The Second Half

I'm down to the last half of Farstep Station. I only need to cut another 5k and then go back and make sure it flows -- and fix the spots that don't.

Last night as I was trying to sleep I had an awful idea. First Person instead of Third.

But then I realized I would have to lose some key material off the start of the novel, and I was able to beat that idea back out of my head.

The story is exciting, I think. A young man given his first command, apparently to appease his powerful military father -- only the two of them don't get along, and the father has some surprising ties to Farstep Station. Things are not going well for Desmond.

I have hit one of the important secrets and it's just not writing out well. I think I'm going to have to leave it and go on, and then look it over in that 'make it flow' fixing part.

But that's been most of my writing at the moment. I've been working on Vision and a lot of site stuff for various places. I hope to get back to a good amount of writing this week.

A snippet from the beginning:

Commander Sarton looked down both ways of the curving corridors. Five years, and he still couldn't get used to halls that didn't run straight. It didn't help that this section near the bays had never been completed. Grid work and bright spots of light circled off to both sides of him, with dark shadows between. He headed to the left, his steady march taking from light to light.

Farstep had been built in circles: never ending circles that led to nowhere. He thought it a perfect analogy for his career. He had thought -- despite his less than stellar record with the IWC --that he would go back to Terra Nova and live well when he had completed his work here. Now he couldn't see a future at all.

Why had he come down to the bays, anyway? To stare at the sealed door that he dared not open, reliving a disaster that many of the others didn't even fully comprehend? He could not walk away from this. He could only walk in circles. And he couldn't escape the fact that the IWC, with the war nearly over, had started looking at the station. After everything that had happened here... well more than just a loss of career loomed ahead.

Damn. Damn it all.

He stopped by Bay Three and reached out, putting his hand on the lock, almost daring himself to open it despite the warning. No one around. No one to watch. There was escape behind that door... but there was no coming back, either. And he couldn't guarantee it would be better.

Damn. Commander Sarton backed away from the bay, turned.

"They will find out, you know."

Sarton looked, not at all surprised to see the shadowed figure standing at the curve of the hall, just far enough that if he drew his laser pistol Murphy would easily escape out of view and range. They stared at each other for a moment, measuring intent and power. Sarton started to reach for his commlink, and Murphy disappeared.

He thought about pursuing the man this time... but there was no use? He headed back to the lift and up five levels to Command and Control. No where else to go except for circles.

"Sir," Lt. Hoya said as he came into the command room. "A message just came through to you, Commander. Tight beam."

Two ships sat off in system, one unaware of the other. One was trouble and one meant trouble, and he didn't have to ask which had sent the secret message.

"I'll take it in my office," he said, his step picking up as he turned toward the wide glass door that stood four steps up and at the end of the room. It couldn't be good news.

Sarton sat down at his desk and keyed the screen up with his private codes, watching the blue 'comm message' bar blinking hypnotically inviting him to view some new record of disaster. He turned away from it, jabbing at the wall to his right instead. The door opened to his touch. He pulled out a bottle of earth whiskey -- single malt, older than him, and just as far from home. Illegal for him to have it anywhere near the Command of course... but it sure as hell didn't matter now.

He drank straight from the bottle, guzzling it before he jabbed the blue square with his index finger, holding a second so that the computer could do a scan and open. The message came up with out a return code without a name... but he knew who sent it.

Destroy the evidence, including the files and anything on the other levels.

That was it. No offer to rescue him from this hellhole at the edge of humanity. Well to hell with it. If there was no hope of rescue, Sarton saw no reason to do the rest of the dirty work. He opened his desk drawer, drew out his small, personal laser pistol -- and shot himself through the head. He didn't even have time to regret that the bottle of whiskey fell and shattered on the floor.