Houses of Common excerpt. Brought to you by Turtle Wax: that sexy shine ain't just for cars.

I finished some editing for DWD. Not interested in promoting his work, I just wanted everyone to see what I have to put up with. With what I have to put up? With up what I have to put? Also, so you could admire my fantastic editing. The awe of which that last sentence just destroyed. Here it is, a sample selected for it's lack of mammals.


Sckiik was disappointed the courier drone had no viewport, but it would be a giveaway it held a pilot. Unable to see out, she was missing the light-hearted excitement of the launch; the Earth rocketing away beneath her, the familiar Washington, D.C. landmarks collapsing into a point too small to see, the atmosphere darkening to black, and the winking of the stars in an accelerated twilight.

Her courier drone jolted violently as the reactor detonated a small volume of helium-3, the hull creaking as the explosion was contained and directed. Being so small, there had been no room for inertial dampers in the vessel, one of the reasons no human could undertake this mission. Sckiik felt her internal fluids rush from her head and thorax, but flexing the diaphragmatic muscles at her joints and bending the flexible portions of her exoskeleton to reduce volume, she rode comfortably through what would be nearly fatal to the best of human pilots. Achieving a typical drone speed, she took a course close enough to a usual northerly route away from Earth, but cheating toward the moon as much as she dared. Several hundred other courier drones appeared on sensors, all heading far enough out of Earth’s gravity to Bend, delivering messages to some exotic location, or more likely, a homely homestead colony.

Now, she thought, several hours of nothing at all. An assassin won’t try anything until we’re at least halfway to the moon – then is the smallest chance of being seen by orbital surveillance. But why bother with a powerless Ambassador? I’ve sensed no anti-Rildj sentiment in Congress or business or industry. We have no technological or military superiority that would threaten anyone.

So flowed Sckiik’s thoughts for several hours, but she could not come to any satisfying conclusions. Then she saw the speck on her sensors, angling from lunar orbit on a direct course to the Ambassador’s vessel. Zooming in visual display, she could see the new ship was a bulky affair, constructed around a clustered-sphere arrangement of compartments, not of recent design, but one she recognized.

The Kashmir Liberation Front? she wondered. What do they care about Rildj? At least I’m dealing with small-time terrorists instead of a state-sponsored act of war.

Venting nose thrusters, she changed course to come at the vessel from the side, hoping their attention was so riveted on the Ambassador she’d go unnoticed. The grapple claw and hull-welding charges were set, she’d slide up next to the ship, punch a hole in, and do her job before the assassins could do theirs. She checked her pistol, making sure the airtight rounds were loaded, each holding oxygen with the powder so she could still fire when the assassin ship depressurized.

Sckiik closed on the assassin ship long before it could reach the Ambassador’s vessel. The mass of a drone being insignificant compared to the power of the helium reactors, no ship could outrun them in standard flight.

I’ll get there in plenty of time, she decided. As long as they don’t see me.

A metallic clang and then a detonation vibrated the drone, Sckiik’s harness cutting into her from the jolt. Warnings blared as systems reset and diagnostic readouts flashed. Internal temperature rose significantly, and Sckiik tried to get more speed from another reactor detonation.

I only needed nine more seconds!

She was considering the masterful targeting needed to hit such a small object as the drone while moving at an oblique angle at enormous speed, when a second missile scored right on the nose of Sckiik’s craft. She braced for the worst, but was pleasantly surprised.

Sensors still online, she realized, and I’m not being sucked out a gaping hole! Charlotte, you are a hull construction genius!

The braking thrusters on the other hand, were vaporized.

Sckiik tried to flip the drone around and re-ignite the reactor to decelerate, but the guidance thrusters had been disintegrated also.

One more hit like that and I’m dust.

A few moments were hers as a third missile approached. She tried venting some of the compressed cockpit oxygen to alter her course, but the valve wouldn't respond. She hit the emergency fire suppression system in the instrument panel, hoping the argon foam might leak out the damaged nosecone and push her out of the way. Instead, the panel shorted out right in her face with a flash of sparks and smoke. With two seconds to spare, Sckiik set off one more reactor burn to increase speed. Then she punched out, the ejection charge blowing her clear of the drone-turned-missile. The assassins’ shot was on course, but Charlotte’s energy plating held again despite the missile's detonation.

Sckiik had a spectacular view of the collision between her drone and the assassin's ship. The ejection had started the drone in a slow end-over-end rotation. It was perpendicular to the ship when they met, and Sckiik watched as it neatly bisected the assassins’ entire vessel, atmosphere pouring and crystallizing out the halves that now spun in opposite directions. The drone was reduced to metal droplets, melted or vaporized on impact and creating a cone of sparkles along what would have been its path.

“Beautiful. This is my art. Wish I had a brush to sign it.”

