay rake, and which Norton novel was replaying in my head, forty years before someone invented the iPod.

Every time Shann Lantee on Warlock, or Naill Renfro on Janus, or any of a dozen other young men found himself stranded alone, or nearly alone, on an alien world, I could look up from my tractor seat at the Oklahoma prairie and say, “Yup, been there.”

The best thing about Norton’s characters was that they didn’t whine about being alone. They liked it. So did I.

I didn’t live in a city until I went to college. I spent my adult life living in the suburbs of a reasonably small city, and taught school in a very small town. As soon as I could retire, I moved to a few acres in the foothills. I would move further out if I could afford it.

I was born not liking cities, and my opinion never changed. It should be no surprise that my first novel was about a hunter surviving alone in the woods, or that my first science fiction novel was about a hundred or so humans stranded on an alien world (Jandrax, presently appearing in Serial). My three fantasy novels have a rural and medieval feel. David Singer, in A Fond Farewell to Dying, is a mountain boy who has to go urban to get his life’s work done. And Cyan, due out soon, begins with ten explorers on an empty world, then continues with the story of the peopling that world by hyper-urbanized refugees from an overcrowded Earth.

You write what you’ve lived.

127. Not a Frog, Not a Kangaroo

220px-Litoria_tyleri220px-RedRoo

Flashback: 1963, riding in a car, reading an article, probably by Arthur C. Clarke, on why humans should go into space. A little fish, swimming in shallow water, said to his father, “Why don’t we go up on the land and see what we can find?” The father fish responded, “Why would you want to do that?”

I read the passage out loud, but no one was interested, so I relapsed into nerdy silence.

Years later I found that the now accepted theory is that fish in shallow waters, accustomed to using their fins against the sea bottom, began to use them to navigate mud flats at low tide as mud skippers still do in mangrove swamps today. Legs evolved from fins.

It didn’t happen this way on Cyan. (This is a follow-on to yesterday’s post. If you missed it, we’ll wait for you to read it. Done? Good.)

On the planet Cyan, hundreds of millions of years ago, primitive chordates developed a split vertebral column, which resulted in twin tails. When they moved onto land, their tiny front steering fins were never used for locomotion and their twin tails (they had no back fins) became legs.

As Gus Lienhoff said when he dissected the first one Cyanian creature the explorers had collected:

Look, no pelvis. Look at this complex of bones. Some are fused, some flex, and these four are cantilevered. And look up here; no scapulae, just three extra thick, specialized vertebrae. Tiny front legs, powerful back legs with twice as many joints as you would expect, and absolutely no hint of a tail. Not even anything like a coccyx. A truly tailless, truly hopping biped. I wouldn’t have believed such a thing was possible.

Not a frog, not a kangaroo.

Frogs are quadrupeds with overdeveloped hind legs, like rabbits. They have a vestigial tail, like a human coccyx. If you look at a frog’s skeleton, it looks a bit like a massively deformed human. They can leap, but they also walk.

Kangaroos have a five-legged gait when walking. They lift up on a tripod made of small front legs and a powerful tail to shift their massive hind legs forward. Then they stand balanced on their hind legs while moving their forelegs and tail forward. 3 – 2 – 3 – 2, etc.

Cyanian bipeds, from the simplest to the most complex are hoppers. They all have short, grasping forelimbs; not quite T-rex hands, perhaps, but too weak to knuckle walk. They can move miles with grace and speed, but moving inches puts them into a condition of stumbling clumsiness. There are tree dwelling bipeds; how they navigate is a mystery I didn’t get around to investigating

When a trio of Cyl (intelligent Cyanian creatures created through recombinant DNA – its a long story) first enter a human habitat . . .

They were awkward inside the dome where the furnishings of the place made a maze for them to negotiate. As bounders, they were creatures of the unobstructed open plain. This human habitation was utterly foreign to them, not because of the steel from which it was made, or the interlocking triangles of its geodesic construction, but because it was cluttered. How could one hope to move about in it?

I don’t claim to be an artist, so I have made no effort to draw or paint these critters. I also haven’t seen the cover EDGE is putting on Cyan. If it has Cyanian hoppers, I sure hope they don’t look like frogs or kangaroos.

126. Let’s Build an Ecosystem – 2

Continuing our look at the creation of an ecology for Cyan. If you missed yesterday’s post, you might want to go there first.

We can take grasses and weeds for granted. Let’s give our trees multiple trunks bound together, like a strangler fig without its victim, and that should be enough. We need something like insects. We’ll call them Chitropods – chitro sounds like chitin, and pod means foot, so our reader will infer an exoskeleton without any further work on our part. Continuing the idea of inference, if we call the flying creatures who eat the chitropods pouchbats, the reader will draw a better picture in his mind that we could on paper.

