Oracle
So I have decided to write a novel. Another one. The Sci-Fi one that I've wanted to write forever. The brief premise is this:
When Earth begun to become uninhabitable, the city-ships came into being; planet-sized, they housed billions and they tumbled slowly through space and time. Whole generations were born on them, died on them and, in this way, the human race out-ran it's own death.
This was the world that Jack Dale woke up in. The last thing he remembers, it was 2019.
He's a long, long way from home.
Jack finds himself in the middle of a struggle between two factions; on one side, there is Esther, the nominal leader of the city-ship Delphi...on the other, the rebel leader Finch. The struggle has been going on for a long, long time but Jack's arrival is changing all manner of things.
Power is shifting.
Delphi is waking up.
And, under the cut, there's the first 400-ish words. As always, I'd love to know what you guys think.
Raining. Often, he forgets to shut the window and wakes up with the sheet stuck sodden against his side. Water drips on his face and he lifts one arm to shield it. There's a breeze; he wonders if she left the door open when she left for work this morning. He stifles a yawn, presses his nose into the pillow, and it's an hour before he actually opens his eyes and sees nothing familiar. For a moment, there's just sick disorientation. There's no open window, just water dripping from an exposed pipe. He rolls away from it, face tilted up. Eyebrows drawn together. Pipes and pipes, up and up. He assumes that, somewhere, there's a ceiling. A moment later, he smells the gas before it really hits him. It's like the world slips sideways. His last conscious thought wonders what the fuck she's going to say.
And still the sound of the rain.
*
He dreams of lying dormant like a stone.
*
He wakes up tasting blood. He turns his head and the taste trickles out o the corner of his mouth and down his cheek. He spits, with limited success.
Total darkness. He pushes up on his elbows, very aware of the aching pounding his head, like a hangover but worse, deeper, somehow, like someone's pushed a finger into his eye-socket and is now intent on thrusting into the gluey whorls of his brain. He lifts one hand to cradle his temple. The flats of his nails scrape against something. He turns his hand, feels concrete with his fingertips. He moves his hand, feeling more concrete. He kicks out with one foot. His bare toe connects painfully with the wall. For a moment, there's white light with him in the dark.
Where the fuck is he?
He's not giving to long, lucid dreams. It's rare that he remembers anything when he wakes up. They sit and breakfast and she dips her toast into her tea and tells him all about what she's dreamed of the night before. He drinks his coffee, watches her twist her fingers in her long, pale hair and thinks about how there's nothing more boring that other people's dreams.
She says that she's been dreaming him more and more lately.
It's difficult to tell where the first sharp stab of panic comes from; it's hard to tell whether it's to do with her or the space he finds himself in, a coffin cast in concrete. He reminds himself that he spends half his life in confined places. He brings his tools with him, though; he knows why he's there. He presses both hands flat against the ceiling, inches from his face, and he concentrates on breathing.
He does not scream.
For the first however-long, he does not make a sound.
Crossposted ( with
comments) at my dreamwidth | comment at the original entry
When Earth begun to become uninhabitable, the city-ships came into being; planet-sized, they housed billions and they tumbled slowly through space and time. Whole generations were born on them, died on them and, in this way, the human race out-ran it's own death.
This was the world that Jack Dale woke up in. The last thing he remembers, it was 2019.
He's a long, long way from home.
Jack finds himself in the middle of a struggle between two factions; on one side, there is Esther, the nominal leader of the city-ship Delphi...on the other, the rebel leader Finch. The struggle has been going on for a long, long time but Jack's arrival is changing all manner of things.
Power is shifting.
Delphi is waking up.
And, under the cut, there's the first 400-ish words. As always, I'd love to know what you guys think.
Raining. Often, he forgets to shut the window and wakes up with the sheet stuck sodden against his side. Water drips on his face and he lifts one arm to shield it. There's a breeze; he wonders if she left the door open when she left for work this morning. He stifles a yawn, presses his nose into the pillow, and it's an hour before he actually opens his eyes and sees nothing familiar. For a moment, there's just sick disorientation. There's no open window, just water dripping from an exposed pipe. He rolls away from it, face tilted up. Eyebrows drawn together. Pipes and pipes, up and up. He assumes that, somewhere, there's a ceiling. A moment later, he smells the gas before it really hits him. It's like the world slips sideways. His last conscious thought wonders what the fuck she's going to say.
And still the sound of the rain.
*
He dreams of lying dormant like a stone.
*
He wakes up tasting blood. He turns his head and the taste trickles out o the corner of his mouth and down his cheek. He spits, with limited success.
Total darkness. He pushes up on his elbows, very aware of the aching pounding his head, like a hangover but worse, deeper, somehow, like someone's pushed a finger into his eye-socket and is now intent on thrusting into the gluey whorls of his brain. He lifts one hand to cradle his temple. The flats of his nails scrape against something. He turns his hand, feels concrete with his fingertips. He moves his hand, feeling more concrete. He kicks out with one foot. His bare toe connects painfully with the wall. For a moment, there's white light with him in the dark.
Where the fuck is he?
He's not giving to long, lucid dreams. It's rare that he remembers anything when he wakes up. They sit and breakfast and she dips her toast into her tea and tells him all about what she's dreamed of the night before. He drinks his coffee, watches her twist her fingers in her long, pale hair and thinks about how there's nothing more boring that other people's dreams.
She says that she's been dreaming him more and more lately.
It's difficult to tell where the first sharp stab of panic comes from; it's hard to tell whether it's to do with her or the space he finds himself in, a coffin cast in concrete. He reminds himself that he spends half his life in confined places. He brings his tools with him, though; he knows why he's there. He presses both hands flat against the ceiling, inches from his face, and he concentrates on breathing.
He does not scream.
For the first however-long, he does not make a sound.
Crossposted ( with
comments) at my dreamwidth | comment at the original entry