Sckiik looked as long as she could before the destructive beauty of high-speed collision shrank into the distance. Her victory would have to be fully celebrated later. Her next concern was traveling bodily through space at nearly a hundred kilometers per second, with only a thin vacsuit and her exoskeleton protecting her. Glancing to the equipment at her belt, she grabbed for her vectoring gun, but realized its uselessness. Its emission of compressed air could alter her direction or double as an emergency respiration supply, but it would not be enough to stop her. A few silent blue explosions erupted from the assassin’s vessel, but it all shrank into the distance before she could find the Ambassador's ship. Glancing over her shoulder, she was grateful for the initial heading she’d taken, as she would be more likely to orbit the moon than to collide with it or shoot past.

Has anyone ever made a lunar orbit in a vacsuit? she wondered. I’m making history. Except that this is a classified mission and I was never here.

The novelty of her accomplishment wore off as the seriousness of her predicament sunk in. If the Ambassador's ship didn't come for her, her only hope was to be detected in lunar orbit. That wasn't likely. She was in a higher orbit than the satellites, and their sensors would be pointed at the surface. The few facing out to track incoming ships were probably not calibrated for an object as small and cold and non-metallic as a female Rildj flailing through the void.

Dave Farland - a coming interview with Yours Rudely

I've progressed from subtle subjugation of a holiday with my Valentine's greeting cards to full-blown consumer marketing. It seems next I'll be lactating and maintaining a stable body temperature. I can still sleep at night, or anytime, as it's for someone else and not for monetary gain.

Hmm. Have to get my pedicure funding somewhere else.

There is a gentleman by the name of Dave Farland, apparently of some status in the literary world. I've agreed, and DWD states it is a privilege, to interview him on October 15th. I believe he's from the East coast time zone, as there is some mention of New York Times in association with his designation as a bestselling author.

DWD has instructed I conceptualize him as a monitor lizard, or perhaps an Ituri chameleon, to help mask my condescension toward mammals. I don't think it will be a problem. Mr. Dalton is just projecting his sensitivity. Nonetheless, I will not create a mental image of Mr. Farland as a snake, as this apparently has some negative connotation among humans.

In addition to my questions, Dave Farland will be available answer those of my readership, which has doubled since my interview with the Eveleth Elle. Thanks for that, girls. And for the complimentary subscription.

Oops. Another shameless plug. What's happening to me?

Okay, back to Mr. Farland. See how quickly I cut off my diversion of a conversation? Pull it all to me out of habit, but then turn it around again. That's called progress, all you therapists out there.

Okay, really back to Mr. Farland. He has published over fifty science fiction & fantasy novels and anthologies, and is the winner and former judge for L. Ron Hubbard's Writers of the Future contest. DWD informs me this is a singular accomplishment of some renown and rarity. All I know, as far as I've been able to discern, is winning and judging in no way indicate association with Mr. Hubbard's Scientology prank. Or is it spoof? This human religion stuff is complicated.

Speaking of which, check back about the time your kids are going crazy waiting for Trick or Treating. If you don't have any, check back when you are going crazy. Don't act like it doesn't happen.

Pretty Boy

Shelly's off earning her keep, so here's a little DWD instead.

Recently, and on a multiple occasions, I've been informed I'm a pretty boy (yeah, one occasion was Shelly). I spent some time contemplating the definition, comparing my behaviors and attributes to the designation.
Here's how I earned the moniker in my rural county of residence.

Grooming
As a pretty boy, I use my razor daily unless my wife is away. What's more, I use it on my entire face, no sparing of chin or upper lip. Or both at the same time.


Wardrobe
 First of all, I have a walk-in closet. I can almost open a drawer and a cupboard door simultaneously without jabbing myself in the thigh or taking a door corner in my pretty boy eye.

 The other qualifier is closet content. Everything in there was obtained from clearance sales at Target and Old Navy and Ross. What's more, not one article of attire is from Mossy Oak® or RealTree®.



Logging
I have never been a logger. Pretty boys only fell dead trees and cut them up and load a truck and split them by hand for firewood. A hobby. Not only is logging a job and a career, it's a status symbol.

I also suspect it's a mechanism of sexual selection in certain populations of Homo sapiens. Good thing I'm already married.


Dentition
I'm only missing one tooth. A wisdom tooth. And it's the only one this pretty boy grew. And it was removed with the use of anesthesia.



Triathlons
Pretty boys like me gravitate to these events as we have too much time and energy, have obsessive compulsions about cardiac and non-type two diabetic status.

We spend money on childish bicycles instead of manly four-wheelers.


Employment
Bucking hay and moving irrigation pipe and vaccinating and trimming hooves. On a cattle ranch? Tough guy. On a sheep ranch? Pretty boy.


So what's next for pretty boy? Maybe buying a car less than ten years old. But only if I want to maintain my image. Otherwise, I'll get a truck with big enough tires to show off my silver silhouetted naked chick mudflaps.