The number of legs is important to Terrestrial arthropods, but lets bypass that by giving all our chitropods many legs, but with only one joint each where it meets the body. Now they have a rolling gait “like caterpillars on crutches”. Humor helps keep description from limping along. (Sorry, couldn’t resist!)

These are throw-away inventions. They could have been applied to any ecosystem and they are not systemically related to each other. They alone would be good enough for almost any SF novel, but not for one about scientists teasing out the essence of their planet.

Here we need a key differentiation, from early in evolution, from which a thousand lesser differences can be derived. Here it is: on Cyan, early in the development of chordate life, the vertebral column doubled at the posterior, giving the Cyanian version of fish twin tails. That changed everything. I’ll explain more fully tomorrow in a separate post.

On Cyan, the classes are Pseudo-pisces, Amphibia, and Inturbia. No reptiles, no birds, no mammals, no dinosaurs. The Amphibia are cold blooded. Inturbia are inefficiently warm blooded. The term Inturbia should imply “internal body temperature un-perturbed by external changes”. Not every reader will get that, but we need to reward our best readers by not spelling out everything.

There are a thousand other details, but for that, you will just have to download the book when it comes out. From EDGE. Soon.

***

I do have one more thing to share. I wouldn’t bother you, but since you’re reading a post about the backstage secrets of writing science fiction, I can assume that we are all nerds together here .

Inturbia have live birth. Cyanian amphibs have to return to water to lay their eggs, except for one group, the Sphaeralvids, who produce globewombs.

(Globewombs were) the closest thing to an amniote egg that Cyan’s fauna had developed – a transparent, leathery sac extruded by a Sphaeralvid mother and filled with a clear fluid like seawater. Into this she deposited fertile ova, then defecated. Then she separated from the globewomb and left it cached in the crotch of a tree, high up where it would receive full sunlight. On a bright day millions of these globewombs glinted in the treetops.

Algae from the Sphaeralvid mother’s bowels converted the feces into biomass and the Sphaeralvid nymphs fed off the algae.  When the feces were gone, the globewomb walls would break down, leaving the now sizeable nymphs free to face Cyan on their own.

Neat, huh?

125. Let’s Build an Ecosystem – 1

Over in Backfile, you will find an eleven part document called How to Build a Culture, inspired by Poul Anderson’s How to Build a Planet.

I could also write a paper called How to Build an Ecosystem, but who needs to read all that. A couple of posts here should cover the subject, without boredom or overload.

The fact is, simply peppering your planet with a few well chosen and deeply odd critters is enough in most cases. Andre Norton did it all the time, and it worked for her. The frawns and yoris on Arzor are simply transmogrified bighorn sheep and alligators, but so what? They provide plot points and local color, and that is all that is asked of them. Marion Zimmer Bradley gave us a mammalian snake, a hyper-weasel, and an intelligent dinosaur who sent out pheromone soaked calling cards in Hunters of the Red Moon. What more could you want? In Jandrax, showing up now in Serial, my native animals were distinctive, but most were mammalian, as one would expect from ice age migrators.

When I wrote Cyan, I faced a different situation. My crew was set down on an alien planet for one year, with the task of coming to understand its weather, geology, and ecology in order to prepare for colonization. They were all scientists, so their actions and conversations called for a deeper understanding of their new world than any other kind of science fiction novel would have required. Actually, that challenge was half the fun.

When I began Cyan, I had been studying ecology for about twenty years, starting back when I had to explain what the word meant. I later came to understand the essence of Earth’s taxonomy in the most rigorous possible way – I had had to condense it to a level which middle school students could understand without dying of boredom.

Scientists should forgive the following chart and paragraph.taxon

Drop a salmon egg on the gunwale of your canoe and it will dry out in minutes. A chicken or turtle egg would survive the same treatment. This is the meaning of amniote egg (although there are other, competing meanings). Creatures who lack them, must lay their eggs in water. The rest of the chart should be clear, although simplified. For example, birds have scales on their legs as well as feathers elsewhere, and I skipped Dinosauria altogether.

Now pull up a chair and lets build Cyanian ecology. It needs to be wierd but recognizable – that’s the key to all science fiction invention. We also need restraint. You can only explain so much to your reader without losing them, and beyond a certain point, your backstory is wasted effort.

Come back tomorrow and we’ll dive more deeply into Cyanian ecology.

April Fool

I taught school for twenty-seven years and in that time there were few things I hated more than April Fools Day. By the second year I had seen every prank any kid ever thought was new and clever, and still had decades to go. When April first fell on a weekend, it was a good year.

