The Academy Post #5

Notes:  One random interjection for the sake of getting it out there…I got nominated for a Paranormal Romance Guild Reviewer’s Choice award.  I’m one of six nominees in the M/M Paranormal Romance/Fantasy category for season one of Cambion, and I would love love love to get a nod here, so if you feel like voting, here’s the link: http://www.paranormalromanceguild.com/2013reviewerschoice.htm .  Thank you if you voted, and thank you even more if you read Cambion! 

I know where I’m taking The Academy now.  It’s going to take a while, so settle in for the long haul, darlins.

Title: The Academy

Part Five: Showing An Interest

 

***

 

 

Time stretched, when you were in the Academy.  Time became a fluid thing, a personal attribute that you could save and reallocate, parse out and parcel away for when you needed it.  Time was a resource to be carefully allotted, and every moment had to be filled.

At least, that was what the instructors thought.

It turned out that there were a lot of expectations laid on a cadet for what they should be able to accomplish in any given term.  Academy cadets were supposed to be the best of the best, the foundation of the Federation’s future military command, diplomatic service and leaders in science.  That meant that you had to perform to the absolute best of your abilities at all times, or risk getting marks on your record that would indicate you were less than some of your fellow cadets, which would tell in your career once you graduated and were sent out to serve.  You had to strive for the best grades, you had to have the best projects, and any of the rest of the time you weren’t spending sleeping (which, more than five hours a night was considered lazy) you had to fill with extracurriculars.

Darrel, of course, was on the paraball team.  Cody didn’t even know what paraball was before he got to the Academy, and figuring out just now that it was the paramount sport in the central system was kind of embarrassing.  Garrett had never really cared about sports and his dad had been a Drifter before moving out to Pandora, so neither of them thought that it was something Cody needed to know about.  Which, holy shit, it was.  Everyone here knew about paraball: they had lists of teams and players and statistics and got into loud arguments over who was better and why, and Cody just listened with open ears and tried to make sense of it.

Ten was no help.  “It’s a stupid game,” was all ze said.  “Idiots who like to waste time running around trying to shunt a ball into a moving target.  It’s like a commentary on the binary nature of reproduction in modern society, and if you start playing it I will turn your hair magenta.  For the next four years.”

“I’m not going to play it,” Cody replied—which, true enough, there was no way he’d ever live through a game, not the way these people went after each other.  “I just want to know how it works.”

“Talk to Darrel, he’s the meat head.”

Cody would have talked to Darrel, except it was like his quad mate was never around anymore, and when he was he holed up with Grennson in their room and only came out to eat and argue with Ten.  Valero was more of a presence in their quad now, usually just to walk with Darrel to class or back from practice late at night, but she was always there, smiling and laughing and dismissing Cody with the kind of “oh, cute little thing” mentality that he’d gotten from time to time on Paradise. 

Logically, Cody knew it wasn’t a bad thing that he was being ignored.  Being ignored was a skill he was going to have to cultivate in his professional life, from what Phil had said, but that didn’t mean Cody had to put up with it in his own living quarters.  So the next evening Valero was over, before Darrel had a chance to slink away, Cody joined them at the kitchen table.  “Hi,” he said to Darrel.

“Oh…hi.” 

Valero looked annoyed that Cody had interrupted her diatribe about some professor, but he didn’t bother to engage with her.  “Listen, I was wondering when your first game was going to be.”

“My first paraball game?”

“Yeah.”

“Aww, do you want to be his cheerleader?” Valero cooed.  “That’s sweet.”

Cody continued to ignore her.  “I don’t know much about paraball, but I’d like to learn more, since it’s so popular here.  So yeah, I’d like to come to a game.”

“We won’t actually start having games until next term,” Darrel said, brushing Valero’s hand off his arm when she tried to redirect his attention.  “It’s a kind of complicated game, so it takes a lot of time for a team to get good at it.  But if you want to come and watch a practice, the field is behind Zeus Tower.  There are stands for spectators.”

“I’d like that.  What time do you practice?”

“From eighteen to twenty hours on weekdays, six to ten hours on the weekends.”

Cody whistled.  “That’s a lot.  No wonder we never see you here anymore.”

Darrel made a face.  “I know, it’s kind of taking over everything else.  It’ll get better once the team is used to each other, though.”

“Speaking of the team,” Valero interrupted, “how is Kyle doing as team captain?”

“He’s fine, I guess.”

“Because he was worried he wouldn’t be able to squeeze it in, what with the honor society and the sharp-shooting trials and his senior project.  But Bree told him he shouldn’t worry about it, and I completely agree.  He’s amazing at managing his time.”

Aaand Cody was definitely being dismissed from that conversation.  He would have tried to interject, but then Grennson came home and Cody had the pleasure of seeing Darrel ignore Valero completely in favor of the Perel.

“The fricatives are killing me,” Darrel said as soon as Grennson walked in the door.  “You’ve got to help me before I embarrass myself in front of Ferran.”

“What are you trying to say?” Grennson asked, coming over to their table.  “Hello, Cody.”

“Hi,” Cody replied.

“Hello, Valero,” Grennson added politely before turning back to Darrel.

“I’m trying to talk about something that happened last week, but combining the fricatives needed for the past imperfect and the guttural rr makes me sound like I’m choking.”

“Every human sounds that way when they first begin to learn,” Grennson commiserated.  “We will practice it.”

