Redemptrix Walkthrough

OK, for reals now, here's the actual 1:1 scale Minecraft Redemptrix.

 

...and it occurs to me after posting this that I forgot to add landing gear. She's hovering a meter above the ground.

Black as Space

So I figured out why Jack Flint painted his ship black.

Full-size Redemptrix in Minecraft (because someone else built the Enterprise). Either that or a black bear attacking campers in a black tent at midnight.

It makes it really hard to see.

Especially in the rain.

This Redemptrix is made of wool. I hope this doesn't make it shrink.

At least, I think I built the Redemptrix. It could be some random and haphazard arrangement of blocks, for all I can make out at night.

Star Pirate Space Wars of the Old Republic

Let me share some screenshots of one of my Star Wars: The Old Republic characters:

Here stands Captain Jacc Flynt in front of his XS stock light freighter which, unfortunately, the game does not allow you to name Redemptrix. He is a smuggler by trade. (Both the first name "Jack" and last name "Flint" were taken. I don't know if by the same person, but that would be kinda cool.)

Here is Captain Jacc Flynt on the bridge of his ship, surveying a map of the galaxy. Perhaps he is trying to plot a route between Ceres and Callisto in less than 12 parsecs. Come to think of it, plotting a route from Ceres to Callisto that would be more than 12 parsecs would be quite the feat indeed. (Ok, so you start at Ceres, head towards Callisto. Keep going. Keep going. Keep going. Then just before you get there, veer of course, head to Vega, and come back.)

Here is Captain Jacc Flynt talking with his companion who is, unfortunately, not named Yosef Lwanga. He is, however, the hired muscle and handy with a gun.

Captain Jacc Flynt looks over the shoulder of his crew mate who, come to think of it, doesn't really look like Regina Burke. Miss Burke has blue eyes, not merely lots of blue eye shadow.

At some point, apparently, Captain Jacc Flynt froze someone in carbonite. Tim Sikorsky, perhaps? Seems awfully cold of him (yuk yuk yuk).

Apparently, Captain Jacc Flynt now has a droid. He purposely removed the three laws programming so he could tell it to kill people.

The Power of the Feminine

So babby's aunt/godmother is staying with us this weekend, which provided the Murloc and meself with free babbysitting. We took the opportunity to go out to the movies (the first time since we saw Half-Blood Prince!) and went to see the non-Imax, non-3D Alice in Wonderland.

The movie was entertaining and visually splendid, but suffered from the same thing every Tim Burton movie I've ever seen; that is, it's formulaic and the characters didn't engage me. With the possibility of Victor Van Dort, I can't think of a single Tim Burton character that I cared for enough that I would have been emotionally moved by the character's death. I think part of it stems from an unclear character dramatic need and motivation. (So what's Alice's dramatic goal, upon reaching Wonderland? How does Charlie's deep-seated want influence his actions once he's in the chocolate factory?) Also, within ten minutes of the start of Alice, I predicted how it was going to end and even what her final speech was going to be, with a great degree of accuracy (and I'm talking more than just general "the good guys win" prediction).

About the time Alice donned the silver armor and rode into battle with the Vorpal sword to slay the Jabberwocky (that's really not that big of a spoiler; see: predictability), I realized why my co-worker liked the movie so much, and why she urged me to see it, to the point of offering to babysit. Alice is definitely the strong female character, but as I watched, I began to wonder whether she was in fact a strong female character, or a strong character, who just happened to be female. When I thought about it, I realized that she didn't have a single pronounced feminine trait, and had the movie been Bob in Wonderland, it would not have been significantly different or fundamentally changed.

(And we have seen this movie staring a man before. It's called Harry Skywalker and the Dragon of Narnia. In the only-six-plots-in-the-world school of thought, this movie is "boy destined to destroy evil; boy resists destiny; boy finally fulfills destiny," except replace "boy" with "girl". Not that this is a bad thing. I happen to like this plot, thank you very much. But in this particular movie, it's hampered by the fact that Alice's dramatic need is that she wants to be the master of her destiny, and not have to live to other's expectations of her. Her arc of change (learning to forge her own destiny) is kind of incongruous with the movie's events (fulfill other's expectations of her destiny).)

One might argue that everyone expecting her to marry and be a good wife is a part of the movie that only works if Alice is a woman. But this would still work even if the main character was male. The expectation could have been for him to take a wife and follow into his father's business when he wanted to do his own thing.

This is something I've been aware of for a while. Where are the strong female characters? I mean the characters who are strong because of their femininity, instead of in spite of it? This was something that bugged me all the way through "Buffy the Vampire Slayer". After seven seasons, she still didn't have a single trait that required she be a woman. And in fact the other strong "female" character, by which I mean strong character who was female (Willow), had some distinctively masculine traits, i.e., being in love with a woman. This is a problem with all of Joss' shows. Typically speaking, his strong women are usually strong men who happen to have two X chromosomes.

(And this flows directly from my issues with modern pseudo-feminism: that is, women become strong by becoming just like men. "The basic flaw is that feminists start by seeking equality," writes John C. Wright in a recent post, "but finish by seeking androgyny." Women are told that in order to find equality, they need to be like men. Of course, this goal is in direct conflict with biological, psychological, and spiritual realities, in which women are not men. The end result of this philosophy has women rejecting there bodies, and becoming both physically and psychologically sterile.)

I started thinking about female characters who I liked, who were actually strong women, not strong humans. Princess Leia sprung to mind almost immediately. But how is she feminine? I mean, she's good with a blaster, strong leader of her people... y'know, masculine traits. But then I realized that's not what makes her strong. She's a strong character primarily because of how she influences the other characters, namely the men, and namely Han Solo. Luke (a character with an extremely clear dramatic need, as opposed to Burton's characters; he states it outright: "I want to become a Jedi like my father before me") joins the rebellion because of Leia. Han sticks around and changes from scoundrel to noble because of Leia. She really shows the true power of femininity; that is, women have power over men.

A man's power over a woman is purely physical. He can beat her up and take what he wants, but if he is civilized and taught that women are not men (an idea the pseudo-feminists are rapidly trying to expunge), he won't. But a woman's power is so much more than that. If she wants something, all she need do is bat her eyelashes and smile sweetly.

Understanding this relationship also throws St. Paul's teachings into clarity. He puts as head of the family the member who is most easily swayed by the needs of the other, then tells him to love his family as part of his own body. Any guy can understand this, because we already act as servants of our bodies. If it itches, we scratch. If it's hungry, we feed it. If it wants a beer, we drink. To say that we should server the needs of our wives as we do that of our bodies is language any caveman (and let's face it, men are just barely one step above cavemen, largely due to the efforts of women) can understand.

I think at least on a subconscious level, I understood this. When I started writing Jack Flint: Space Pirate (you knew this was coming!) I wanted to write the anti-Joss woman (understandably, because JF:SP is partly my rebuttal to "Firefly.") (Of course, you write what you know, and since I don't know what it's like to be a woman, that sort of leaves out writing a realistic female character, so I did what I assume every other male author does and wrote my fantasy of a woman.)

Regina Burke is my idea of the strong female character. While she is certainly a strong character who happens to be a woman—Jack of all trades, master of many; she's the best pilot Redemptrix has ever had, a good engineer, can handle the guns, and even helps the ship's cook—that's not what makes her a strong female character. Instead, her real strength comes from the one quality she has as a woman that no man can have: her influence on Jack. She, and she alone can stand up to Jack, change his mind, and push him to do good. Not even Jack's long time friend and first mate can manage that. I mean, how could he? Male-male relationships are won by strength alone, and Jack has superior strength over Damian, by virtue of rank. Regina, even though she is the lowest ranking member of the crew, has a power no one else has.

And this is a similar trait that, I realize, all my heroines—written and un-written—have. Father Max's assistant (when I write her), and the heroine of the story I will write when I finish Father Max. </toot my own horn>

This is only what I intend, of course. Whether or not I am good enough to translate the thoughts in my head to words on a page is left as an exercise for the reader.

