Category Archives: A Writing Life

111. Our Neighborhood in Fiction

Gordon Dickson’s list of works is huge, but for some of us they all boil down to the Childe Cycle, known to us mortals as the Dorsai books. At some future date I plan a series of posts in appreciation of them, but for now the issue is his use of the local stellar neighborhood.

Dickson provided us with fifteen extrasolar planets circling seven nearby stars. His primary interest wasn’t in planet building, but he had an ability to paint a planet with a broad brush, then close in and give telling details about those local scenes where the action was taking place. It worked; it was just enough world building to carry each story forward.

Since the Childe Cycle consumed twelve novels over forty-seven years, there was plenty of time to visit each world at some time during the series. Some of the worlds, the Dorsai world in particular, were instrumental in shaping the character of the actors, but for the most part, Dickson’s focus was on a larger issue.

Even though the Childe Cycle featured a form of FTL almost from the first, Dickson’s characters never ventured beyond the local neighborhood. The overarching story he was telling concerned man’s early venturing into space, which led to the formation of three splinter cultures, and the semi-mystical forces which were attempting to reintegrate them into the mainstream.

(Yes, Dorsai Irregulars, I know that is an inadequate rendering, but you try putting fifty years of another man’s sophisticated thoughts into one sentence.)

The Friendlies (religious fanatics or men of faith, depending on who was writing the description, and not really that friendly at all) inhabited the planets Harmony and Association under Epsilon Eridani. The Exotics (scientists of the mind, following a believable mash-up of psychology and zen) inhabited Mara and Kultis under Procyon. Dorsai, the warrior world, lay under Fomalhaut. Incidentally, the phrase under (a star’s name) was one Dickson used often. I find it charming, and presume he was exporting to the stars the notion that there is “nothing new under the sun”.

The rest of his planets were well thought out and inhabited by humans who were not of one of the splinter cultures.

Wikipedia has a nice summary of the Childe Cycle, including a full list of Dickson’s planets. Better still go to your used bookstore and start reading.

*****

At the risk of arrogance – a risk any author is always willing to take – I’ll add my own fictional view of the local neighborhood.

My first science fiction novel, Jandrax, used a sabotaged FTL drive to set things in motion, stranding a group of colonists on an unknown planet. The only thing they – or I –  knew about their location was that it was far beyond the limits of exploration, and that none of them were ever going to return.

Cyan was going to be different. I wanted it to exploit the plot possibilities of relativistic flight, and to be a part of the exploration of the local neighborhood. I worked out this backstory as I wrote:

Early in this century, science makes a discovery that allows total conversion of matter to energy, providing the power to reach the stars at relativistic speeds. A multi-ship expedition to Alpha Centauri finds that the planet around Alpha Centauri A which should have been in the habitable zone, actually has an orbit so erratic that it is alternatively fried and frozen. However there is a barely habitable planet circling Alpha Centauri B. They name it Cinder and begin limited colonization.

Every novel of my childhood found an Earth-like planet around Alpha Centauri A; I had to break the pattern.

The second expedition, to Sirius, finds an Earth sized planet in a reasonable orbit for life, but this time the planet Stormking has a Uranian inclination. There is life, but it is basically uninhabitable. This sets up a future novel with an orbiting civilization made up of refugees from the inhabitants of Earth’s asteroid belt. They have chosen Sirius because it doesn’t have a habitable planet. They use Stormking as a prison, which set up the moral basis of the plot.

Three third-generations starships are built in orbit. The first two set out, one for Epsilon Eridani and one for Tau Ceti. A year later, the third set out for Procyon. This is the voyage which is the focus of the novel Cyan. When the explorers return to Earth, they find that the other two expeditions have both found prime planets, Haven and Elysium. Preparations to colonize them are taking all Earth’s resources; Cyan is not to be colonized, which sets up the events of the second half of the novel.

The starship which carried explorers to Cyan now goes on with a new crew to explore Epsilon Indi, before events which I can’t (spoiler alert) tell you about bring this stage of human exploration to a close.

Check out Cyan, due for release in a month or so, for details.