“We have to hurry, then, because your father is calling in an hour.”  Darrel got up from his chair and didn’t give Valero a second glance.

“I will cook for us tomorrow,” Grennson told Cody.  “Tell Ten so ze doesn’t think we’re experimenting without hir.”

“I will,” Cody assured Grennson.  “Thanks.”

“It’s my pleasure.  Good night,” he said to Valero, and then the two of them were back in their room, leaving Valero very put out.

“What the hell is a fricative?” she demanded.

“I think it’s a kind of omelet,” Cody said casually.  “Bye, now.”

A few minutes later Cody came back to his room with two cups of Ten’s favorite drink, something ze lovingly called Primordial Soup.  Apparently it had everything the body needed to function in it: protein, the right kinds of fats, metabolic stabilizers and huge amounts of caffeine.  Cody drank it when there was nothing else available, and Ten only consumed anything else if ze was forced to.

Ten took hir cup, looked at Cody and smirked.  “You don’t like her either.”

Cody rolled his eyes.  “What gave me away?”

“You’ve gone from actually being kind of stupid and starry-eyed around her to pretending to be stupid just to make her frustrated.  Did she really believe that fricatives are egg-based?”

“I don’t know, she left right after Darrel and Grennson disappeared.”

“That was her slamming the door.  Interesting.  She really complies with the stereotypical formula of epic bitch.”

“You’d know,” Cody said, then laughed when Ten threw a pillow at him.  “I’m kidding!  Seriosuly, you’re way more epic than she is.”

“That’s more like it,” Ten said with a sniff, then deflated a little bit.  “Are you actually going to go watch that idiot practice?”

“I might as well.  I don’t have anything else to do with my evenings yet, and I am interested.”

“You should find something else to do.”

“Once the races actually start up, I will, but until then it’s just me on my bike and I’ve got a pretty good idea of what it can do.  If I tinker with the engine any more my Uncle Wyl will kill me,” Cody said.

“Oh right.  You’re on the racing team.”

“It’s not really a team,” Cody mused.  “More like a group of gearheads and speed freaks who all get together every now and then and show off for each other.  We’ll be racing against each other once the meets start, so it’s not really the friendliest place.”

“Hmph.”  Ten looked back at hir tablet.  “And of course my schedule is completely full, I’ve got a dozen different experiments going in the lab all the time, frankly I should probably be sleeping there but I know you’d pine if I stayed away all night.”

“I would definitely pine,” Cody agreed, looking at the way Ten was sitting, the slump in hir shoulders and the tight twist of hir mouth.  Cody knew he wasn’t the most insightful person in the universe, but he occasionally had his moments.  “Actually, do you have some time free on Saturday morning?  I know, I know, experiments,” he added fast, “but I’m running a new course and there’s this part that’s so curvy I’m considering adding ballast to my bike, and I’d get a better feel of what I need to do if I had a passenger to run it with a few times.”

Ten arched a perfect eyebrow.  “Are you seriously asking me to ride around on a hoverbike with you?  In the wind, outside, with my hair?”

“Well, you’d have to wear a helmet.”

“Impossible,” Ten replied.  “I don’t do helmet hair.”  But ze did look intrigued.

“If you come with me,” Cody coaxed, “I’ll break out my special fuel.  It’s a proprietary mix, I’m not allowed to use it for races, but nobody else here has it.  The effects are insane.”

“You have a proprietary fuel mix?” Ten scoffed.  “You?  You can barely balance basic chemical equations!”

“I didn’t say I made it,” Cody said.  “It’s my uncle’s, and it’s in short supply.  In fact, I might run out after this next Saturday…”

“I’ll come and ride your bike with you if you give me some of the fuel to analyze,” Ten said instantly.  “I bet I could make you more. In fact, I bet I could make it better.”

“That would be great,” Cody replied with a smile.  “Thank you.”

Ten looked a little suspicious, like something had just happened to hir that ze didn’t completely understand or agree with, but ze nodded imperiously and went back to hir tablet. 

Cody flopped back and stared up at the ceiling, feeling proud of himself.  Maybe he really was getting the hang of how to handle his quad mates at last.

 

***

 

Cody ended up with company for his paraball practice-watching the next day.  Not Ten, of course, who dramatically announced that ze wouldn’t be caught dead ogling a bunch of sweaty, dirt-caked meat heads.  Grennson was better company anyway, almost as ignorant as Cody when it came to the sport, although Darrel had at least tried to explain it to him.

They took the lift up to the lowest level of the spectator stands, where they’d be just a few meters from the top of the curving field, and sat down to watch.  There were a couple other observers, but none of them did more than nod.  It was surprisingly relaxed.

“I’m afraid I cannot recount the rules perfectly,” Grennson said as they watched players toss balls back and forth.  Each person carried a stick with a net at the end, and the ball was about the size of two closed fists.  The field was circular, with two square goals at ground level on opposing ends.  The goals rose up to about head high, and were roughly as wide as a person’s shoulders.  “I am still a bit confused by it all.”

“Whatever you can tell me is more than I knew before,” Cody said.