* * *

"Miss Burke," Jack finally started after a long deliberation. "When I give an order on me ship to me crew, I am accustomed to having it followed."


"Excuse me, sir?"

"Back on the fluyt, you disobeyed me direct order to await me return before leaving. Now, I find this a disgusting display of insubordinate behavior."

"Your order reeked, Captain," Burke retorted. "It would have gotten us all killed. Had I stayed for your arrival, you wouldn't have had a ship to come back to."

"Well that is most certainly your opinion, but your reckless actions nearly got you killed anyways, or have you forgotten the EMP you flew me ship into?"

Burke narrowed her eyes and pointed at Jack. "You are not blaming that on me! Your junk heap of a ship failed on me. I saved her at every turn and came up with the plan to defend her without power."

"Me 'junk heap' was working just fine when I left her. Me engine mate could have fixed any problems you had. Maybe if you had waited for him, instead of rashly running off to battle, we wouldn't have even needed your defense plan—which I might point out only worked because of the stupidity of your enemy and not any cleverness on your part. Or perhaps you're too busy trying to do every job yourself, except those I give you."

She made a noise of disgust and rolled her eyes. He continued. "I am the captain of this ship and as such, you will show me the respect me position deserves. And as captain, me orders are final and should be obeyed without question."

"Well, Captain," Burke said snidely, "you're only such because you stole this ship from Lord knows who, not because of some merit-based promotion. Now, judging by your crew's unwavering loyalty, I'd guess that normally your orders warrant respect, but when you're giving orders that will result in the death of your crew, I'm very disinclined to follow them."

"Miss Burke, you are completely out of line. Now as far as disciplinary action—"

"Cut the crap, Jack," she blurted out. "I know your attitude towards me is just part of your 'breaking-in' process. You want to learn if I work under pressure. That's fine. I can deal with it. I served in the armed forces. But I've bled for you." She pointed at the crusted blood on her forehead. "And this marks the second time I've saved your skin without so much as a 'thank you.' I think I've demonstrated my trustworthiness, so you can back off a little."

She stared at him, arms akimbo, her blue eyes looked as if lasers might shoot out of them. Jack returned her glare. She was a good six inches shorter than he, and stared up at him, but didn't back down one bit. He felt the fury boil under his skin. "Miss Burke, you're dismissed," he said coldly, not able to think of anything else to say.

She didn't move. She didn't even shift her gaze.

"That means 'get out'," he explained. But she remained rooted in place. After a few moments he sighed and asked, "Is there something else, Miss Burke?"

"Yes," she replied, with a certain sharpness in her tone. "I think you owe me an explanation."

Jack could feel his ire rising. This was too much. "I do, do I? About what?"

"I think I deserve to know what I've gotten myself into."

"What's your meaning?" Jack said, feigning ignorance. He was afraid he might know the direction she was heading.

"You had been on that fluyt before." Jack was about to raise an objection but she beat him to it. "And don't try to deny it. You knew the layout. You knew which quarters were which. You knew exactly where to find the disk."

"Aye, so I did. Were you going somewhere with this?"

"Yes. It's not a hard jump to make from realizing you were on that ship to realizing you attacked that ship. Which means that, apparently, I'm now the pilot on what's probably the most wanted ship in the system. So I wonder, Captain, what other sorts of jobs am I going to have to perform? Anything that could get me thrown in prison for life or strung up by my neck?"

Jack chortled dismissively. "Miss Burke, you may have only just now noticed, but we're privateers. And since the laws of space change depending on the whims of lawmen and the alignment of the planets, we, almost by definition, do jobs of questionable legality. We're not in the US Navy, so we don't have the luxury of making up the laws by which we want to abide. So if you're suddenly concerned or are getting cold feet that you might have to steal—"
 
Burke cut him off. "Stealing's not my concern here, Captain. I understand I'll have to do a bit of that. I'm more concerned about murder. I saw at least one dead man on that ship, and I can only imagine what happened to the rest."


And with that, she had hit on something that had been nagging at Jack for almost a month now. As much as he tried to avoid killing, as much as he tried to blame the man with the case, Jack was the one who attacked the fluyt. He was the aggressor and therefore, he was at least partially responsible for spilling their blood. He tried to suppress the sudden guilt he felt. He couldn't understand why he was feeling it so strongly. He'd been dealing in questionable ethics for years now, and hadn't had any trouble sleeping at night. But suddenly, with Burke giving him that accusatory stare, he could no longer suppress his—what did other people call it?—his conscience.

He couldn't bring himself to look back at her, so instead as he spoke, he stared out the windows at the back of his quarters, at the dreadnought, now small in the distance. "Those deaths... were regrettable."

"Oh, regrettable. Is that it? Is that how you see it? Captain, I wonder how regrettable it really was for you. Did you enjoy it? Is that how you get a thrill in this job? Tie a man up, then starve him of air?"

"Regina," he said, looking back at her. 

Something softened in her expression. She seemed to notice that it was the very first time he had addressed her by her first name. 

He continued. "I know you have no reason to believe me, but I need to tell you anyways. I took every step I could to keep those sailors alive. Didn't you see the marks on the hull? Three clean shots through the sails and one through the cannons. We could have more easily punched a hole through their quarters and killed half the crew before even boarding. I mean, for God's sake, we left their communications untouched so they could call for help."

She relaxed her body language, and while she still looked doubtful, something told Jack that she believed, or at least wanted to. "So then how did those sailors die?"

"The man we were after, the man with the disk, killed them." Jack told her about his near-death experience and how he only just barely managed to get onto his ship before it was stolen.

Regina uncrossed her arms and, but for scowl she was still giving him, seemed at ease. "But you still could have saved them, couldn't you?"

A memory flashed across Jack's eyes. He felt the shudder of his corvette as she powered up; the adrenaline he had felt, fearing his ship was about to be hijacked. He remembered diving into the hold and slamming the aft hatch shut mere moments before she pulled away. And he remember watching through the aft portal as the bodies and cargo were flushed out into the vacuum of space.

"Yes," he finally said. And he felt that a weight had been removed, finally admitting it to himself. "Yes, we could have. But I didn't. All I could think of was meself."

Well, I suppose I should tell my story of the San Diego State University Writer's Conference, for all one of you who are interested (hi Mom!).

Background: every year for the past 26 years, San Diego State University has held a writer's conference, designed to help aspiring writers meet with industry professionals. I first found out about it via my instructor at UC Irvine, who recommended it and has had several students who have had success at the conference.

The conference took place from January 29-31 and, after a year taking classes and working in a critique group, was to be my first foray into the world of professional writing.

The conference started Friday evening (I took a half-day at my day job so I could have time to prepare and not have to fight rush hour traffic to San Diego) with a mixer (alcohol!). The ballroom of the hotel where the mixer was held had tables assigned by genre, so you could meet with people with similar interests. Aside from a bit of not-at-all-awkward-nosiree, when I sat down at the SFF table where the only other person was a 15 year-old girl ("Hi! I'm twice your age and drinking alcohol and we're sharing a table. No, I'm not a stalker or pedo, why do you ask?"), the mixer was enjoyable. I met with some of my friends from my writing classes who also came to the conference. Also, towards the end of the evening a woman—who I later found out was Loretta Barrett, a very, very prominent literary agent—joined the SFF table. While she didn't represent that genre at all, she did mention that it was the fastest-growing segment in the entire publishing industry. She also talked about some interesting things, such as how writing isn't a profession, it's a vocation (that makes me feel better for not getting paid for it!).

The conference proper started on Saturday with a wonderful keynote address by a man named Chris Vogler, who has worked in Hollywood for years. He worked at Disney during their recent *ahem* "Golden Age". (True story: you know that part at the beginning of Lion King where the baboon holds up Simba and the beam of sunlight illuminates him? The lightbeam was his idea. He said he was inspired by his Catholic upbringing when, during morning mass, the sunlight would stream through the stained glass behind the altar and illuminate the priest.) His speech was about "the path," both of the character and of the writer. (His book, The Writer's Journey, is about the Mythic quest of the hero—and of the writer—illustrated most fully by Luke Skywalker's path in Star Wars.) It was pleasing to hear, because I've had the idea for a while that I'm on a path. It started when I decided to write a novel and it ends (hopefully) with me getting published. (I'll write more about "the path" at a later date.)