This year April first falls on a Friday, and I don’t post on Fridays. What a relief.

No joke.

124. We Are Not Alone

“The Blue Book say’s we’ve got to go out, and it doesn’t say a damn thing about having to come back.” Captain Patrick Etheridge, keeper of the Cape Hatteras Life Saving Station.

That could be the motto of space exploration. Not everyone will survive. That is why, in this excerpt from Cyan,  Ramananda Rao is making this report. You will note that I have suppressed a name to avoid a spoiler.

from the Logs of the  Darwin/Cyan Expedition
S.Y. 601, Day 239 (corrected)
entry by Ramananda Rao, acting geologist
at Venturi Station

Today, everything changed.  Our entire outlook on our work and on Cyan can never be the same again.

We have been at Venturi station for three weeks now, doing the work *** should have done.  The working conditions are miserable.  We are too far south and the land is too hot.  We arrange to work by the light of Procyon’s lesser companion, or early in Cyan’s morning, but still the heat is stifling.  Since I arrived here with Viki Johanssen, we have worked like dogs, taking core samples with our mole to map the extent of this ore field.

I can do the work; I have the training.  But I don’t have the inclination.  I would much rather be studying the weather.

When I first saw that Cyan stands straight up in orbit, I thought it would be meteorologically barren. How wrong I was. True, it has no seasons, but her slow rotation brings daily temperature variations of almost seasonal proportions.  Her storms are vast and powerful – and unpredictable.

Yet today, the weather and the ore fields became insignificant in a heartbeat when Viki leaned down to pick up a stone – and saw a row of flakes chipped away from one edge.

We are not alone here.

 When the exploration of Cyan moves into colonization, humans will face critical choices. Our knowledge of ecological consequences will always be incomplete, but we understand enough to know how badly we can screw things up.

Humans will go to the stars. But cattle? Horses? Wheat? Cockroaches and boll weevils? The chances for ecological disaster are huge.

And what will we do if we find a species evolving toward human level intelligence, but not there yet? The explorers of Cyan will have to face that dilemma.

123. Trump on Cyan?

This blog is about writing, not politics, but sometimes you just have to speak out. I hadn’t planned to post this excerpt from Cyan, but today’s (March 20) Face the Nation, and an interview with Stephanopoulos on This Week, changed my mind.

For months, the media has become increasingly open in their bias against Donald Trump. Well, so am I, but I’m not sworn to neutrality. On today’s show, Stephanopoulos’s gotcha questioning actually made Trump look like the wiser man, and that’s hard to do. I fear that the media’s abandonment of neutrality will further inflame Trump’s supporters, and that protesters trying to silence him will harden his supporters’ resolve.

It made me think about Saloman Curran.

I created Curran as a villian, or adversary, or strong-man, or malign father-figure in my upcoming novel Cyan. My protagonist Keir finds himself working for Curran, much against his will, and trying to figure him out

*****

“What do you think of Saloman Curran?”

That was the question Keir asked a dozen times during the following days. The words varied with circumstances, and he was careful to ask it when his respondents would feel free to answer honestly. Keir had realized that his own opinion was colored by his needs, and by the power that Curran held over him, and he wanted to know what the other people who shared the Curran International building with him thought of their boss.

They loved him.

They thought he was the smartest, strongest man in the world. They thought he was one of the few men who could help pull mankind out of the mess it had gotten itself into.

Their feelings were close to worship, but it was not like a Christian’s love of Jesus. It was closer to the distant, worshipful fear of an angry Jehovah. Not one person had any faith that his position with Curran was secure. Any one of them could be fired at any time; they knew that; they accepted it.

“Nels got fired last week, but he was screwing up.” What do you expect?

The second sentence was never voiced, but always implied. If anyone was fired, demoted, or punished in any way, it was assumed that that person was at fault. No one ever thought of blaming Curran.

Keir had never seen an organization like Curran International, and at the end of a week he decided that it was not the organizational structure, or even Curran himself, that was different. These people loved Curran, not because he was loveable, but because they had set out to find someone to love.

*****

Jeeze, that sounds familiar, and it scares hell out of me.

122. First-in Scout (post 2)

Cyan, the novel about this planet, will be out shortly from EDGE. Here is a sample from the opening minutes that the crew spend on the surface.

Tasmeen cut the jets.  Silence came in to fill the landing craft, and she said, “All right, Keir.  It’s yours.”

“Acknowledged.”  His response was recorded, and at that moment he became commander of the expedition.  Stephan had brought them here.  It was up to Keir to keep them alive until Stephan could bring them home again.