“All right.  Well,” Grennson looked down at the field.  “The game is played in two halves.  There are eight players per team: two solely for defense, two for offense and four to play the midfield.  The ball can only move by passing—once you have it, you must either throw to score or throw to pass.  If you don’t have the ball you can block, or defend the carrier, or get into better position to receive.  It’s a contact sport, but you’re not supposed to knock a carrier down.  No one guards the goals, although they do a good job of guarding themselves because they are a moving target once the field starts rotating.”

“Do you think they’ll do that today?”

“Darrel said they would,” Grennson confirmed.  “I hope they do, I am looking forward to seeing it played properly.”

“Proper” paraball happened on a parabolic field.  The edges lifted up, the middle sunk down and the field began to slowly spin, the goals rotating with it.  In professional games, an element of lowered gravity was added to the mix, to increase the chance for wild leaps and acrobatic saves that made the sport fun to watch.  At the Academy, they had the resources to play with lowered gravity and practiced that way when they worked through mock games.

“It was kind of you to come,” Grennson said after a moment.  They could see Darrel down on the field, sprinting with a look of grim determination as he scooped up a rolling ball.

“I’m genuinely interested,” Cody replied.  “We didn’t have anything like this back on Pandora.”

“Nor on Perelan.  But that isn’t why you are kind.”  Grennson blinked his big amber eyes at Cody.  “You are kind because you showed an interest about it to Darrel, and because you are here now at his practice.  This is not his favorite thing to do, but he is determined to be good at it, and it is kind of you to support him.”

Cody shrugged.  “I want to get to know him.  I’d be hopeless at learning Perel, so this seemed like the next best way.”

“He is a very good student of my language,” Grennson agreed with a smile.  “He—oh, look, it’s moving!”

Apparently the lazy part of practice was over, because now the field was changing, curling in on itself until it was a shallow bowl.  The players weren’t dividing into teams, so it wouldn’t be like a real game yet, but at least the special effects were coming in now.  After a moment, the field began to rotate.  At first the players lurched, or most of them did, but then they found their footing.  One of the girls leapt into the air, twice as high as her actual height, laughing as the lowered gravity took effect.

“Take a shot, then run defense for the next in line!” the coach yelled.  The teams roughly divided up and players grabbed up the ball from wherever they happened to be, took the best shot they could at the moving goal and then turned to try to block the next shot coming in.

Most of them went wide, either too high or too low.  A few balls made it into the stands, but passing out of the differentiated gravity field stole most of their energy, and they weren’t very fast once they were over the edge.  Grennson and Cody watched as Darrel took his shot from a far right angle.  The defender lunged for the ball but missed, and it ended up hitting the edge of the goal but not quite going in. 

“So close!” Cody yelled.  The goals moved by at a constant pace, each one backed with a static field so that if a ball did get into it, it was immediately caught and held.  Cody and Grennson watched them roll by, defenders running and leaping to make catches while attackers shot from increasingly bizarre angles.  A few defenders threw in some flips, which made their coach shout but everyone in the stands cheer.

One of the goals was coming close again.  Cody watched the attacker gauge the distance, the angle…this guy was built, too, he had to be a senior.  The defender looked tiny and frail in front of him, and when he shot the defender clearly decided discretion was better than valor and just got out of the way.  The ball sailed hard and fast right over the top of the goal and—

“Down!”  Grennson grabbed Cody’s shoulders and pulled him to the side as the ball thudded into the stand right above their heads.  It was much faster than the others that had made it out of the field, thrown with enough force that it still had plenty of power to damage as it came at them.

“Are you guys okay?”  The player who had thrown the ball had jumped over the edge and joined them in the stands.  “I didn’t expect it to release quite so hard.”  He smiled apologetically at them.  Silky brown hair, pearly teeth, golden skin…and very, very fit.  He helped straighten both of them up before picking up the ball.

“We are fine,” Grennson said for both of them.

“That’s a relief.  You might want to consider sitting a little further away,” the young man added, tossing the ball up and down in his net.  “You wouldn’t want to get hurt.”  He winked at them and jumped back down onto the field, where Darrel was looking on with a concerned expression.

“No,” Cody said, feeling strangely naked.  “We wouldn’t want that.”

My Good Girl Writer To-Do List

2013 was a weird writing year for me.  I careened from "three thousand words a day is a cinch!" to "oh my god, I can't even look at a Word file this week.  Or next week."  I'm going to be working for more consistency in 2014.  Funnily enough, the one project to which I was most able to adhere to deadlines was posting stories to this blog.  Does it make me money?  No.  Do I feel good doing it?  Yes.  The blog story is a way of working in new genres, improving my ability and making people happy, so it's going to continue.  Hopefully the paying stuff will flow a little better as well.

I'm writing down my list of prospective projects for the year here, in part so it's public record and I can't be a shyster about it, in part so my readerwife and various friends will be able to nudge me when I need it.  Plus, hey, you might be interested to see what I've got lined up for this next year.

1) M/M fantasy epic--which I started writing in August, with the intention of submitting to Riptide for their anniversary open call.  Then the flood happened, and I damaged my knee and we fought with FEMA and it was all I could do to haul my keister into work every day.  I'm trying to finish it this month.  Think of it as a vastly reimagined retelling of The Little Mermaid.

2) Write Camellia with my co-author Caitlin Ricci by March 1st.  It's an F/F BDSM erotic romance.  Yes, I'm branching out.  We wrote a novel together last year that needs major editing, but I'm hoping to get that done early on as well.  Lots of hope happening here:)  This one has kinky Japanese tea ceremonies.  That was fun to research.