110. Our Stellar Neighborhood (post 2)

In the science fiction books of my youth, no one ever mentioned heading out into the universe already knowing what planets would be circling the stars they would visit. Even when I began Cyan, no one was thinking like that, so the first thing my explorers do is to map Procyon’s solar system and discover the eponymous planet which they will explore.

Alpha Centauri A is a near twin of our sun, as well as the closest to us. It used to be logical to assume that we will visit there first. That is no longer true. By the time we find the breakthroughs that will allow even relativistic speeds, we will probably have a full inventory of the nearby cosmos, and our first star journeys are likely to be to relatively well known destinations.

I really hate that. What fun would Columbus have had, if he had seen the National Geographic special first?

Where were we? Ah, the neighborhood.

Ignoring the various stellar specks out there, these are the stars we might have interest in, in order of closeness to Earth.

Alpha Centauri – luminosity 1.0 – 4.4 light years from Earth – already covered yesterday.

Sirius – luminosity 23.0 – 8.6 light years from Earth – is the brightest star in the night sky, as seen from Earth, due both to its inherent brightness and to its closeness to us. Sirius is a binary star. Sirius A is extremely bright and hot; Sirius B is a white dwarf.

Epsilon Eridani – luminosity 0.25 -10.5 light years from Earth – is the closest star which has a reasonably well confirmed planet, a giant thought to be about 3.4 AUs out. An AU (astronomical unit) is the distance from the Earth to the Sun, making it ideal for a quick mental picture of distance. The presence of a giant planet at that distance leaves us free to postulate smaller, more human-friendly planets closer in.

Procyon – luminosity 5.8 – 11.4 light years from Earth – is another binary. Procyon A is hot and white (but nowhere nearly as bright at Sirius) with an even fainter white dwarf companion, Procyon B.

Epsilon Indi – luminosity 0.12 – 11.8 light years from Earth – has three-fourths the mass of the sun and a much lower luminosity. Any human-habitable planets would be close in, with a very short year. If it has a decent tilt, its seasons could go by quite rapidly, leading to interesting story possibilities.

Tau Ceti – luminosity 0.36 (newer figures suggest .55) – 11.8 light years from Earth – Tau Ceti is a slightly smaller Sol type star. It is the nearest single star to so resemble our sun.

When I worked out the backstory for Cyan, I only considered stars within 5 parsecs; I will add two more to this list because Gordon Dickson used them in his version of the neighborhood, which we will see in tomorrow’s post.

Altair – luminosity 11 – 16.7 light years from Earth – is a slightly variable blue white star with a rapid rotation (about 9 hours, compared to the sun’s 25 days) which gives a pronounced equatorial bulge.

Fomalhaut – luminosity 16.6 – 25 light years from Earth – is also blue-white with one known planet called Dagon. The size, nature and composition of Dagon is highly controversial, but it seems to be visible to the Hubble telescope only because it is surrounded by a dust cloud many times larger in diameter than the planet itself.

109. Our Stellar Neighborhood (post 1)

FTL is the break point of science fiction. Without a faster than light drive, exploration is restricted to the local area, and that’s fine with me. I take satisfaction in building planets within the constraints of known stars. But beware, the party is nearly over. We now have the capacity to discover extrasolar planets, and new ones are found every year. Fortunately for latecomers to the planet builders guild, megaplanets are easier to find that Earth sized ones, and NASA keeps cutting funding. Still, it won’t be too many years before you can’t decide for yourself where, within the limits of orbital mechanics, you want the planets of Alpha Centauri or Procyon to be.

When I began world building, the prime reference was How to Build a Planet by Poul Anderson. I also had an article from Sky and Telescope titled Stars Nearer than Five Parsecs. Today the internet provides an embarrassment of riches, including planet building apps. Apps? Where’s the fun in that?

What I am about to present will be old knowledge to some of you, so forgive me. Not everybody can be a nerd on everything. There are plenty of people, including would-be science fiction writers, who only want a primer on the local neighborhood, because their passions lie elsewhere.

What is the star closest to Earth? The sun. That’s a gotcha riddle among middle school students. The sun’s luminosity is generally given as 1.0, which makes the luminosities of other stars easy to understand by simple comparison.

Okay, what star is next closest, Alpha Centauri or Proxima Centauri? The P- word gives it away, but it isn’t really that simple.