Practically, he had been in command ever since Tasmeen put the landing craft into polar orbit ten days earlier.  Now he slipped out of his couch, moved sideways toward the door and cracked the seal.  There was a faint hiss of incoming air as the pressures equalized, and for the first time they smelled Cyan.  Keir shoved the hatch back and pale morning sunlight entered the cabin.

Big Bug, a combination automatic bacteriological laboratory and homing beacon, sat a hundred meters away where it had landed five days earlier.  It had already determined that no Cyanian microorganism would harm them.  The base DNA of the planet’s creatures was too dissimilar.  Now Keir sat in the hatchway, getting used to the light, the smells, and the vegetation.  He had spent hours studying the images sent up by Big Bug, but reality was always different. He scanned the flash perimeter where their landing jets had scorched the earth, then let his eyes move slowly outward to the still living vegetation. There were grasses — or what passed for grasses on Cyan — within thirty meters of the landing craft, and they were half a meter high.  Crawling, crushing, fanged and poisoned death could be lying in wait.  There was no way to know.

Keir’s eyes moved on over the grasses, noting the direction of the wind, seeing how they moved and looking for discontinuities in the pattern of its motion that might tell of unseen things waiting in hiding.  They were in the center of a meadow that stretched away for nearly a kilometer in every direction.  Keir had chosen this place for its clear field of view.

When he could no longer stand the discipline of searching just for danger, Keir looked about with a tourist’s eye.  Points of light scintillated in the trees along the river.  He had no idea what they were.

“Petra,” he said, “rifle at the ready.  Stay in the hatch and stay alert.  Leia, you go out first.”

There was a smell of tension in the cabin.  Leia was the smallest of them all, the fastest, the meekest, and the most likely to run rather than fight.  Those were the reasons Keir had chosen her.  She squeezed past Keir and started down the chain ladder.  Keir went down on his belly with his pistol out while Petra stood over him with a rifle.  Leia worked her way down and dropped to the ground.  No one made any historic pronouncements.  Keir and Petra were too intent on watching for danger, and the others were holding their breaths.

“I’m down,” Leia said and her throat mike carried the words into the cabin.

“Walk straight away from the craft ten meters,” Keir said.

Leia complied.

“Do you see anything?” Keir asked.

“Nothing that looks dangerous.”

“Ten more meters.”

“Okay.”

“Petra, watch Leia, not me.  Gus, take my place.  You watch me.”

Keir swarmed down the ladder and dropped to the ground.  Burned grasses crunched beneath his feet.  He cradled his 12 mm. automatic pistol at the ready and moved up beside Leia.  Nothing moved in the grass but fleet and tiny insect-like creatures.

Leia took a deep breath and said, “My God, it’s beautiful.”

Keir nodded.  He smiled to himself as he noticed that her pistol was still in its holster.  No matter.  That was why he was here.  “Be ready to run back to the ship,” he said, “and if I give the word, don’t look back.  Don’t wait for me.”

“Are you sure?”

“If you hesitate, I’m going to make cleated tracks up your backside when I run over you.”

Leia chuckled and said, “Sure you would.”

121. First-in Scout (post 1)

When Kirk, Spock, and an anonymous crewman in a red shirt beam down onto an unexplored planet, things never go well. Whether you view the events that follow as high drama or low soap opera is a literary judgment, but did you ever consider what you would really face if you were the first down on a new planet?

The closest thing in history would be Captain Cook landing at Botany Bay (Australia, not Ceti Alpha V). The natives were as black as Africans, but otherwise resembled them very little. The animals couldn’t run, but they hopped at super speed. The trees shed their bark instead of their leaves.

But these were humans and animals and plants. Explorers of other planets won’t find that level of similarity. I considered this in my first novel Jandrax. Jan Andrax, a Scout, is stranded with a group of untrained colonists. Talking to a friend among the crew of the damaged starship, he says . . .

”Jase, do you know what the mortality rate is for Scouts on a new planet? Trained men whose whole life is dedicated to survival?”

“No.”

“Ten percent for each new planet.”

Jason greeted that with stunned silence.

“Jase, the first planet I explored, three of my twenty companions died; nor was it an exceptionally dangerous planet. On my second planet two of my friends were cut down before my eyes by an innocuous-looking flying mammal whose poison was deadly to humans.

“I came through my third planet with no particular difficulty, but on the last one I tangled with a large, horned herbivore during my first day planetside and left in a coma. I spent a total of two hours on her surface.

“Those were planets which had been properly scanned from orbit. I was working with trained and experienced scouts and the latest equipment. Here . . . I’d give odds there won’t be a human alive inside ten years.”

The day I wrote those lines, I decided the life of first-in scouts deserved to be to explored further. Three books later I began the novel Cyan about a group of them. More about that next post.