3) Write Season Two of Cambion.  Oh my god, I don't have enough of it plotted.  I don't know where SMP stands with getting it out.  I don't even have the first episode written yet.  This is the last bloody time I'm doing a serial, I got so much shit last time from people who didn't want to wait, or forgot between episodes and didn't want to reread.  Needless to say, I'm working up my motivation on this one.

4) Steampunk alt. history action/adventure/romance M/F New Adult novel.  Yeah, what?  Huh?  Think of it as a steampunk version of The Philadelphia Project.  I want to get it done by September so I can pitch to agents at the RMFW conference then.  I really would like an agent.  And a book deal.  How about it, 2014?

5) Self-publishing something.  What, I'm not sure yet.  I'll probably start with packaging up Full Credit, making it a pretty cover and putting it out there for free while I write the sequel to it.  I had The Captain edited by a professional, and they had suggestions about reworking the entire last third of it and redoing this and improving that and...while all things I know I should consider, I just can't muster the will to tear it apart right now.  Sometime, but not right now.

6) Keeping up with The Academy.  Yes, this is a big deal to me.  It's my mental health story, it needs to be out there.

7) Various short stories, anthology calls, possible another story for the Goodreads M/M group event this year, possibly even writing my first ever fanfic...and it's not for Sherlock, which stunned me, but no.

So, big goals.  All told I'm probably looking at around 300-350 thousand words this year.  That's around a thousand words a day.  I think I can do it.  1k a day is very doable.  I've just got to commit, and this list is part of that.  Have fun setting your own goals for 2014, darlins, and Happy New Year!

The Academy Post #4

Notes:  Wow.  It’s the end of 2013.  It feels like the year has flown by.  It’s been an upsy-downsy one as far as writing goes, but even if I didn’t get everything done that I wanted to, at least I put some good stories out there, reached a few new people and finished the behemoth that is my darling Love Letters.  Today’s the last day to vote for the Goodreads M/M group’s awards, and I’ve got a few mentions in there, so if you want to check it out, here you go:   http://www.esurveyspro.com/Survey.aspx?id=31dc63a9-f374-40b9-a220-b3aad4f2ba0d

I’ve got a raft of ideas and goals for 2014, which I’ll talk about tomorrow, but for now, on with the story!

This part is a bit odd…I wanted to introduce some new characters, I didn’t quite know how to do it, this is how it came out.  Do I have a clear plan for this story?  Not yet.  I’m working on it, but I hope you enjoy this part regardless.  Some Darrel POV, at last.  And PS, I know next to nothing about chemistry, so when you get to Ten’s section, just roll with it plzJ

Title: The Academy

Part Four: Click It

***

Ostensibly, everyone entering the Academy was on equal footing.  It was a military organization, after all; the only thing anyone should be paying attention to was rank.  If you were a newcomer you were a plebe, a fourth year, the bottom of the heap.  Third years were only slightly better, and on and on until you rose through the ranks to graduate.  If you were a glutton for punishment or a specialist of some kind, you stayed on for advanced studies, and might earn another rank or two in the years you spend completing your education. 

Naturally, of course, there were a million different variations in status.  Officers who served, and even enlisted soldiers who were active duty, were socially well above any Academy students, and the instructors at the Academy were doubly held in esteem because they’d all been active duty before coming back to teach.  Among the students, the graduate studies department reigned supreme, but even there, it was generally those on either command track or engineering track who got the most credit.  Crazy, sleep-deprived engineers were a terrible thing to get on your bad side, after all.

Within the ranks themselves there were special clicks, groups of students who organically gravitated together because of a shared social status, planetary home or field of interest.  The largest group were the native Olympians, smug and superior with insider knowledge of the planet, the city and the workings of the Academy.  Every click wanted at least one Olympian in their crowd, if only so they could learn the best ways to spend their infrequent free time out on the town.  The chemical engineers tended to bond over novelty explosives, the linguists had their own language that one student had come up with about a decade ago, so they could talk freely amongst themselves.  The royalty (and there was some actual royalty in the Academy; it was a quaint habit on some of the more traditional planets) stuck together like glue, almost as exclusive a click as the Legacies.

The Legacies were the children of war heroes, military personnel who had died in the line of duty.  You couldn’t get Legacy status at the Academy unless your parent had done something truly sensational; many people died during war, after all.  The heroes were the ones whose actions were so above and beyond that they were recognized posthumously for their bravery, and their children—one of their children—could be grandfathered into the Academy without having to pass the usual tests or be on the waiting lists if they showed willingness and aptitude.

Legacies found each other.  There was a weight to them, a heaviness of spirit born of memory or cynicism or expectation, or some combination of all three.  They were darkly shining stars, expected to do great things, although almost none of them would come to equal the very legacies that had gotten them admitted to the Academy.  Who could live up to a legend’s feats, after all?

There was one other Legacy in Darrel’s class, and she found him two weeks into the semester.  She was a native of Griffin, and her skin was naturally bright pink thanks to absorbing excessive carotenoids, very common in Griffin’s seafood.  After a while without them her brilliance would begin to fade, but for now she was very noticeable, her skin set off by the platinum blonde of her long, straight hair.

She fell into step next to him one afternoon as he was headed to his Tactical Basics class.  He’d seen her, of course, but he hadn’t realized exactly what she was until she brushed up against his side and said, “So, Station Seventeen or Outpost?”

