But here's the rub: Some of you may know that I aim to be a published fiction writer as my lifelong goal (with a side of dragons? yes please!
), but I am notoriously bad at finishing things, and have had very little that's ACTUALLY FINISHED read by others and critiqued.SO! HELP ME BE A BETTER WRITER! Read this (it's >2400 words, and plot driven scifi), and answer the questions at the bottom? I want badly to publish (obvs. not -this- as it's already been posted across my dA page, which makes it ineligible for most mags), but like many artistes and word-wranglers, kind of think I suck hardcore and someone's not telling me something.
Carbon-Based
Lisette and the girls saw him off at the docks before Captain Sauveterre and his crew took the surface-to-black shuttle that accompanied the pack horse bringing their cargo of the Devil's Wine up to their waiting transport. A manifest of 5,000 bottles of rosé, 30,000 of blanc de noir, and the remaining 15,000 of blanc de blanc was listed for delivery. They carried other, less exciting cargo. Basic rations, clothing, mail, anything and everything that colonies could potentially need or desire was stuffed into Les Embruns, but the lion's share of their money would be made from the champagne. Liquid gold, they'd make fifty times the terrestrial cost for the safe delivery of sparkling wine. Even spacers had celebrations to be toasted.
The first month of travel was spent clearing Sol, taxiing through the hazards of their home system. They employed solar sails as long as they could, drinking up valuable energy from the sun itself, so that Les Embruns' engines and fuel cells could be preserved in case of disaster in the black, where they could hope for no one's aid. His pilots, Abel and Dufort, kept Les Embruns safe round the clock while they crept passed Uranus and Neptune and could finally stretch her wings.
The solar sail folded away, to be used only for in-system cruises. Then they lit up the FTLs for the five months of monotony through the black.
In early years, this trip would have taken decades in itself, the crew stashed in cold storage, never hoping to return to Earth as it was. Colony and generation ships had been launched en masse, hoping that they would reach a new home for their children or grandchildren to enjoy. But that was a few decades ago, the Exodus clearing enough space so that those who chose to stay behind could breathe easier, and the old mother's children could once again push forth and devour her.
Their journey was punctuated only by a two-week delay when the FTLs unexpectedly shut down. They were adrift between stars, waiting for the four engineers Les Embruns carried to repair the delicate engines. They could wait as long as one year. Ten was out of the question.
Two weeks of anxiety were rewarded by the familiar hum of the FTLs coming back online. "Some kind of weird build-up," Chief Morin reported. He held up a flask of the stuff, which looked for all the world like used-up engine grease. "Ran analysis of the stuff. Carbon-based, whatever it is."
Sauveterre frowned at it. "How'd you get rid of it?" he asked. It had a viscosity that turned his stomach.
"I won't bore you with the details. Essentially, we pressure-washed the engine with a chemical bath and put her back together. Les Embruns should run right as rain again. When we get back to Earth, we'll look into our model, see if there's any reports on this type of build-up so we can avoid it in the future."
Good enough for now. Not many other options out here in the black. Sauveterre kept the vacuum-sealed flask of ichor on his desk, next to his photo of Lisette and the girls. Memories of home, and memories of things that needed to be done.
But that wasn't the last they saw of it. They found a similar black mass oozing down the engine's coolant coils. Later, it made its way to the galley; a few items left opened in the crew's refrigerator were found growing it. It was black, shiny, and plopped a bit before slipping together to a larger mass again whenever it was found. It rippled if you breathed on it, but otherwise seemed an inert slime, more nuisance than threat. Meanwhile, the sample on Sauveterre's desk stopped slipping viscously around when he tilted the flask. Instead, it moved as easily as black water.
After two months, they braked for approach, the solar sail unfurling again to bring Les Embruns within spitting distance of the binary system around which The Forge orbited. An American outpost, but also a waypoint for anyone who wished to travel deeper to the stars, The Forge was a traditional wheel-shaped design that welcomed them and had them docking within the hour.
When they arrived, they were overtaken by the quarantine crew, who ensured nothing on the ship was contraband and that the crew was in suitably good health to venture into The Forge.
"We're picking up traces of an unknown bacteria," the quarantine officer reported. "It's going to be a few days while we get you cleared to walk. Just hang tight for a while, yeah?"
"What about the champagne? Can I still unload?" Sauveterre asked.