Almost immediately after that I had my first two meetings. For a non-trivial sum of money, you can arrange to meet with an agent and/or editor for either an advanced reading appointment, where you submit your first 10 pages ahead of time to be read by an editor, or a consultation, where you tell your story idea to an agent/editor and receive feedback about the idea and market viability, or just ask general questions. You could schedule in advance 1 advanced reading appointment and 2 consultations, although additional consultation appointments were available at the conference. Meetings are 10 minutes.

My first meeting was my advanced reading appointment, with an editor from William Morrow.

She didn't like it.

She was polite about it, and used what my instructor calls the "Oreo cookie" or what Stewie Griffin calls the "compliment sandwich" (positive/negative/positive feedback; although the positive feedback at the beginning and the end was basically the same thing repeated, so it was more of half an Oreo smooshed up against a mirror). She gave me a compliment I will most definitely take, that I am a good commercial writer and I keep the pages turning. Her criticisms were that, well, she didn't like it. She said that in a novel's opening pages (which is what you submit for an advanced reading appointment: the first 10 pages of your novel), she looks to discover about the central character's motivations and goals; where he's coming from and going to. Since my central character doesn't even show up until page 16, it didn't really meet her criteria. She didn't like the big action and battle right up front, where we don't even know who's who. She pointed out that there are a number of (as she called them) "sci-fi" clichés (and there's a clue that she might not be my target editor; to people in the industry, it's "SF"; ask John C. Wright): the asteroid field, the technical term with a funny spelling (although I don't think she knows what a "fluyt" is, or that I didn't actually make up that word). She also didn't like the dialect (saying "less is more"), what with the sailor-speak. But she was nice, and offered words of encouragement.

Oh well. I didn't have time to dwell on my failure or how much I suck as a writer and, therefore, as a human being. Because not 2 minutes later (literally!) I had my next appointment, with a real SFF editor, from Baen books, the largest independent publisher of Science Fiction and Fantasy in the world.

This guy knew his stuff and offered some good advice. He wasn't really there to listen to pitches or find bright new writers. He was just pointing the SFF authors in the right direction. "This conference is great and all, but if you really want to meet the science fiction industry professionals...." He told me about all the conferences where the publishers and editors and authors go (not Comic-Con!). I also pitched JF:SP to him, briefly.

"Sounds humorous."

"Yeah, like Pirates of the Caribbean... in spaaaaaace."

"There's not much market for humorous science fiction novels right now," he told me. But he did give me the name of an editor at Tor and one at Baen who, he said, if I could get my manuscript into their hands, they might appreciate the humor. Useful knowledge, even if I didn't generate interest.

He gave me the advice that I should be writing short fiction. Firstly, there is a market for humorous short fiction; secondly, it's much easier to get short fiction published, and thirdly, it's much easier to get a novel published if you've already published short fiction. This was interesting

There were a few talks and panels I attended that afternoon that were of interest. Every agent at the conference was on a panel at some point through the day, so I attended a panel of one of the agents that I would meet the following day (her name is "Nephele", pronounced "Nĕ'-fə-lē"). It was informative and useful.

Saturday ended with whine and cheese. Social stuff. Y'know, the stuff I hate. (I think that was the hardest part of the weekend for me: always being "on." I can approximate being a social person for brief periods, but to keep it up for nearly three days is taxing. I had no appetite at all over the weekend, and it was almost 4 or 5 days before it came back.) I ended the evening with dinner with the other writers from my critique group.

Sunday began early (again) with the editor's choice awards. Every editor who participated in advanced reading appointments picked one submission that they liked the most and the author received an award (and nothing else). I had already had my appointment with the editor, so I knew I wasn't eligible, but a girl from my critique group did win one.

The awards were followed by another keynote, this time by an author named Robert Dugoni, who again spoke of the "path". He told his own story about how he became a novelist. He said he knew that's what he wanted to be since he was about seven, but he came from a family of over-achievers—doctors and lawyers—so he went to law school instead. He said that three weeks in, he knew it wasn't for him, and that he'd hate it, but he couldn't quit (let his family down!) and continued on, graduating from law school and getting a job at a firm. He was successful, making money, as he says, living the American dream. Trouble was, "it wasn't my dream."

One day, he woke to go to work, but instead of getting up, he just sat in bed and said "I can't do this anymore." His supporting wife told him. "Then we won't."

He recounted the rest of his story, how he learned to write, how he met an agent (then that agent died), how he met the person that helped him write his first book, and how he finally found the agent that helped him publish. He's now a New York Times bestselling author.

After the keynote, I had a meeting with the agent (Nephele) who I spoke with the previous evening. She had said when I talked with her previously that the best use of the consultation appointment wasn't to pitch your story—you can submit it to her any day of the year—but instead was to just ask questions. After all, it's not every day you get 10 minutes of one-on-one time with an editor or agent.

So that's what I did: asked her questions. I asked her if humorous SF could work (yes) and if I'm ruining my opening by starting in the POV of someone other than the main character (maybe/hard to say without reading it). The best advice she gave was this: for authors who are writing a series, don't write the second book in the series before the first is sold. You can outline it, write a synopsis, write down notes, but don't invest a lot of time on it. If the first one is unsellable, then you've wasted a whole lot of time. Instead, she said, I should be working on something else. This tied in well with what the SF editor told me, to write short fiction, and helps me understand, a least a little bit, where the next part of my "path" leads.

Shortly after that, I had my last appointment with an agent. When I signed up for my appointments, back at the end of December, I had already paid for three, but when they released the list of editors and agents in attendance, only two specifically listed SF as an area of interest, so I had to pick one who sounded remotely close for my third appointment. (When I got to the conference, I found that the editor at Baen had signed up late and was conducting consultation appointments, so I added him at the conference.)

So I met with this other agent who I picked, I think, because he said he had experience with book-to-movie deals (delusions of grandeur, I know; DON'T JUDGE ME!).

"Ok," he says, looking at his list of consultations. "Joseph.... Space Pirates?"

"Yes, that's me."

"I don't represent Science Ficiton. No sci-fi, fantasy, or horror."

Me: blank stare.

"Don't worry about it. Tell me about your story and I'll point you to an agent who can help."

I pitch him JF:SP, trying not to stumble too much over the initial shock. I get about half way in to my pitch when he interrupts me.

"So, is there a lot of violence in this?"

"No."

"Any sex?"

"Um, no?"

"You ever think it might be Young Adult?"

Me: blank stare. This blank stare is, like my one from a minute previous, also from shock, but the shock of "Ohmigod I'm such an idiot why didn't I think of that" instead of the more general "Ohmigod I'm such an idiot."

The conversation progresses. He asks me where the idea came from. "A video game I never made." Who plays video games, he points out? (His high school and college aged sons both play WoW. I hide my boldly emblazoned "Blizzard" bag and notebook, just in case.)

How long is it? He asks. "84,000 words." Can I cut it in two? Make a series? (YA tends to be 40,000 words. )"It's supposed to be a series." There ya go.

He points out a couple other things: it's easier for a new author to break into YA publishing, and YA is a much larger market than SF.

I ask him about the agent he promised to point me towards. "That's me. I represent YA. When you've trimmed it to 40,000 words, send it to me." He hands me a business card.

The meeting concludes and I spend the rest of the conference wandering in a daze. How could it have been so obvious, and yet I never saw it? I tried to keep the story clean; language, sex, violence, etc. If you made it into a movie it would be PG. One of the other writers from my critique group would occasionally leave comments that I should read it to Damien when he's old enough. The hang-up of the light-hearted humorous nature doesn't apply in YA. All these little pieces, which to me seemed unrelated, suddenly snap into place. It was staring me in the face the entire time.

(For those of you curious about my rather odd Facebook status update, this is what it was about.)