“What?” Darrel asked before he could stop himself.

“Which one was it?”  She tilted her head condescendingly at him.  “It had to be one of those two, to make you a Legacy.”

“How do you know I’m a Legacy?”

“Please,” she scoffed.  “How else would you have pulled the berth that you did?  Kid gloves, lad, kid gloves to put you in with the Alien, the Freak and the Darling.  They’ve got stories, or at least eccentricities, and you’re just a regular boy?  I think not.”  She paused, then added, “Mine was Outpost, by the way.  My mother was Commander Aldeena Balteran of the F.S. Gloriana.”

“Oh.”  Commander Balteran had famously led a company of marines in an intership, close-combat fighting mission that had destroyed three enemy cruisers and led to her recognition.  “Seventeen.  Captain Parrish.”

“Parrish the Pilot,” she murmured.  “Thought so.  You look like him.”

“I know,” Darrel said a little sourly.  The girl bumped his shoulder with hers.

“I’m Valero.”

“Darrel.”

“Ooh, you even got the name,” she said sympathetically.  “Sorry about that.  Command track?”

“Yeah.  You?”

Valero looked toward the sky and sighed.  “Command, naturally.  With a specialization in guerilla combat techniques, because of course the seas will run dry before I do anything different that dear old mum.”

Darrel had to smile.  “I know the feeling.”

“Of course you do.  That’s why we needed to meet.”  The headed into the lecture hall on the bottom floor of Zeus Tower, which was supposed to be all about leadership.  Centuries ago a feminist branch of Olympian politicians had argued for the name to be changed, citing Zeus’ godlike ability to fuck up defined him just as much as his role as king.  The traditionalists had won out, though, and the tower was left with the dubious appellation.

Valero sat down next to Darrel as they settled into Colonel Tell’s lecture.  None of them needed to take notes by hand, although they were encouraged to for improved retention and Darrel usually did.  He didn’t get a chance to this time, though; he barely had a chance to even listen to the man, because Valero somehow managed to occupy all his time.  She synced their tablets and thought out little notes to him all period.

Legacies have to stick together.  There are eleven underclassmen, seven graduate students.  Their specs:  she passed him a file that included all of their names, tracks, specializations and Legacy origins, along with some personal notes. 

Bree can get you anything—I do mean aaanything. 

Felipe’s father died so horribly that he can get dusted in the middle of the courtyard and none of the professors will say anything about it. 

Dinah’s fucking someone in the registrar’s office, she can get your grades changed or alter your record if you need.

It reminded Darrel of the ancient Earth mafias, kind of.  He read the last comment and stared over at Valero, more than a little stunned.  She grinned and held out a bag.  “Crisp?  They’re krill, my favorite flavor.”

“Keep your voice down,” Darrel hissed, but she just laughed.

“Cadet Balteran.”  Colonel Tell’s voice rang out from the lectern.  “Would you care to share whatever you find amusing with the rest of us?”

“No, sir,” she replied brightly.

“Then I suggest you restrain yourself.”  He turned back to his lecture.

That was it?  That was…it?  Professors didn’t take kindly to students interrupting; one of the cadets in Darrel’s last class had been given demerits for sneezing.  Admittedly, she’d sneezed a good dozen times, but still.  Darrel frowned and thought out a quick message.

If we can get away with stuff like that, why was I given demerits for my idiot quad mate setting up experiments in our apartment the first day?

Hmm, special circumstances, Valero replied.  I told you they were using kid gloves on you.  Guess that includes not setting you above your quad mates.  I mean, you’re bunking with the Alien, that’s even rarer than Legacy status.

Darrel frowned.  Are you sure you aren’t just angling for an introduction to Grennson?  Because a lot of people are, and I’m not the person to talk to.

I’ve got no interest in any of them.  I don’t care about aliens, and there are plenty of Darlings around, after all.  I can get one of those for myself.

Darlings?  What does that mean, exactly?

Darlings!  You know, Daddy’s darling, Mummy’s darling.  Parents are still in the military, highly ranked, want their little darling to follow in their footsteps and so they shoehorn them in with promises and boot licking.  Darlings.  So glad I’m not one, they’re overly-entitled little shits.  They do have their uses, though.

Darrel thought about Cody.  That didn’t seem to fit at all.  I don’t think that really applies to my quad mate.

Maybe he’s adopted.  Originally a charity case, still new enough to feel all grateful.  Doesn’t really matter, he’s not that important.  How have you been dealing with the Freak?  Do you want to kill him yet?

Only sometimes.  Darrel thought about it, then added, Ze spends most of hir time in hir bedroom or a lab, honestly.

Ze?  Hir?  What is this, the twenty-fifth century?  Hadn’t he settled yet?

Settled?

Picked a gender.  Solaydorians are so prissy and temperamental, I swear.  They’ve just got to be different.

Everyone wants to be different.

And some of us just are, Darrel.  Like you and me.  She smiled at him and shrugged.  We didn’t ask for it, but we’re still special, and that’s the best kind of special to be.

The lecture wrapped up, and cadets began to head for the exits.  Valero stood and shook out her hair.  “I’ve got combatives next, I’m on the stupid team…of course.  You?”

“I’m free for now,” Darrel said.  “But I’m trying out for paraball next week.”

