I got an early Christmas gift today when I read that Createspace had announced expanded distribution channels, which means that at long last you can walk into a physical bookstore, request a copy of one of my books and get it. Likewise, libraries and academic institutions can now request copies, and independent retailers.

With great excitement, I went to my account to Make It So because at last here's the final piece of my dream: to be available in a bookstore. Maybe not on the shelf, but at least over the counter. The Kherishdar books have a problem: they're not an industry-standard trim size for bookstores, so I can't enable their distribution there. But Shell is elgible for all three channels. I tick three boxes and just sit in my chair a moment, basking.

Then, crass businesswoman that I am, I look down at my royalty rates. I'm used to making around a couple of dollars a book, depending on whether people buy directly from Createspace or if they go through Amazon, so I'm expecting it to be somewhat less.

And it is. Exactly thirty-three cents.

Thirty-three cents. Per book!

And then I start laughing. For a couple of reasons:

1. When I first started submitting to major publishers, I was told the royalty rate I could expect as a nobody-newbie author was 10-20 cents a book. 33 cents should sound pretty good... but not after earning several dollars a book for over a year.

2. Having realized my dream of being available from a bookstore, I am now considering whether it's a good business decision to be available from a bookstore...!

Talk about the things long expected taking the form of the unexpected when they come! I never expected to be wondering whether I should bother making my work available through multiple distribution channels. But thirty cents won't even buy you coffee these days. I'm still thinking of this as an early Christmas present... but rather than a "dream come true" gift where I get to walk into Barnes & Noble and order one of my novels, it's more like a "God wants you to giggle" gift where I get to put this in perspective, really question the value of a brick-and-mortar presence.

If you're really married to the idea of ordering my work from a bookstore, now would be the time to tell me! Also, librarians and folks at universities? I'd love to hear your input too, if you think it's worth it to make the books available to you directly.


Stardancer Home.

Tags: alt publishing, books, marketing, new publishing paradigms, technology, writing
Current Mood: amused

Spots the Space Marine is a twice-weekly crowd-sponsored serial. Find out more and read prior episodes.

Flea. "****. We're gonna die."

Scythe. "Can that **** and do your job."

The crabs are streaming from both corridors and over the fallen wall. The team has its backs to one another, facing out. They expend their first-generation shields against the hail of alien needles.

The crabs keep coming.

Spots. "Claws! Shield power?"

Claws. "Zip."

Spots. "Rewire from something else!"

Claws. "There's nothing ****in' nonessential LEFT."

The crabs keep coming until they're climbing over their dead and into Team Kitty's faces.

Scythe. "****! Back up!"

Hairball. "Got a wall here, boss!"

Spots punches a final combination on her glove and shoves her way in front, slicing through the first three crabs with the edge of her shield.

Claws. "****! Spots!"

Spots. "Help. Me. NOW."

Claws fumbles through the power shunt and jumps after her, clearing the crabs in front. Fang recovers first and shoots past the falling pieces.

Claws. "****. ****. ****. ****." He nearly gets punctured by a crab pincer. "****!"

Fang. "****, stay alive, you ****er, you're the only thing keeping us up!"

Claws. "**** you!"

Scythe. "KING!"

Fang. "MINE!" She aims past Spots and Claws. "****, stop weaving!"

Hairball grabs the back of her suit and pulls her. "Up!"

Fang glances back, then jumps onto his knee and aims past the crabs Spots and Claws are killing. First shot: head explodes. Second shot: thorax explodes before the head has time to fall past it.

Scythe, catching green marks on his HUD. "Watch your shots, we've got friendlies!"

[ Company ] [ Peaches ] : Good plan, Sergeant.

[ Company ] [ Flea ] : ****, if we're not happy to see you!

Peaches and the relief cut away from the crabs from behind, Team Kitty from in front. They meet in the gore-soaked middle surrounded by mounds of crab parts.

[ Company ] [ Scythe ] : It's good to see you, ma'am.

[ Company ] [ Peaches ] : You all in one piece?

[ Company ] [ Scythe ] : Yes, though we burned through our power cells.

[ Company ] [ Peaches ] : Head on back, then. We'll mop up and take the rest of your shift.