The conference ended rather anticlimactically. I skipped the last sessions (too tired, nothing interesting). Most people had already left, and I didn't even get to say goodbye to my friends who were there.

So the conference was completely different from what I expected, but probably exactly what I needed. The Path, previously unclear where it lead from San Diego, is a little more obvious. There are two branches to follow, short stories and young adult. Now I just need to figure out how to trim Jack Flint: Space Pirate in half. And figure out what to write next. (Checks notebook of ideas. Hmmmm.)

I miss Tom.

No, wait. I don't. I just miss making movies with him.

New post on my literary blog for those who are interested in Space Pirates.

Just sayin'. You might check it out.

And I Seem to Call Myself a Writer.

An actual line I seemed to discover while editing that book-thingy I'm working on: "And by the way everyone else seemed to ignore her, it seemed they already knew who she was, so it seemed pointless to introduce herself."

And some of you people actually seem to like my writing?!

It seems that "seem", along with "technically", "pretty", "actually", "little", "began", and "really" are some of my favorite words. 'Cause those are the ones that I'm finding overused a lot (seemingly).

(The sentence now seems to read: "And by the way everyone else ignored her, it seemed they already knew, or didn't care, who she was.")

Sentence of the day: "The author seemingly was actually pretty wordy because, technically, he began to really overuse some words a little bit too much."

Yaaaargh!

Ok, I wanted to have Space Pirates Episode II done by today.

That didn't happen. Not nearly. So I will tide you over with some excerpts.

Firstly, the whole of chapter 1. (Very long; 16,500 words). I have not yet gone through it with the fine-toothed comb of editing, so this does not represent my best writing style.

Secondly, the scene below. I am introducing a new character, who I think will recur through the rest of the series. (Bonus points: Count how many inside jokes and references you can find.)

* * *

Jack scanned through the list of names on the directory, but did not see a mention of Chris White anywhere. He then browsed them by apartment number, looking for the number on the card Damian had handed him. He found the listing for apartment 472 next to the name J. Galt, and pressed the intercom button.

A voice sounded, speaking in a very fake French accent. “Allo?”

This caught Jack by surprise and he stuttered over his response. “Um, hi.... uh—who is this?” he finally blurted out.

“I don't know. I can't see you,” the voice said. Jack wasn't sure what to make of that and stumbled some more.

“Um, yeah. I'm trying to reach Chris White. Is this he?”

“Who wants to know?” By this time Jack was beginning to clue in.

“Me name is Jack Flint. Me first mate, Damian Braun, sent me.”

“What's the password?”

“Excuse me?” Jack asked, once more completely lost by the conversation.

“What's the password I told Damian? The password to get in?”

Jack's brain searched frantically, trying to remember some lost part of the conversation, fearing that he may have forgotten some crucial detail. He stammered once again. “Um, I don't, uh, recall a password being given in the conversation.”

“That is correct,” the voice solemnly replied. “I also would have accepted 'swordfish' or 'xyzzy'. Bottom floor, second door on the left,” the voice said before being cut off by a buzzer, indicating the front door had unlocked.

Jack proceeded into the complex. It was the type of thing that would have been built with government funding for low income people, except that Arcas didn't have that type of program. So instead, it was probably built by someone who, unable to squeeze any additional money from the middle income class, decided to see what he could get from those with less. Even still, some aspects of the design didn't make sense. He could understand some of the cost-cutting measures, like not fixing the flickering lights, or cleaning the vandalized walls. But he really had to wonder if paint in a color that could only be described as “baby shit green” was that much cheaper than, say, white.

He made his way down the stairs to what was the fourth floor down from the entrance. Judging by the directory, this building also had two floors going upwards from the entrance as well, which would mean there was at least one floor that protruded through the surface into the air-less sky of Callisto. Due to safety considerations, such floors were usually more expensive, and must have catered to the upper-lower-class.

He stopped outside the second door on the left and raised his hand to knock, but paused upon noticing the sign that said “Utility Closet”. He thought it through a moment but before he could come to a decision, there was a click sound and the door slowly opened inwards with a creak. There was no one immediately on the other side.

He stepped into the rather dark, cave-like interior. The smell was the first thing that greeted him. It gave the general impression of a closed, confined space with poor ventilation, inhabited by a creature that did not bathe frequently, and only rarely deposited the remaining morsels of food from its meals in a waste receptacle, which was rarely emptied; and only when the lingering smell became so overpowering that breathing became difficult was an air freshener liberally applied.

Only after his eyes became adjusted to the dim light was he able to take in his surroundings. “Utility Closet” was not a bad description for the place. It was a single room apartment, deeper than it was wide, stretching away from the door. To the left of the door was a small kitchenette, with a sink piled with dishes that clearly—judging from the new civilization of mold emerging on them—hadn't been washed in some time. The recycling receptacle was so over-piled with disposable dishes that it was hard to discern exactly which ones qualified as “in” the container. To the right of the door was—well Jack had to assume it was there somewhere, as all that dirty laundry surely couldn't just be floating—presumably a dining table of some sort, although Jack couldn't imagine it having been used for that purpose in a past time measurable on a calendar. At the very back of the right wall was a door that Jack assumed led to a head. Judging by the state of the rest of the apartment, he was very glad he currently had no urges of that nature.

But all that was window dressing. Inconsequential trivialities to the main attraction, the real attention-grabber in the room. For filling at least half the room was perhaps the largest and most robust computer set up that Jack had ever seen. Zack would surely have wept had he seen this, Jack thought, upon the realization that all his engineering and technical pursuits were mere dust when compared with this monument to sheer geek ingenuity. It easily cost more than the apartment itself, perhaps more than the whole complex.

Practically the entire back wall and half the left wall were covered in large, vibrant displays; some continuations of one large image; others displaying their own image, ranging from local video programming, games, news, and some other highly technical data that Jack couldn't make heads or tails of. There was a large desk—the word being used in the loosest possible sense, only conveying the description of a surface on which one does work, but continent may have been more appropriate to describe its size—on which, and under which, were at least a dozen computers, three portable computers and five servers, not to mention the associated keyboards, pointing devices, and at least a few game controllers.

Jack couldn't really appreciate it, not having been born with the Gene—that gene which compels young boys or girls, when presented with a device that performs some function, to take it apart to verify its operation—but the only suitable term to describe the computer set up, assuredly used by any professional in the field, would be “awesome”.

And in the middle of it all, seated in what had to be the most well-sat-in chair in the history of chairs, was a disheveled, moderately overweight, pale-skinned man, his clothing wrinkled, his long unkempt hair pulled into a pony tail, and his chin unshaven.

“Larger than I expected a utility closet to be,” Jack finally said, finding himself talking in an elevated tone, to be heard over the dull roar of what sounded like a jet engine.

“What? Oh, the sign. Yeah, I just put that up to fool the ninja assassins so they couldn't find me.”

“Does it work?” Jack asked as he crossed towards the back of the apartment, stepping around a large couch which must have served double duty as the bed, before stopping a few feet from Chris. He really didn't want to get much closer.

“I'm still here, aren't I? Hold on,” Chris said, before fiddling with one of his controllers. On one of the displays, a control panel opened up and he made some adjustments to it. The background roar died down to a volume almost suitable for indoors.

“Sorry about that. I just wanted to turn down the compressor for the liquid nitrogen cooling system,” he said, waving a hand towards a piece of industrial equipment tucked away in the back corner of the room.

“What, are you running a furnace to power all this?” Jack's limited experience with liquid cooling systems was in starship engineering, where a chemical that was usually a gas at standard temperature and pressure was liquefied to cool the several tens-of-thousands of degrees reaction inside the furnace.

“No, I steel the extra power from my neighbors,” Chris said, waving a hand over his shoulder, then adding, “it's savvy, though. They don't know about it. The coolant is for the computers.”

“What do you use all this for?” Jack said, looking around the displays again.