Alpha Centauri isn’t a star, it only seems to be one to the naked eye. A moderate telescope resolves that dot in the sky into three dots. Alpha Centauri is a triple star, or maybe  a double star with a third star wandering through the area. Astronomers haven’t decided yet.

Alpha Centauri is the largest “star” in the constellation Centaurus. Centaurus has moved southward since the ancients named it, so that Alpha Centauri is no longer visible from the northern hemisphere. I had to wait decades to see it, on my first trip to Australia. There you don’t look for Centaurus, you look for the Southern Cross, a kite shaped constellation within Centaurus.

Alpha Centauri is just a dot in the sky, but I was thrilled to finally see the star which was the setting for so many science fiction stories from my youth.

The two stars of the binary pair are named Alpha Centauri A and Alpha Centauri B. The third star is sometimes called Alpha Centauri C, but more often Proxima Centauri because it it slightly closer to Earth. Beta Centauri is something entirely different. The second brightest dot in Centaurus, Beta Centauri is a star system 525 light years from Earth – not in the local neighborhood at all. Beginners sometimes say Beta Centauri when they should be saying Alpha Centauri B.

The naming convention is widespread, but not universal. Many stars have names given to them by the ancients. Many more are simply alpha-numeric designations, following the conventions of published star charts or inventories by observatories.

*****

Click here for a Wikipedia article that will list 56 of the nearest stars, followed by maps. The first map will give you some idea of where these stars lie in relation to each other.

Tomorrow we can look at some of the rest of the nearby stars, concentrating on those which might have planets useful for human real estate.

108. Enough

Do not misunderstand! This is not about suicide. It is about letting go, and knowing that no one lives forever.

It is also the flip side of David Singer’s frenetic pursuit of immortality in To Go Not Gently, in Serial, and in the novel A Fond Farewell to Dying.

Enough

The old man walked the narrow path
That snaked between the boulder falls,
Past the sound of water moving
Deep within the willow thickets,
Upward toward the one lone tree
That marked the juncture of the sky.

There he stopped beneath the tree
Where the cliff fell sheer away.
A thousand feet below him lay
Tall tips of trees, and the sun,
Yellowed by the rising dust
And reddened by the end of day.

The old man eased his bones
Gently into roots’ embrace,
And looking out, he said, “Enough.”

“Ten thousand sunsets I have seen,
“I do not need to see another.”

All his life came to him then;
Marched in review before his eyes,
Comrades, children, and his wives.
Briefly his — now all passed on,
Briefly his — forever gone.

He settled deeper into soil,
And closed his eyes to outward sight.
The birds he heard were decades past;
The smell was lilacs overhead,
When he first lay with his first wife.

His heart, filled up with that which was,
He closed to passage of his blood;
And was complete.

107. Codger’s Law

There are laws which govern human behavior. No matter how chaotic things become, somebody will take what he sees and codify it. Science fiction is no different.

Asimov gave us the three laws of robotics:

1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
2. A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Laws.

Asimov himself worked those laws to death, and provided countless plot ideas for other authors.

Since so many science fiction authors are scientists or engineers, laws from the “real” world permeate writings in the field. We frequently see references to the three laws of thermodynamics, the three laws of motion, and the three laws of planetary motion. Three is a happy number for codifiers, but sometimes it just isn’t enough. Both robotics and and thermodynamics needed to add a zeroth (but not a fourth) law.

Arthur C. Clarke also committed three laws:

1. When a distinguished but elderly scientist states that something is possible, he is almost certainly right. When he states that something is impossible, he is very probably wrong.
2. The only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible.
3. Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

Asimov’s laws were for fictional robots; Clarke’s laws are more about how the real world works.

Everybody knows Murphy’s Law, “Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong”. It is a favorite of engineers, but it works equally well in almost any human situation. It has variants and corollaries. Sod’s and Finagle’s variants add, “. . . at the worst possible time” or “. . . with the worst possible outcome.” Some even say that “Murphy was an optimist,” but that may be stretching things a bit.

Related, and not a law but a test, is the matter of the half-glass. Optimists say the glass is half full; pessimists say the glass is half empty. At my house, given a 50% glass, my wife will say it’s nearly full and I’ll say it’s almost empty, but that could be an extreme case.