“Enjoy kicking ass in it.  There are four other Legacies on the paraball team, they’ll make sure it goes well for you.  Look over the notes,” she advised, then smiled charmingly and left.

Darrel watched her go, feeling a little unnerved.  He had kind of been hoping to downplay his Legacy connection, and here was someone who seemed more than happy to exploit hers for all it was worth, and determined to drag him along for the ride. 

Well.  He’d see.  It couldn’t hurt to talk to the rest of them.  Darrel shut off his tablet and headed back to his quad.

The kitchen smelled utterly noxious.  Ten was standing in front of the burner, holding a beaker above it and watching the liquid inside change colors.  “Before you say anything,” ze announced, not even bothering to look over, “it’s perfectly nontoxic.”

“It smells like a dead body!”

“On the contrary, it smells like flowers.”  Ten grinned suddenly.  “Corpseflowers.”

“You’re not allowed to do experiments in the common rooms, you idiot!” Darrel said, braving a path to Ten’s side.  How the kid managed to hold onto that beaker without fainting was a mystery.

“This isn’t an experiment, it’s homework,” Ten replied.  “I need to have this formula figured out by tomorrow and they kicked all the plebes out of the labs early today, so I was left with this.  I’ll light some incense when I’m done.”

Darrel scowled at him and shut off the heat.  “Get rid of that shit before I call the Master Sergeant, freak.”  He retreated to his own room and slammed the door behind him.

***

Ten cocked hir head and looked down at the ground where Darrel had been standing.  Ze bent over and picked up a long blonde hair, turned the heat back on and wafted the hair above the flame.  It flared in a brief, bright orange burst, and Ten smiled to hirself.  Ze shut the heat off again, poured the neutralizer into the beaker to put an end to the smell, and cranked up the air recycling unit.  There.  Good deed done for the day.  Then ze went back to hir room, glanced over at Cody and said, “So, Darrel has just discovered how much better he is than the rest of us.”

“What?”  Cody looked up from his Chemistry homework—oh stars, basic chemistry, it hurt to watch him muddle his way through it but Cody had told Ten very firmly that if ze told him any more of the answers without him asking, he’d stop letting hir do experiments in their bedroom too.  “What’s that mean?”

“It means that his click has finally come calling,” Ten replied, setting hir beaker down on hir desk and thinking a few notes into hir tablet.  “He met another Legacy today.  It had to be Valero Balteran, judging by the color of the flame, not to mention the smell.”

“Wait.”  Cody put his homework aside.  “Who is Valero Balteran and did you actually set his hair on fire?”

“Her, and it was just one hair,” Ten soothed.  Cody was the only one ze went to the trouble of soothing.  Ze wasn’t entirely sure why.  “Darrel came back with a hair on his lapel.  It fell down on the floor while he was castigating me.  When I burned it, it turned bright orange.  You get orange colors from calcium chloride, certain highly soluble derivatives of which are rampant in some foods, particularly those favored by Griffins hankering for a taste of home, which I think in this case was krill chips.  They’re the easiest to get, anyway.  The calcium chloride derivative can affect the hair and nails of the habitual eater, making them burn very, very orange, like a little firework.  The only Griffin I know of is Valero Balteran, a Legacy cadet, and the only reason I know her is because we share a literature class.  Literature.”  Ten rolled hir eyes.  “So applicable to our futures as Federation officers.  Anyway, she’s a bitch, and she’s a collector.  I knew she’d go after Darrel at some point.”

“You figured that out from a strand of hair?” Cody asked, smiling widely.

“Well, it was along strand of hair, most cadets keep their hair short, so that helped narrow the field,” Ten said.  And the freak part, ze’d already heard Valero refer to hir that way, but Cody didn’t need to know that.

“That’s still pretty impressive.”

Ten preened.  “Yes.”

“But you need to do a better job of airing out the kitchen,” Cody continued.  “Really, that smell is just wrong.  Why do so many of your experiments smell so bad?”

“It’s part of the process!  I insert nose plugs that block fifty percent of the scent molecules before I get started.”

“Just fifty percent?”

“I have to be able to smell some of it to know what I’m dealing with.”

Cody stared at him for a moment, then narrowed his eyes. “I want a pair.”

47 Ronin. Wtf...

So, my man and I went and saw 47 Ronin on Friday evening.  It was that or American Hustle, and he let me have my way and we went and saw Keanu Reeves.  And um...my bad.

At first glance it seems like the kind of movie I would love.  Action, fantasy, magic, good versus evil--all tropes but I like a good trope done right.  These were not done right.

Let's start with the incredibly obvious visual cliches.  I mean, yes you can use the environment you put your characters in to make a statement, but that doesn't mean you have to beat the metaphor into the ground.  They set the smirking bad guy's lair in a Japanese-ish version of Moria, for fuck's sake.

Impossible romance supported with actions and statements so ludicrous it bordered on just plain stupid?  Check.

Improbable, poorly-explained alliance between bad guys that used magic as a convenient explanation for everything while making us care absolutely nothing about the possible threat these people posed, because they were so obvious and two-dimensional that you just couldn't be bothered?  Check.

Hero figure set up for acceptance and redemption after harsh and unloving treatment his whole life--that is to say, in the life he lived after he fled from the Tengu Forest, the only part of the movie that actually could have been really interesting?  And oh, allow him to inexplicably hang on to a valuable golden ornament given to him by his forbidden flame despite a year spent enslaved?  Done and done.