“Anything and everything. Over here, I've got a buffered feed of all the Earth's interplanetarily broadcast video and audio programming—on a thirty minute delay, of course—so you can catch all the reruns of all your favorite shows,” he said, indicating one display in which the image was split into easily hundreds of smaller images. “From that box, the feed goes over to my content hosting server, which holds a one-year archive of everything for anyone on Callisto who's watching. Except, of course, for Space Voyages. I keep archives of all the episodes of that show.”

He pointed at another display. “This box is currently running my clan's multiplayer server for the Littoral Operations expansion to Starship Combat. I'm in a pretty well-known clan. Ever heard of Plutonium Knights?” Jack, who hadn't followed much of what he had said since the words “anything and everything”, shook his head. “No? Well, they're pretty famous. Number one ranked on Callisto and, I think, number twelve in the system.

“On this server, I'm trying to assemble the system's largest collection of porn,” Chris continued. Jack rolled his eyes in disgust.

“And this server—this is the one that's soaking up most of the cooling; I had to slow it by a factor of ten while the cooling system is running on low—this is the one I'm using to try and find the next Mersenne prime. Well the main one. The others are all set up in an ad hoc Beowulf cluster—which is simple since they're all running my own home-brewed Torvix distro of course—and they'll share some of the processing load during low usage.” Jack just shook his head. It was all geek to him. “But ninety percent of the processing is done on her.” Chris looked longingly at the display of numbers rapidly scrolling up the screen. “She'll find it one of these days.” Somehow, Jack wasn't surprised that Chris had anthropomorphized his computers as female.

“Nice set up, but do you really need all this?”

Chris gave Jack a look as if he was equal parts surprised and offended. “Did... did Alexander the Great need to conquer the world?” he started. “Did Amundsen need to go to the South Pole? Did Cromwell need to invent the fusion propulsion engine?” He continued to hold his stare at Jack for several awkward seconds. “Well, did they?”

Jack, assuming it was a rhetorical question, fumbled for the answer. “No?” he finally blurted out.

“Of course they did! Who would remember them if they didn't?”

He had a point, thought Jack.

Pop Quiz.

Q. In a modern movie/TV show, how do you tell if a character is evil?

A. Count the number of crucifixes on their wall. To wit:

In this screenshot from the Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode "Where the Wild Things Are", the gang visits an old lady. In the introductory shot of her home, we can see five crucifixes, a statue and picture of Our Lady, a picture of St. Michael the Archangel, and numerous other religious pictures and items that I could not identify. As soon as we are shown her home, I thought to myself "she's evil." A couple minutes later, we find out that she is, in fact, evil. She ran an orphanage and would abuse the children in some manner if they sinned against chastity.

But then I thought it interesting that my first reflex was to think her a villain (and also interesting that I was right). Now why would I think that? Why would I, when shown a character with lots of religious artifacts, reflexively assume the character is evil? Is this perhaps a conditioned response?

Let's play a game. You've got ten seconds. Name, off the top of your head, three positive portrayals of priests from film or TV.

Bah, that is trivial. I can name four in that time: Gregory Peck in both The Keys of the Kingdom and The Scarlet and the Black, Bing Crosby in The Bells of St. Mary's, and Spencer Tracy in The Devil at 4 O'Clock.

Now let's add a twist. Name three made after 1970. That were also mainstream films.

Hmm.... The Scarlet and the Black was made in 1983, but was a TV movie. The Keys of the Kingdom was made in 1944, The Bell's of St. Mary's was 1945, and The Devil at 4 O'Clock was 1961.

Ok, well just name three mainstream portrayals of priests from movies made after 1970.

I come up with Edward Norton in Keeping the Faith, Linus Roache in Priest, and, um... wasn't there a priest in Chocolat? Ok, that took me more than 10 seconds. And none of those are exactly what I'd call stellar examples.

Let's open this up a little wider. Name three portrayals of devout Christians from movies made after 1970.

Well, I heard (though I have not seen the movie) that there was an Evangelical Christian family in Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle. There's also the documentary Jesus Camp. And didn't Matt Damon play a Catholic in The Good Shepherd? (Which, if memory serves, is the movie that prompted a leading Jewish periodical to write something like "apparently, Catholicism is the last religion which it is acceptable to insult." Of course I've gone and lost the blasted quote.)

It seems that in recent years Hollywood has forgotten how to make movies that show priests, Catholics, or even Christians in general in a positive light. 

Now, one villain who happens to be Christian would be no concern. But when there is a general, overwhelming trend, I call shenanigans. Suppose there was a general, overwhelming trend for portraying blacks, or women, or homosexuals as villains? Do we suspect that there wouldn't be cries of foul, and claims that Hollywood was bigoted?

And this touches back on some of my points about PC: why should I worry about offending the hyper-sensitive feelings of those who do not give a rat's ass if they offend me? Is it because, as a Christian, I should avoid offending my neighbor? But that's my philosophy, not theirs, and they specifically reject it. If they are to convince me to play the PC game, they need to take a principle from their rule book, not mine. "You should abandon your philosophy and come to mine because your philosophy says you should" is not a valid argument, for once I've abandoned my philosophy, why should I follow what it says?

* * *

The poison of PC can certainly be insidiously evil, turning people to hate those whom PC disapproves of, when used to create shows. I think my story of being conditioned to think a character with many religious artifacts is evil is evidence of that. But when it enters into the story as a motivation for the characters, it can turn from something twisted and wrong into something comically stupid.

Take, for example, the old TV show Seaquest: DSV, that show which was so dripping with PC that Justin Long once confused it for his co-star. In one episode, I think the only one I watched in its entirety, the captain of Seaquest is ordered to put an end to some environmental terrorists. The captain refuses, because the terrorists have been sinking whaling vessels. It doesn't seem to bother him that the terrorists are, y'know, murdering people. But because the people that are being murdered are not PC, the captain does not seem to care about them. He prepares to resign his commission, refusing to follow the order. In the end, he finally does go after the terrorists when they accidentally miss their intended target and sink a cruise ship. No one seems to question if the lives aboard the cruise ship could have been saved if the captain did his duty in the first place.

Another example comes from Star Trek: Enterprise. In one episode, the Enterprise encounters an alien civilization that is dying from some genetic disease. The crew of the Enterprise, with their advanced technology, are able to create a cure to the disease, but Captain Archer decides not to give it to the aliens, because there is another race on that planet which are mistreated as slaves by the civilization. Apparently, Archer thinks that genocide is an appropriate response. It's interesting that Archer chooses to let the entire civilization be wiped out, without considering if one of the aliens might be that planet's William Wilberforce. In his eyes, none of the aliens are worth saving because some mistreat their slaves. There is a term for this. It is called "bigotry". In the end, Dr. Phlox pats Archer on the back and expresses his pleasure that the captain did the right thing. This was about the time I stopped watching Enterprise. (An interesting note: one of the arguments Phlox gave for why the civilization should not be saved, is that the aliens are dying from a genetic disease, and their slaves appear to be more intelligent than the aliens let on. Phlox posits that this is just evolution's natural progression, that the old race is dying out to make room for the new, and they have no business standing in the way. Well, there is a term for this view of evolution as a guided and benevolent force. It is called "Intelligent Design" and it is the very definition of irony that so many Evolutionists see evolution in this way, and insist that we should not interfere with Her will.)

In a recent episode of Buffy (well, recent for me; it aired nine or ten years ago), the spirit of an American Indian tribe goes on a rampage through Sunnydale, slitting the throats of its citizens (in the show, Buffy berates one character for using the term "Indian" and insists the proper term is "Native American"; also ironic, in that most Indians do not object to the term "Indian"). Buffy finally corners the spirit, but hesitates, unable to deliver the killing blow. Willow explains her indecision, stating that the Indians were peaceful—"fluffy, indigenous kittens", in her own words—until the Evil Christian Europeans came along and tortured, enslaved, and civilized them (*gasp*), and that the spirit of the tribe is only out seeking justice. No one seems to care that he is seeking justice on those born hundreds of years after the alleged atrocities. This was the first episode that I couldn't finish watching, because the bullshit-o-meter—that most useful device which measures the BS of PC things in sucky TV shows—not only hit the pin at ten, it pushed past the pin, wrote in the number eleven, pointed at that, quivered, uttered the rite of extreme unction, and burst into flame.