Of all the “laws”, Sturgeon’s is my favorite. Wearying of critics of science fiction who claimed that ninety percent of science fiction is crap, Sturgeon replied, “Ninety percent of everything is crap.” I’ve never heard anyone disagree, expect those who would have a higher percentage, or who substitute an even more disreputable excremental material.

Finally, not to be outdone, I want to add my own bit of codification. I came to this idea when comparing Dorsai! and The Final Encyclopedia, two of my favorite science fictions novels. They come from early and late in Gordon Dickson’s career and are so different in style that, brilliant as they both are, they could have been written by two different authors. I have seen the same phenomenon in the work of other writers. Possibly even in my own.

Codger’s Law: “The older the writer, the longer the manuscript.”

106. Super Tuesday

Super Tuesday, March first. By the time this hits the ‘net many of you will already have voted, because I am on a west coast schedule.

You surely know more about this day than I do, since I am writing this in late January. Today, Trump is ahead of everybody on one side, and the other side is up for grabs.

I have no intention of suggesting whom you should vote for, but I do have something to say. Politics is about now and tomorrow and the next day. Politics is about making the best of a bad situation, and the situation is always bad. Politicians shouldn’t outright lie, but any politician who answers every question with the full truth, will never be elected.

One standby that never fails to get a vote is:

They are coming to get us, to smother us, to bury us, to kill us, but I can stop them if you will help me build a wall.

American has been building walls since before it was America. They never work.

*****

In September, when this website was only three weeks old and no one was listening yet, I posted a poem. Here it is again, for your consideration.

Poetry should stand without explanation, but, like anything else, it can be misused. So, be notified! This is not a right wing call to man the barricades to keep the enemy out, but a cautionary tale about what it will cost us if we don’t find real solutions.

Hungry

We who horde the common wealth
Upon this crowded planet,
Must look to see what lies beyond
Our barricaded borders.

The world stares back,
Unblinking eyes — prepared
To eat us all alive, and still be hungry.

                              It’s happened all before.

Once, seven in a cave drove out the eighth
With stones and fire-sharpened sticks,
Because the antlered carcass on the ground
Was not enough to feed them all.

And then in ancient days when kings and priests
Invented both religion and the law,
To fill their coffers so that they could eat
While those who raised the food went hungry.

Or yet again, when men of white
Despised the black, and black despised the gray.
And those whose colors ran together were disowned.
Color was enough to make them hate
But hunger taught them how and why
A thousand years ago.

Yet still we breed and laugh,
And play at deafness, though an angry sound
Declares the world is poised to seize its bread.

They will march like locusts through the earth,
And eat us all alive, and still be hungry.

This world is troubled. We are surrounded by people hungry for bread and freedom. Pointing a finger at them and saying, “It’s your fault!’ won’t solve our problems.

And a wall won’t do it. Never has; never will.

105. Leap Boy For President

After a month and a half of seriousness, it’s time to celebrate with a bit of total nonsense, and what better time for it than a day that only comes every fourth year.

Once upon a time – 1952, I think it was – there was a kid who was born on Leap Day.

His Dad was named Alan Hed, and he wanted to give his son the same name, but his wife had a quirky sense of humor. She told the nurse to call the boy Leap, as in Leap Alan Hed. When he was really young, his dad called him Alan and his mother called him Leap, but when he got old enough for school, his kindergarten teacher – who was a mean bastard, anyway  – called him Leap A. Hed. That brought about a sudden parent conference and after that the dad got his way, and the boy tried to forget that his first name was Leap.

People wouldn’t let him forget, and finally he gave in and refused to answer to a Alan any more. He went further. He decided that if he was going to be the boy with all those nicknames:

Leap Boy
Leap Frog
Leap for Cover
Leap Forward
Leap Back
.  .  .  and of course, still, interminably, Leap Ahead  .  .  .

.  .  .  if he was going to have to put up with all those stupid names, he was going to go all the way. I refused to celebrate his birthday on the twenty-eighth of February or the first of March. He only celebrated it on February twenty-ninth.

Worse, he counted his age by birthdays. When he was sixteen, he started putting his age down as four. He spent a lot of time talking to the principal about that, but they finally got tired of the whole business. You might say he out-stubborned them.