And also, any sailors who put their ships that close together, with that many torches and lanterns in close proximity, deserve to have their fucking ships burnt down.  I mean really.

Was the movie completely intolerable?  No, although spoiler alert: almost every main character commits seppuku at the end, keeping with the historical legend of the 47 ronin, but still.  Damn.  I'm not necessarily sad that I saw it, but I am bummed that we spent the money to go out for that.  Better watched at home, where you can groan and roll your eyes in peace.

In other news, we went to a UFC party last night and watched Anderson Silva break his leg on Chris Weidman's knee.  Oh my god.  You could hear the bone break.  It was absolutely gnarly.  The party was fun, in a hipster, awkward-glasses-homemade-venison-chili-craft-beer-and-martinis-for-everyone kind of way.  I talked to almost no one.  Not exactly a social butterfly, me.

 Anyway, happy Sunday, darlins.

Merry Christmas! Have a vignette!

Notes: Yay, the holiday, presents, food, fun!  It's just me and my man this year, awesome, but we chatted all the family up earlier, made dinner, ate dinner, hung around in a food coma for a while, and then I figured I'd better give you guys your present.  This is a vignette in the Different Spheres universe (I say universe, it's only one story).  It was the first purely contemporary piece I ever wrote, and Dreamspinner published it a while back.  One of the characters featured has multiple sclerosis, they're both middle-aged, and it takes place in my own town.  My readerwife wanted a follow-up to their story, so here you go, darlin!  Merry Christmas, all:)

Title: D.S. Vignette: Tickets For Two

***

Gil slid out of bed at 7 am on Christmas morning, the same time he always woke up.  The floor was carpeted, soft under his feet, but Gil stepped into his slippers anyway before heading for the bathroom.  As he turned on the shower, he laid the odds at 50/50 on whether or not Warren would wake up now or not. 

Gil had been a little surprised to discover that his boyfriend of over a year actually wasn’t a morning person; he just got up early because he’d always done so, and forced himself awake by drinking positively noxious coffee.  One of the most pleasant changes Gil thought he’d brought to Warren’s life was, in essence, giving the man permission to sleep in late.  Warren lived in Gil’s house more than he did in his own these days, and so most of the time he got up with Gil, but today…today was Christmas.  The man deserved a lie-in, especially after Gil had kept him up late last night.

Gil tilted his head back and sighed, relaxing on the bench seat that Warren had installed in the shower earlier this year.  Putting it in had been a bit of a fight, because Gil didn’t like the ever-increasing reminders of his multiple sclerosis, but after a brief sulk he had to admit that, yes, it did make showering easier and was safer, god damn it you correct bastard.

Today, though, today was Gil’s turn to reign supreme as the king of gift-giving.  Last Christmas had been pretty simple, since they were still getting to know each other; he’d gotten Warren an espresso maker (because it could only improve on the man’s coffee, really) and Warren had bought him a Kindle.  Gil had resisted getting one for years, despite how his sister Tally raved about how wonderful they were, but he’d tried it for Warren’s sake, and then discovered that he actually enjoyed using it.  It wasn’t the same as a real book, but it wasn’t as heavy as most of the books Gil liked either, and it gave him something to entertain himself with between classes at Naropa.  As soon as Tally saw it, she’d given him a look that said “Oh, he can buy it for you and you smile, but I offer and you spend ten minutes lecturing me on the importance of real books?  Honestly.”

Gil finished cleaning up and dried off, put on a pair of flannel pajamas and his slippers again, then wiped the steamy mirror clean and inspected himself.  His chin was a little rough, but not bad.  He could go another day without shaving.  He stared at his reflection: pale blue eyes, wet, greying blond hair and a surprisingly boyish face, and said, “Well, you’re still here.  Merry Christmas.”

Warren was still asleep when Gil stole quietly out of the bathroom, spread across the middle of the bed like the octopus he was.  For such a taciturn guy, Warren was surprisingly cuddly.  Gil smiled and left him alone as he grabbed his cane and headed down the hall.

There was a bar in the hallway now too, just in case he needed extra support, but Gil was feeling pretty good today.  No sudden aches or pains, his vision wasn’t blurry or indistinct, and he had decent balance.  An excellent day, as far as his disease was concerned.  Gil made his way into the kitchen and turned on the coffeemaker, then went to the Christmas tree and turned on the lights.  It was a little tree, potted actually, and just large enough to fit presents for two reasonable people beneath it.  Gil checked to make sure the envelope he’d left for Warren hadn’t run away during the night, then went back to get a start on breakfast.  He was no chef, especially now, but that was what toaster ovens were for.

Coffee, bagel and lox and the newspaper, which…oh, of course, wouldn’t be coming today.  He could go grab his laptop, but instead Gil contented himself with looking over their mess of holiday cards again.  Most of them were for Gil: cards from colleagues, a few from students and one, surprisingly, from his ex Victor.  In it was a picture of Victor, his husband Franz and their new baby, born last spring, with a big red bow on her mostly-bald head.  Season’s Greetings from the Winchester-Hauptman family! it read.  Beneath the caption was a short hand-written note: Hope you’re happy and healthy for the holidays, Gil.  We’ll be coming through Boulder on our way to California next year.  Perhaps we could meet up?  Merry Christmas!