If PC is the philosophy that guides the creation of your show, such that the only Christians that show up are evil, I can accept that. No one has ever perfectly lived up to Our Lord's example, and many Christians have missed the point entirely. I'm willing to accept that—through some statistical fluke—the only ones who make it into movies and TV shows are evil (probably not that much of a fluke; Hollywood is a hard place to survive without turning to the Dark Side). But when PC is the philosophy that guides your characters, then you have lost me. When your characters do not do what is right, and in fact sometimes do just the opposite (that is, what is evil, for those of you keeping score at home), I lose sympathy for them and cease to care if they win. They are no longer "the good guys" but instead become "the morally confused guys who sometimes happen to defeat other morally confused guys, if it suits them."

In essence, when you base the meta-philosophy of your story around PC, you create something potentially insidieous and evil. When you base the internal philosophy of your characters on PC, you create something much worse: a bad story.

* * *

(I have here a long screed on Buffy season 4. Since it assumes a detailed knowledge of the Whedon-verse, that most of my readers don't have, it is optional. Nothing to see here, move along.)

Watching season 4 of Buffy has been very enlightening. Up until Joss' latest show, Dollhouse, the only works of his I'd seen were the first three seasons of Buffy, Firefly, Serenity, and Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along-Blog, all of which I found delightful, and like most other nerds, I was willing to declare Joss to be my new master. In fact, Serenity is—and I say this with no hyperbole—probably the greatest SF film ever made. Those of you following me on Twitter know that it is now difficult for me to watch that film, because every time I do, I weep, knowing that Space Pirates is not, and never can be, that damned good. But when I started watching Dollhouse, something felt off. Firstly, Joss' signature clever dialogue is missing. Secondly, well, none of the characters are really that likable. In fact, the only one I can really get behind is Boyd Langton (played by Harry Lenix, from Matrix: Revolutions). There are also—and this is surprising for Joss—absolutely no strong or likable female characters in Dollhouse. And while Joss is normally hit-and-miss with his women (for every Kaylee, there is an Inara), it's odd that he should go 0-for-5.

(Before you think that I dislike the show, I should mention that even though the pilot fell flat and the first 4 or 5 episodes weren't particularly memorable, the plot did pick up later in the season, and ended strong. And Alan Tudyk is awesome.)

But Buffy, season 4, has been sort of an eye-opener. As it turns out, Joss is not infallible, and that sometimes his characters just aren't that great. Season 4 has been doing a wonderful job of destroying the characters that have been built up so far. Xander, the comic relief, hasn't developed at all in four seasons, and remains as one-dimensional as he was to begin with, only now the joke is less funny, as it's four years old. But now he's also impotent and is routinely dominated by his girlfriend, who he is powerless to stand up to and seems incapable of really loving her (his relationship is actually an interesting metaphor on fornication; the more sex he has with his girlfriend, the more impotent he becomes with her in everything non-sexual). Giles—the wise mentor and perhaps my favorite character—has been trashed; as it turns out, he has a "friend with benefits" who periodically flies out from England to be with him. Willow is turning lesbian (which in itself is interesting: I thought the argument of the homosexual activists was that homosexuality wasn't something that just turned on or off, and that's why those therapists that seek to help gay men become straight were stupid and evil), and in one recent episode has to decide between her old boyfriend, now come back, and her new love, a girl who also practices Wicca with her. And here, I'm thinking why does she have to choose between them? I mean, if you're abandoning sexual ethics in favor of homosexuality, why not go all the way and embrace polyamory as well? Why hold back? (Every time Willow mentions her Wicca, I am reminded of G.K. Chesterton in Heretics: "All that genuinely remains of the ancient hymns or the ancient dances of Europe, all that has honestly come to us from the festivals of Phoebus or Pan, is to be found in the festivals of the Christian Church. If any one wants to hold the end of a chain which really goes back to the heathen mysteries, he had better take hold of a festoon of flowers at Easter or a string of sausages at Christmas. Everything else in the modern world is of Christian origin, even everything that seems most anti-Christian. The French Revolution is of Christian origin. The newspaper is of Christian origin. The anarchists are of Christian origin. Physical science is of Christian origin. The attack on Christianity is of Christian origin. There is one thing, and one thing only, in existence at the present day which can in any sense accurately be said to be of pagan origin, and that is Christianity." QFT) And Buffy, who was previously the poster-girl for chastity (her first love, quite literally, lost his soul, and her second abused and discarded her; you'd think she'd learn) is now in a relationship with so much sex involved that in one episode, they are too busy having sex to help their friends fight off ghosts. Her boyfriend, while I'd like to like him (he's a Marine and also, it's implied, Catholic) thinks with his genitals just a bit too much. When a female character sleeps around, I usually feel pity for her. When I male character does it, I feel contempt.

Lest you think that I don't like the show, I remind you that I still enjoy it. The plots are still interesting, the dialogue still witty. It's just merely a reminder that Joss sometimes writes unlikeable and unmemorable characters. And sometimes they all end up in one show. When I saw Firefly, I thought Inara was the exception, and that his characters tended to be better than that. After Dollhouse and Buffy season 4, I see that Firefly is the exception (although so far I like the characters in Angel, though I'm only in the first season).

Joss frequently loses me with the sex in his shows. Very few characters have healthy sexual relationships (Zoey and Wash from Firefly are the only two that come to mind) and many are destroyed by their promiscuity. One of the biggest disappointments in Firefly was in the episode "Out of Gas", when we discovered that the only difference between Kaylee and Inara is that Inara gets paid. I have high hopes for Angel, though. It's been established that the title character must remain chaste, or he will turn evil.

* * *

Buffy isn't the only show that has lost me with characters. The new Battlestar Galactica was very intense, and had very colorful and interesting characters to begin with, but by the end of the show, each and everyone had ceased to be likable, ending with the formerly-noble Admiral William Adama, who is shown visiting a strip club in one of the last episodes.

Stargate SG-1 did better. The characters never betrayed me, but the writers seemed to think that the last two seasons would be a wonderful way to make the point: "Religion = bad".

It was my general frustration with the state of SF TV shows that lead me to draw the following comic, in the style of XKCD:

Several fellow students (all of them women) in my writing class have left perfectly polite comments on my last two homework assignments. I have decided that I am going to go get the town crier all over them.

The comments:

At the beginning of chapter 3, Jack gives Regina the order to depart Arcas spaceport with the command "Miss Burke, take us up." Three women in the class seemed to take exception to this. One circled "Miss" and wrote "Pilot"; one wrote "Ms."; and a third circled "Miss" and left the note "Wouldn't she have a title with more dignity?"

In the next week's homework assignment, Regina referred to herself as "the new gal" aboard the ship. One of the women circled it and wrote "Women don't like this word" and gave several alternatives, such as "girl", "pilot", "crew member", "mate".

Really? Women don't like that word? You are speaking for all women? Then why do I hear my grandmother use it so often? Are you contending that she is not a woman?

Concerning the implication that "miss" is a title without dignity, this one single sentence demonstrates and proves with one single breath the heinous thing, and my biggest gripe, with political correctness: political correctness seeks not to avoid offending, but rather to find offense where none is intended or, even more likely, even present.

Does anyone argue that when Jack refers to Regina as "miss", he is doing it specifically to degrade her, or demean her? (He is quite capable of  doing this in other ways.) Would you argue that if I held a door for a young lady and said "let me get that for you, miss," that I am purposely and actively, with malice aforethought, trying to show my superiority over her, lower her dignity, take away her right to vote, and chain her to the kitchen?

Please. Be surd. (absurd : surd :: incest : cest)

The "best" argument I have heard against the titles of miss and mrs. is that these titles "chain a woman's identity to her marital status, and thus make her a slave of her husband" which is logic on par with "if a woman weighs the same as a duck, she's made of wood and thus a witch." This betrays what John Wright so expertly points out about those who follow the Religion of PC: "They think (or rather, they feel) that when they are calling one thing by another name, that the actual nature of reality changes. They put themselves in a position where they can no longer talk about real things. Words are severed from referents."