He couldn’t out-stubborn the draft board. When they said he was eighteen and he said he was four, they didn’t buy it. He claimed discrimination under the Civil Rights Act. He might have made it all the way to the Supreme Court, but when the 1969 draft lottery was held, February twenty-ninth drew number 285, so the draft board dropped the case.

After that his life calmed down. He never married (he claimed he was too young) and the IRS was indulgent. They figured he would regret his claims when he wasn’t eligible for Social Security until he was 260 years old.

Unfortunately for Leap – or Leap Boy, as the media started calling him – some joker heard about his claims and put him up for President in 2016. It caught fire. Saturday Night Live had a field day with the notion. Blogs sprang up all over the country in his name. The Leap Boy Theme Song (set to the tune of the old cowboy song Take Me Back to Texas, I’m Too Young to Marry) had eight million plays on U-tube.

Donald Trump denounced him. He said that if Leap claimed to be sixteen years old, that made him ineligible to be President.

Unfortunately some jokes get out of hand. On November eighth, after a massive write-in campaign by people who surely didn’t really expect to succeed, Leap Alan Hed was voted in as the forty-fifth president of the United States.

Oh, well. Could he be any worse?

I guess we’ll never know. At last report, he has fled to Canada, where he is seeking asylum under an assumed name.

104. Mud 3

Here are the last two of six installments of the novel Mud.

Could I walk away from Renth a thousand miles, and become fully a man? And if I died trying, how much worse could that be? There was nothing to tie me to Renth. My last sibling had died of the cough, I never knew my father, and my mother was a walking skeleton who would not last much longer.

I would become a warrior, secretly. I would train my body. I would find a hiding place in the swamp where no one would see me and practice at arms as I has seen the warrors do.

It was not easy, and it did not procede quickly. At twelve, I was responsible for a full day of work every day, in the streets night and morning, in the fields most days, and cleaning out my master’s cesspit every third day. Chamarana are not slaves, exactly, but the difference from a slave’s point of view, or a Chamarana’s point of view, would be too small to notice. It took weeks of time snatched from sleep to find a clearing in the swamp that was far enough away to be hidden but close enough to reach quickly when I could find a free hour.

My body responded slowly. I was young and strong, but to become stronger requires effort, and effort requires food. A hungry warrior is a weak warrior, and I was hungry all the time. I could not steal food from non-Chamaranas – for a Chamarana to touch food that has been blessed by a priest after leaving the fields where the Chamarana grew it would pollute the food. That affront to the dignity of non-Chamaranas was punishable by death.

I was too proud to steal from my fellow slaves.

——————–

I learned to hold a wooden sword as I had seen warriors in the common. I learned to swing it; then I weighted it, to be more like a sword of steel. My forearms screamed in pain. I sweated, and panted for breath, and at times fell to my knees too exhausted to rise.

I vented my anger on unoffending reeds and on the knotted limbs of the rybhal tree. I learned of the shock to the joints that comes with every blow. Then I would stagger back to my sleeping rags under a tree on the Renthian side of the Renal. The next morning I would force myself awake and go through my day’s work with gritted teeth, unwilling to show any sign exhaustion.

Three years passed and I had gained some skill when I was discovered.

*****

Here the story ends, for now. Unlike Voices in the Wall, over in Serial, I can’t tell you what will happen next because I don’t know.

Some stories come from the head, some from the heart. This one came from the gut. I only feel what will happen, I do not know. I have ten single spaced pages of notes which may become an outline, but I don’t know yet which of several paths the novel will take.

If that seems strange to you, so be it. It is part of the reason it takes me so long to write a novel.
Monday, some silliness after six weeks of serious posts.

103. Mud 2

Here are the second two of six installments of the novel Mud.

Merchants never came to the common; the diversions of that place were beneath their station, but their soldiers, herdsmen, clerks, and servants flocked there every evening to take their crude and colorful pleasures. A grown Chamarana would be beaten if found there, except after midnight when they went to clean the grounds, but Chamarana children hung from the trees and hid in the bushes to watch the excitement.

Mostly, I watched the women.

I could always look at Chamarana women, working, always working, in their thin, torn clothing, washing themselves naked in the Renal, or relieving themselves in the bushes. There was no part of a woman’s body that was not familiar to me.