Gil had taken a probably unhealthy amount of pleasure in being able to write back in the affirmative.  He was as healthy as he could expect to be, he had a wonderful partner, and he didn’t fear what his reaction would be to Victor and his perfect life, not anymore.  Travel, academia, the possibility of adopting or surrogacy…once upon a time, that had been Gil’s life.  Now his prospects were different, but not worse.  Warren made life so much better.

There was a postcard from Tally; she and her husband Peter were on another cruise this Christmas.  There was a letter from his niece Cynthia, who was studying in Alaska right now.  Even her handwriting looked cold.  Then there were a few cards for Warren: one from his old fire crew in South Dakota, another from a gallery where he’d exhibited some of his sculptures this past year, and the last one from his step-daughter Kimmy. 

Well, sort of his step-daughter; Warren and her father Nate had never had the chance to marry, and they’d been shunned by most of his family.  Kimmy was making overtures of peace, though.  If in his heart of hearts Gil thought it was because she needed money, he never said anything.  Warren could afford to help her and he loved hearing from her, getting pictures of her son, who was almost ten now, and news about the rest of Nate’s family.

Slow, shuffling steps alerted Gil to the fact that Warren was coming.  Gil got up and poured a cup of coffee, then readied the espresso maker for two shots.  Warm hands curled around his waist, and he smiled as Warren leaned against him, resting his forehead against Gil’s shoulder as he yawned.

“You could’ve slept longer,” he said, watching the espresso start to drip.

“Rather be up with you,” Warren said sleepily.  “And…and coffee.”

“You are adorably incomprehensible when you’re tired.”  Gil poured the shots into the coffee cup, turned in Warren’s lose grip and kissed his lover.  “Merry Christmas.”

“M’ry Christmas,” Warren agreed, kissing him back before reaching for the cup.  He took a sip and his eyes shut with pleasure, and Gil let his smile become a grin.  Warren was a man of simple pleasures, and Gil liked being able to provide some of them.  “So,” Warren said after a moment, once the cup was down to half-full, “presents?”

“You don’t want to have breakfast first?”

“It’s Christmas morning, presents always come first.”

“You have this on good authority?”

Warren shrugged.  “It was something Nate did.  I guess when his kids were younger he was lucky to eat anything before noon.”

“Well, far be it from me to break tradition.”  Besides, Gil was kind of wondering what was in his own envelope.  “Let’s open presents.”

They did everyone else’s first.  Tally bought them clothes—when his sister had designated herself his mother, Gil didn’t know.  He got socks and, oh wonderful, underwear.  At least Warren got a scarf.  There were a few gift cards, one for a pretty nice restaurant, and some movie tickets, and then it was down to their gifts for each other.

“Go on, open it,” Warren said, sitting back in his chair and savoring the dregs in his cup.  He looked smug, which was interesting because Warren hardly ever had that expression on his handsome, weathered face.  He must be feeling confident.

Gil lifted one eyebrow, but dutifully opened the envelope.  There was no card, just a sleeve with two tickets in it and a brief note: Merry Christmas, baby.  I love you.  Warren.  PS: you can dress me however you want for this.  The tickets were for—

“The ballet,” Gil breathed, holding them up.  Two tickets for the Colorado Ballet at the Denver Performing Arts Center, mezzanine level, right up front.  The Nutcracker, of course, but it had been years since Gil had been to the ballet.  He hadn’t even realized he’d missed it until seeing these tickets.  “Warren, this is…wonderful, it’s…how did you know?”

Warren shrugged, but he looked very pleased with himself.  “Thought it might be something you’d like.”

“It is, it’s fantastic.  Thank you.  And you’re going to look splendid in your grey suit.”

Warren rolled his eyes.  “It’s not the suit I mind, it’s the pink shirt.”

“Pale pink.  So pale it’s barely pink at all, and real men wear pink, sweetheart.  You’ll just have to grin and bear it.  Now you.”  He pushed his gift for Warren over, excitement fizzing in his blood.  It wasn’t his sort of thing, but this year seemed like the year…

Warren opened the envelope, took out the tickets and gaped.  Literally gaped.  It was delightful.  “These are for a playoffs game,” he said after a second.

“Yes, yes they are.”

“A Broncos playoff game.”

“Who else?”

“You don’t even watch football, Gil, how did you think of this?”

“I heard a story on NPR about Peyton Manning breaking some sort of record and thought it might be a nice time to grab some tickets, so we can go and check out this apparent phenomenon for ourselves.”  It would be cold and loud and probably uncomfortable, but Gil could bring his Kindle.  He’d be fine.

His breath caught as Warren leaned forward and tugged Gil out of his chair and over onto Warren’s.  Well, more like on Warren, who pulled him in close and pressed a coffee-flavored kiss to Gil’s mouth.  “You’re amazing,” Warren said, fervent and honest and he meant it, he really did, and it went straight to Gil’s heart.

“If you like it this much, we’ll get season tickets,” he said around his own kisses.

“Nah, better to savor it.  You wanna get me season tickets, make them for the Rockies.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to watch a team that actually wins?”

“Oh, that’s it.”  Warren stood up and hoisted Gil over his shoulder.  It was completely caveman, and Gil loved it.  “You’re gonna regret those words, baby.”

“No,” Gil grinned.  “I don’t think I will.”