He is, of course and as always, right. Those who worship at the altar of PC, and also those in the left wing (usually the same crowd) believe in the magic of language relativity: that is, by changing the way we refer to something we can change the nature of the thing itself. This seems to me to be closely associated with moral relativism: the belief that we can change morality by wishing it away. What is wrong for you or for another is not wrong for me because I don't want it to be. We see this in other aspects of life, too: if we call a "baby" a "fetus", it is no longer human, and can be killed; if we refer to people as having "gender" instead of "sex", then by changing their gender, they can change the fundamental nature of themselves. News flash: if I name my cat "rover", refer to her as "the dog", and feed her dog biscuits, she still won't bark. Sex is a biological and supernatural reality. Changing how we refer to it won't change its nature.

The reality of miss and mrs. seems to me to be far more innocuous. In a society where men purse and women allure, one would expect simple and obvious social cues that would indicate to the pursuer if the allurer is available to be pursued. Titles are one aspect of this, as are rings (hence, a woman wearing an engagement ring; I think of a man's wedding ring more as a reminder to himself than as a signal to other women). Were we to live in a society that operated in the opposite fashion, where women sought out a mate, bought him dinner, escorted him to the opera, and took him home and kissed him goodnight on his porch, I would expect the titles to be reversed.

But the PCists, of course, are chained to their idea of language driving nature; thus if we call an unmarried woman "miss" and a married woman "mrs.", we are saying that her nature changes when she gets married. Since they feel this is offensive (and I have never heard a good explanation for how it is offensive, probably in no small part because they feel rather than think it is offensive) they think (or rather, feel) that by changing a woman's title to the generic "ms.", we have somehow altered her nature and the nature of marriage.

As mentioned before, one of the primary aspects of political correctness is how it assumes offense where none exists. To refer to a married woman by a different title as an unmarried woman seems reasonable to the normal, rational person. In fact, these are the terms that were used for decades, if not centuries, and no offense was meant or taken. But then one day (and that is probably quite literal) some follower of the dogma of PC decided that words that had no offense attached to them before suddenly were offensive and that they had to be changed. Granted, language changes, but suddenly deciding that words have new meaning never before intended is not the sort of gradual change as "chuse" changing to "choose". Other examples of this include suddenly deciding that using the pronoun "he" to refer to groups of mixed sex is offensive, where it never was before, and that the term "secretary" to refer to those with a secretarial job, is offensive. (I once asked a PCist why it was that "secretary" was demeaning to women. She explained that it was because it harkened to a time when women were only allowed three careers: secretary, teacher, and nurse. She did not explain why "teacher" and "nurse" were still allowable. (This is one reason I'm Catholic and not PC; the rules are far more intuitive and easier to understand.))

Another aspect of Political Correctness is that it only seeks to find offense directed a certain groups that are mascots of the left. Surely, the PCists object to "offenses" against blacks, American Indians, women, homosexuals, and other "protected" groups. I have never heard one so much as flinch at offenses directed at Irishmen, men, Catholics, or evangelical Christians. Somehow, Muslims have weasled themselves onto the "protected" list, which means those outside the Church of PC get to watch, with wonderful bemusement, how those in the PC Church "protect" from offense those who are probably the least PC, and indeed viciously hate some of the other protected groups. (For instance, my writing instructor mentioned, perhaps in a doubt of the faith, that she was having a hard time accepting the PC dogma that fundamentalist Islamic societies had a "right" to horribly abuse their women. I remain blissfully outside of PCism, so I can answer as any sane man should: no such right exists and we can kill the bastards for doing such.)

If you want evidence of how imbalanced the double-standard for offensive speech is, look no further than the NCAA. Remember a few years ago when, out of sensitivity to "Native Americans" they tried to outlaw all schools with American Indian mascots? (They apparantly had a very selective use of "Native American"; I am a native to America too, but they didn't outlaw any team called "the Josephs". However, since no team with that name exists, perhaps they thought it a non-issue. I will give them the benifit of the doubt, and assume that they would have.) This, of course, was a monumental search for offense, such that they must have been using NASA's Spitzer space telescope to find it, as they clearly ignored the fact that many colleges with American Indian mascots do so with the approval and blessing of the tribe! One thing I found particularly interesting was that the University of Illinois Fighting Illini were to be banned, because "Fighting Illini" is offensive. However, there never was any mention of banning the University of Notre Dame Fighting Irish. How, exactly, is "Fighting Illini" racially insensitive and "Fighting Irish" is not? Are you going to argue that the Irish have not been oppressed? Are you going to argue that it is politically correct to portray Irishmen as drunken, brawling, leprechauns, but incorrect to portray American Indians as tomahawk-wielding warriors with feathered headdresses? Now we must play a game of measuring relativism, and explain why one offense is more offensive than the other.

So it is because of political correctness that society jumps at imagined shadows of offense, but only those shadows cast from a certain angle and from certain objects, that you have to turn your head sideways and squint to see, but then it just looks like a bunny. It is because of political correctness that I can't say "miss", but no politically correct person would bat an eyelash over the term "hocus pocus", with all its associated anti-Catholic bigotry. (For those not in the know, "hocus pocus", originally, was a mockery of the Latin words of consecration: "Hoc est enim corpus meum" or "This is my body", the climax of the Mass, and that sacred moment when a host of unleavened bread is turned into the Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity of Christ. I, personally, do not take offense to "hocus pocus", because I know that no one today uses it to offend Catholics, and probably no one who is not Catholic even knows where the term comes from. I would not stoop to correct someone who uses such a term in ignorance.)  It is because of political correctness that I can't refer to a secretary as a secretary, but the followers of PC can—and do—take Our Lord's name in vain, without so much as a worry or care to whether or not they offend me (and I do take great offense to that). I am not in a protected group; I am not worthy of avoiding offense towards. (In fact, someone once argued on this very blog that it is allowable to insult and offend white Christians because they have it coming.) But if those followers of PC don't care if they offend me, on what grounds do they argue that I should not offend them?

Since I can't think of a witty or snappy end to this article, I will let the inestimable John Wright do it for me, even though I think I am over my allocated "John Wright quote or link" quota by quite a lot this month:

Quoted for Truth:

The rudest society imaginable is one where everyone is hyper-sensitive, thin-skinned, and willing to see insults where none are intended, and, most of all, a society were everyone demands, as a matter of right, as a matter of entitlement, that no one cross or offend his ultra-fine nerves, which have been sandpapered to the most exquisite pitch of sensitivity. The professional crybabies have been given a trump card that wins every hand and always collects the kitty. So, we get more crybabies. Dignity, adieu: rudeness, hail! Hail, horrors!

*Mentally counts* 17... 18... 19... 20!

A-ha! Twenty posts since my last Space Pirates post. Time to bore you again!

So after a year, I figured enough time had passed and it was time to re-visit Episode I and go through the long process of editing. So far I've finished editing the first chapter, which you can read here.

My first thought when I went back to read it was I couldn't believe you people actually liked it. Some of the writing is just awful. Terrible grammar, excessive wordiness, boring descriptions in the middle of action, excessive use of the passive voice. I mean, come on, people. Where are your standards?

Anyways, here's a highlight of some of the changes.

Firstly, the prologue is gone. While I liked how it gave an overview and timeframe for the story, there was nothing in it that was essential information that wasn't conveyed better within the scope of the novel, and it served as a terrible opening hook.

One thing I've learned is that while the passive voice is something that can be used to great effect, it doesn't work in action. Action scene sentences need to be short, to the point, and exciting. Also, (this is something my instructor emphasizes) a story is more interesting if we're hearing it from a particular person's perspective. "The tree fell and crashed to the ground" is not as exciting as "Bob's heart raced when he heard the crack of the wood. He dove for cover, narrowly avoiding being crushed by the tree that fell and crashed to the ground." Keeping that in mind, here's how it was and is:

As it was	As it is
“Cannons loaded and at the ready, if you please” he barked at the gunnery officer, as he instinctively braced himself. Before he could get a response, the fluyt rocked violently as an explosion was heard through the ship.	“Cannons loaded and at the ready, if you please” he barked at the gunnery mate, while instinctively bracing himself. Before he could get a response, the fluyt rocked violently and he heard an explosion through the ship.