The quarantine officer shrugged. "We'll take a sample of your cargo – can't reimburse you, sorry. If it all checks out, you'll be ready to go in a matter of days. If not, we'll have to send you back undeliverable."
Sauveterre nodded. He knew the drill. Les Embruns had only had this difficulty once before, but the ship he had first joined when he was fresh out of school seemed to pick up every variety of space lice and space flu that was remotely possible. They'd travel back to Earth, destroy the cargo, and spend two weeks in physical quarantine before they were allowed back in the general population. There, fresh air and sunshine could do a world of good. But out here in the wheel of The Forge, it was a different question. A closely monitored population and a single epidemic could spell disaster for this American outpost.
So they waited. As they did, they were subjected to the inertial spin of The Forge as she kept gravity earth-normal for her citizens. But out here on a docking arm, they were given to stronger pulls of force than existed on the wheel. And with more gravity than that expected on Earth, the Devil's Wine earned again its traditional moniker. The crew had to segregate the bottles into small batches to ensure chain reactions did not shatter their cargo and transmute their liquid gold into vinegar on the deck floor. Even still, when Sauveterre went down to the hold to check on the bottles, he went wearing one of the engineering staff's cutting masks. And for good reason, as twice he was assaulted by flying glass shards as they lost still more of their precious bubbly. And still he found the black sludge, in a thin mass draping one of the champagne crates. He called Morin to deal with it.
Finally, the quarantine officer returned. "Captain Sauveterre," he said. "I can accept your deliveries into the decontamination process, at a 12% fee for processing. Any contaminants seem to be eradicated by the process, and thereby your cargo is determined to be safe for the populace at The Forge."
Grudgingly, Sauveterre paid out the fees. What else was he supposed to do? He couldn't charge more than the initial fees contracted back at Earth. He carried with him the manifests, which had compensated for the expected 6% fees. But twice that? Still, customs men had to do their jobs, and he was just the delivery. They'd just have to charge more next time, try to make up the gap.
Everything processed well, and he sent First Mate Cornett to do most of the collections. As for himself, Sauveterre oversaw the delivery of the champagne. Down to 4,800 bottles of rose, 27,000 of blanc de noir, and a final 14,000 of blanc de blanc, they'd lost a fair number of bottles this trip, but could still turn a pretty profit. His contact was Everett Kindale, who handled the interstellar distribution of the champagne for his terrestrial masters with a slickness and ease that made him at once a very capable business contact and someone Sauveterre wanted to get away from as quickly as solar sails would allow.
Kindale greeted him and Chief Morin, who was the known wine taster on Les Embruns. If Kindale had a problem with the wine, then Sauveterre would have a second opinion.
"Let's see about that bubbly." Kindale seized a bottle at random, grinning like a lamprey, and inspected the label. "We'll start with rosé." He twisted the cork, but frowned when it didn't pop. "A bad seal, most like," he said when he poured it into a waiting flute and the wine's effervescent bubbles didn't appear.
Morin frowned beside him. "Let's try the next bottle. Seals don't always set right."
But that one didn't pop, either. Nor the next, nor the next. Sauveterre saw the fortunes of this journey dwindling swiftly.
"We can't expect every bottle to be opened for this inspection," said Kindale after the tenth bottle wouldn't pop. "If the wine is still good, we can perhaps market it as crémant."
They poured out flutes of rose, and Morin frowned even before it reached his lips. "Sir," the Chief said. "It's gone bad."
And as the wine slipped over Sauveterre's palette, he had to agree. Instead of the bright, fruit flavors he expected, it tasted of nuts and earth.
"Well, I can't pay you for this," Kindale said, delicately spitting the wine back into the flute. "I'll have the bottles analyzed to see what's occurred so a repeat won't happen, but one bottle is bad luck. Two, worse. Ten? Ten is the whole batch ruined. If there's any salvage to be done, you'll be comped for it appropriately. We'll test the blanc de blanc and the blanc de noir, also. It will take upwards of a month, however."
Sauveterre cursed under his breath. More delays.
Back in his cabin, Sauveterre was brooding when Cornett returned with the sums collected from the other deliveries. Just enough to justify the trip. They locked the weights of pure elemental bullion in the ship's safe. After, Cornett issued his report. "Sir, docking authorities requested we move Les Embruns to a low-priority port until the analysis is completed on the champagne. We'll taxi and lock as soon as you give the order."