This was different. These women were soft and rounded. Their breasts were not flat. They were clean, powdered, and perfumed. They were beautiful; more important, they knew they were beautiful, and showed that knowledge in every graceful movement. They walked across the common, swaying their hips with a half-smile that said, “I know you are looking. Go ahead. Enjoy.” It was a pleasure to watch them walk. It was a burning torch in the heart to watch from concealment as they shed their clothing and opened their legs to their lovers.

As a child, I could look. If one of the men caught me they would kick me and laugh and let me run away. But in a year or so, when I was just a little older, they would beat me unconscious for daring to look at a woman who was not a Chamarana. So I looked, and looked, and then looked again.

——————–

When I was surfeit with watching the women, I would watch the warriors at play. It was practice, of course, with blunted weapons. Often enough it left them bruised and bloodied, but they enjoyed themseves so hugely, that it looked like play to me. And why not? They were powerful men, with bulging thighs and masses of muscle in their arms and shoulders. Their bodies spoke of plenty of exercise, plenty of food, and plenty of rest. Our lean, slat-like Chamarana bodies spoke of little food, unending work, and rest that rarely came.

If I had a body like that, I thought, I could have women like that. But it wasn’t true, because I was Chamarana.

If I weren’t Chamarana . . . but that was a dream that couldn’t even be dreamed.

3

In the summer of my twelfth year I quit going to the common. I had been beaten twice in one month, and the second beating had left me unable to move for three days. Clearly, I had grown too old to be tolerated there.

Never again to look upon a beautiful woman – it was too much to bear.

The world is wide, and only Renth has Chamarana. I had heard this from the mouths of foreign sailors in the common, when I was young enough to listen from hiding. If I were a sailor, I could sail away. If I were a warrior, I could ride away. But I was Chamarana, and all I could do was carry away the waste too foul for a man to touch, grow food for others to eat, become leaner every year, and die.

102. Mud 1

Here are the first two of six installments of the novel Mud.

1

They call me Mud, but don’t be fooled. It is a greater insult than it seems.

The word is Wauk and its symbol is embossed on one of the counters of the runeboard. As it is from the Godtongue, it has entered every language. In the Inner Kingdom, so a traveler once told me, it means the basic stuff from which all the world is made. Not so in my city.

In Renth, mud is that stuff into which all foul things come to rest. Blood and feces, urine and menses, all come back to the earth at last. A Renthian merchant will not say the words for those things – he hardly admits that his body produces them – and so he says wauk, thus staining a good word.

My people are Renthian, but outcasts. We are the Chamarana, who live in the swamp, and carry away those unpleasant things that the nobles will not speak of. I was born in the mud and of the mud. The smell of the mud was the first thing in my nostrils. My mother smelled of mud; most of my siblings died of the mud’s contagion.

The Chamarana breed freely and die early. It is a joke to the merchants. But those of us who survive, grow strong. And angry.

——————–

2

The river Renal curves sharply just as it nears the Inner Sea. Renth is built on the high right bank between the river and the sea. Overflowing waters in spring cover the lowlands off the left bank, forming a vast inland swamp. We Chamarana live at the edge of the swamp, and enter Renth only to do our work.

Every morning the tichan are driven out of their pens down the main avenue of the town to the swamp to graze. Every night they return to the safety of the pens, and twice a day we Chamarana with our crusted buckets and wooden scoops go out to clean the road after their passing. Dumped onto the fields at the edge of the swamp, and composted carefully into the stronger waste from the merchants cesspools, it fertilizes the crops we raise to feed Chamrana and merchant alike.

When I was five years old, I was given a scooop and put to work alongside my mother. When I was eight, and could lift a bucket, I began to work alone. But no one works the day round, not even a Chamarana. My mother had only enough energy for her work and to care for my little sister. She had none left for me, so I was free when my work ended to head for the common.

The land which stood above the highest floods was packed tight with warehouses, dwellings, barracks, and shops belonging to the merchants. On the land which flooded yearly, we planted our crops. Above the fields, we built our temporary huts, and rebuilt them every time the Renal rose higher than ususal. Between merchant’s houses and Chamarana huts lay the common.
more tomorrow