Another problem I have is repeating the same words over and over.

As it was

As it is

The fluyt rocked violently as an explosion was heard through the ship.... Again, a bang rocked the fluyt, but this time it was their own cannons firing a broadside at where the pirate ship had been, just moments earlier. The cluster of wrecked ships among which the pirates had been hiding was rocked by explosion as their area of effect shells detonated at the preordained distance, but it did them no good as the pirate vessel narrowly outran the explosion.

The shells detonated at the preordained distance and the cluster of wrecked ships among which the pirates had been hiding was obliterated by the explosion, but it did no good. The pirate vessel narrowly outran the blast.

In that example, "rocked" and "explosion" were both used three times in one paragraph. I trimmed out one usage of each. Not that rocking out to explosions isn't cool or anything.

A non-grammatical change that I'm making is the general feel of the writing. When I first started, it was much more Star Trek-y in feel. I later decided it should feel more 18th century than 22nd century, so I changed some of the terminology. Sensors, engines, reactor, etc. became Crow's Eyes, sails, furnace. Hence the change from "gunnery officer" (originally "security officer" in the very first draft) to "gunnery mate".

However, when I began writing it, I was still planning that they'd have faster-than-light travel. (I scrapped that partly because, as I was writing the pirate attack scene, I couldn't figure out why the fluyt wouldn't just jump to lightspeed. Or how you would even have piracy if any ship could just jump away from an attack.) As such, some of the technology in the first chapter seems more 22nd cetury than I'd like. References to auto-loading cannons, targeting computers, etc. were scrapped in favor of gunnery crews, like a wooden sailing vessel would have.

As it was

As it is

“Track them and fire, single turret only,” the captain ordered. His fluyt had four cannon turrets, two port and two starboard. Amongst the four the ship could defend itself from an attack in any direction, its strong points being in the plane of fore, aft, top and bottom, where all four turrets could aim. This pirate was carefully staying off to one side, prompting the captain to fire one turret at a time, so that the other turret that covered that firing arc might be ready should a good shot present itself. The captain counted down, waiting for the auto-loader to finish, while the targeting computer tracked the pirate vessel and computed its speed, trajectory, and looked for patterns in the evasive maneuvers to try to predict where the target would be, and aimed the turrets accordingly, taking into account the time it would take for the shell to reach the target and applying the proper deflection. The massive turrets slowly moved and, when the loading mechanism completed, another muffled bang could be heard through the hull as the cannon fired.

“Track them and fire, spaced firing sequence,” the captain ordered. He began counting down, waiting for the gunnery crews to reload. Looking back through the viewport, he saw a bright flash from the pirate vessel. He only had a moment to prepare himself before his fluyt rocked a second time.  “Where be me guns, Mr. Cobb,” the captain demanded of his gunnery mate.  “Loaded and ready,” the officer replied. The captain heard the muffled bang of the first gun, followed several seconds later by the second, as the gunnery crew fired each cannon in turn.  The pirate vessel bobbed and weaved, attempting to put some distance between themselves and their prey. Every few seconds the fluyt would send another volley at them, preventing them from flying straight enough to get off a good shot.  The captain felt his fluyt rock with each volley and, watching the bright streak of the tracers, he noted the shells getting progressively closer to their target, the gunnery crew improving their aim with each shot. The pirate's maneuvers became more erratic, as their pilot desperately tried to avoid the incoming projectiles. He watched one shell leave the barrel and, visually tracing its path, thought they might have a hit. But just before it hit the pirate vessel, their enemy ducked behind an asteroid, and the shell impacted harmlessly into the rock.

That example is also an example of another of my problems. As a friend pontied out, I tend to write like an engineer. Breaking from an exciting action sequence to describe, in detail, the armaments of the fluyt and the fire arcs each one covers does not help the pacing. Another example:

As it was

As it is

This time the captain saw more clearly what he was up against. The pirate vessels main broadside cannons looked to be smaller, only 105-millimeter, which would have some trouble penetrating the fluyt’s thick armor. But their turret appeared to be a linear induction cannon, more commonly known as a rail gun. Instead of using an explosive charge to launch the shell, it used the magnetic field created by a sudden discharge of electricity to provide velocity. This cannon had a far higher muzzle velocity, but was limited by projectile caliber. However, when used in conjunction with a larger caliber conventional gun, it could be deadly. The linear induction cannon would punch a small hole in the armor while the larger conventional cannons would make that small hole a lot bigger.

Now he was at a disadvantage; he had no guns ready to fire, and the pirate had all of his. He tightened his grip and braced himself. The pirate ship came streaking towards them, putting the asteroid to their rudder and the fluyt to their bow. They were momentarily obscured by the flash of light and cloud of smoke that emerged from the gun deck in the bow of the ship as the pirate fired with everything she had, before breaking to her starboard.   The fluyt bucked and creaked, twisting under the explosive force. Alarms started blaring, and the lights on the bridge went out, for just a moment, before the red emergency lighting came alive.

On that same note, and on that of changing the feel to be that of "the age of sail in space", ships are getting re-armed. The fluyt is now an eight-gun ship (instead of four) and Redemtrix will be either a ten- or twelve-gun corvette (not sure yet; up from six guns). Also, originally the cannons were described as 105mm (nicknamed the "one-aught-fives"), to model those in the AC-130. They are being upgraded to 155mm (after the M198 howitzer) and will be referred to as the much more age-of-sail-sounding "hundred pounders" (the M-107 shell that's fired by the M198 howitzer does, in fact, weigh about 100 lbs.).

Another change is that I'm trying to be clearer about motion and action. Someone commented of the original draft that it was unclear how people were moving in zero-gravity (also, all references to that are being changed to the more scientifically-accurate micro-gravity). Part of the reason is because it was unclear in my own mind how people were moving around. As I edit and re-write, I'm trying to form a better picture of the movement, and trying to keep in mind whether or not their is gravity in that scene, and how much.

As it was	As it is
The captain moved back to his chair and rang the engine room on the intercom. “What be the damage?” he asked the engineer.	The captain pushed off from the Crow's Eyes station and floated to a panel in the middle of the bridge. Arresting his momentum, he lifted a handset from its cradle and rang the engine room. “What be the damage?” he asked the engine mate.

A concern that came from some of my classmates is that the appearance of the charaters is not really clear. Regina is the only character who is described in detail in the narrative. All other descriptions were—literally—added as an afterthought. I'm trying to work them in a little better, and when the characters make their appearance.

Lastly, I'm reviewing all names, to be changed, possibly (save Jack and Regina). This came about when I realized that Jack and John sound very much alike. John has since been renamed the much more ethnic-sounding "Yosef" (after Joseph Mkasa, another of the Ugandan Martyrs). I'm pretty sure Elijah will be renamed "Damian" ( :) ) to make it a little less obvious who the real-life person he's based on is. Steve is keeping his name, but might be referred to as "Steven", Zack should get a name change, but I honestly can't think of anything that has quite the geeky sound as Zack. David and Gregory will be renamed, but I have no idea to what, yet.

As it was	As it is
"Well, that's one way," Elijah had commented to Jack, as they both removed their gas masks. So there Jack stood, after what had to be one of the strangest boarding operations. "You almost done there, John?" Jack had to yell, as John had moved to the aft of the cargo hold, chasing down a couple crew who didn't want to become whatever it was they thought space pirates did to them.	"Well, that's one way," Damian had commented to Jack, as they both removed their gas masks.  Jack ran a hand through his jet-black hair, flattening it. He stroked his goatee, reflecting on what had to be one of the strangest boarding operations he had ever pulled. "You almost done there, Yosef?"