Sauveterre waved a hand. "Go ahead," he said, frowning at the picture of Lisette and their girls. Another month before he'd see them again. Cornett disappeared without another word, and the sublights thrummed through the ship.
Sauveterre waited anxiously through the docking. Wheel stations like The Forge were notoriously difficult to couple, but skilled pilots like Abel and Dufort could be trusted to make the links. Still, accidents happened. Like the jolting shudder that tore through the ship just then. Sauveterre jumped, and the vial of black ichor fell from his desk to the floor with a crash.
Sauveterre found a single spiderwebbing crack disrupting the vacuum into which it had been locked. The sludge exploded outwards in a violent spray, and he slammed on the horn to get Morin to help him clean it up.
But while he waited for the Chief to come with whatever chemical pressure-washing materials he'd need, Sauveterre watched the black globules slipped together to form a writhing mass on his floor. He stared at it in horror as it surged towards him, just as Morin lunged into the room, fully masked, and hosed it with something.
Still, the black sludge filled Sauveterre's mouth, his nose, pulsing down into his lungs, filling them, drowning him. He heard Morin shout for Dr. Paquet. He struggled with the sludge, his fingers tearing through its slick mass uselessly, watching Morin battle it with a spray of some kind. He tried to pry the blackness from his own face as Paquet surged into the room and shouted back into the hall. Sauveterre's hearing was going as he realized the black sludge was driving towards his ears, also.
Paquet opened his kit, and he began siphoning the black ichor from the captain's face. But the process took time, and a seasick, swimming blackness filled him before Les Embruns' medic could finish the task. The last he saw was the young medic frowning over him while his Chief Engineer did battle with the sludge in the background. His last thoughts were of Lisette.
Later, he woke feeling as if he had been shot through by micrometeors. Everything hurt, but especially his lungs, chest, and throat. The bright white ceiling had to be the infirmary on The Forge, as Les Embruns' sick bay was more homey than this. One big curtain was swished away, and the relieved cries of Cornett and Morin reached his ears. He couldn't look toward them, but their faces swelled to fill his vision, one pair of bright smiles, Cornett's face marred by whiskers, Morin's by lack of sleep.
"We were coming to check on you," Morin said, clasping Sauveterre's hand roughly and squeezing it. "Captain, we seem to have the stuff eradicated," he reported.
Sauveterre's face clouded with confusion. He couldn't talk for the tubes down his throat, pushing sharp, pure oxygen into his damaged lungs.
"You've been here a couple days," Cornett reported. "It seems that sludge was a parasite of some kind. It came in through the exhaust stream, probably somewhere back towards home, and gummed up our engine. When we pulled dead, Morin took samples of the stuff, and experimented on it until he figured it out. It seems to have lain dormant in vacuum, but feeds on carbon dioxide."
"What we breathe out, sir, and what bubbles our champagne. Sadly, even the blanc de blanc and the blanc de noir were found flat," Morin added with a frown. "It's to be expected. A few months in warm storage after the seals were broken by an semi-intelligent ooze? The whole champagne shipment was compromised. I think the sample on your desk reacted so violently because it was half-starved. In the black and on planets, carbon's not so hard to come by. I was on my way up to update you on the stuff when Dufort knocked into the wheel."
"Still, we're very glad you're alright. Morin and the boys did a major clean-up, spraying down the ship with that solution of his. The ooze should all be sealed up by now. We're going to wait for it to die, then jettison it."
Sauveterre nodded as best he could, then motioned writing. Cornett hurried off, then returned with a pad and pen.
'Good work,' Sauveterre wrote. 'But what will we use to toast my return to health?'
Cornett laughed. "Sir," he said. "You'll be here another week. But when you're discharged, I'm sure you'll think of something you'd rather have than flat champagne."
/////
QUESTIONS FOR THE READER:
- Is this a genre you frequently read / enjoy?
- Was the science sound enough? Did the science make sense? Were there parts where you were screaming "TECH!!!!" in your head? (I'd like opinions from both science geeks and non-sciencey people <3 )
- Were you bored at any part of this? Did you find yourself skipping ahead / glazing over / etc?
- Do you feel the piece could benefit from more or something? From less of something?
- Did you find this piece suspenseful / creepy / weird / etc?
- What did you feel about the ending?
If you'd rather not answer the questions but would like to leave a comment anyway, that'd be awesome, too! Thank you for reading my non-dragon stuff!