[ Company ] [ Scythe ] : Yes, ma'am. Switching to squad channel. "You heard her. Let's go."

Fang. "Nothing left to do here anyway. Hey, Flea."

Flea. "What?"

Fang, grinning. "I'm waiting for your tally of headshots."

Flea. Long pause. Then: "**** you!"

###

Armory, six hours later. Peaches is unlocking her helmet when the Gunny shows up. She is exhausted, sweat streaking her hair to her temples.

"Ma'am?"

She looks over. "What's up, Gunny?"

"Priority message."

She nods and steps outside the door, leaving the rest of the relief team to unsuit. Once there: "Let's have it, then."

He hands her a tablet, which she scans... and then closes her eyes.

"They're coming...." She looks at him. "My God, Gunny, we got them. We got the company from Depot A! We're going to be reinforced! We might live through this assignment after all!"

Gunny. "From your lips to God's ear, ma'am."

###

And that concludes Part 1 of Spots the Space Marine! Part 2 will pick up next week when we meet the reinforcements from Naval Depot A and see how taking the attack to the crabs works out. I hope you've enjoyed reading so far! And thank you again for your patronage, which has fed me and allowed us to give back to the community through the charity donations. I'm having a great time and hope you are too. :)

Stardancer Home.

Tags: serial, spots the space marine, writing

Spots the Space Marine is a twice-weekly crowd-sponsored serial. Find out more and read prior episodes.

Claws. "So how exactly are we gonna do this?"

Spots squints at one of the bodies above them. "Flea, can you hold this crab in place?"

Flea. "****, that would mean poking my ****ing hand outside this thing."

Scythe. "Shut up and do it."

Spots, to Claws. "Just keep the shield up when I take mine down. It should last as long as we need even without me helping." She sets a timer on a grenade. When she looks up, Flea is grumbling but holding the body in place.

Spots. "All right, here goes nothing." She stands up, head above the shield, grabs the crab body and scrabbles on top of it, pushing through a narrow space between corpses.

Claws. "****! Spots—"

Spots. "I'm okay. It's all dead stuff up here."

Whiskers. "****, I had no idea you could do that."

Spots wedges herself between bodies until she can stand straight—more or less. She squeezes a hand up to place the grenade in between the corpses, then wiggles back down, steps off the crab she was using as platform and drops back into the bubble.

Spots. "Okay. Twenty seconds."

Hairball, eyeing her. "How'd you think of that?"

Flea. "**** that, how'd you shimmy like that in armor? Jesus!"

Claws starts laughing. "You ain't seen the ****in' half of it."

Fang, ignoring them. "...four... three... two... one!"

The shield flickers and dies as crab parts go flying. Through the broken mosaic of the explosion, Team Kitty can see the rest of the living crabs.

Whiskers. "Here they come!"

###

Hooray, back to writing after my unplanned "being sick" hiatus! Sometimes being short comes in handy....

Stardancer Home.

Tags: serial, spots the space marine, writing

When asked about panel topics for MFF, I suggested one on balancing your personal life with your creative endeavors. Somewhere along the line, this got re-interpreted into "The Writing Professional," and I was a little too harried to correct it. Come Saturday, then, I show up ten minutes late (my phone still being in a different timezone) to discover I'm the only panelist on this particular panel. I had assumed several other writers would be on it with me...! So I did my best to be entertaining. It helped that I had a small but friendly audience that asked great questions.

While on that panel, I realized something interesting: for the past four years, I have been paid for every piece of fiction I've written, with one exception. This includes 50 short stories, one novel (Flight of the Godkin Griffin) and one serial (Spots, in progress). Respectable money too: the short fiction all sold at professional rates; the novel paid me an "advance" (which I will never have to earn back) and will probably be paying me royalties next year; and the serial is earning well even with our regular charity donations.

The single exception? Heir, the novel I wrote and tried to market through my agent to traditional venues. In fact, there's a pattern there: given the arbitrary start date of, say, January 2000, around when I was sending out the Jokka short stories, I have attempted to sell a good 30+ short stories and six? Seven? Novels? And sold... maybe 7 short stories and no novels. And those short stories? Did not make more money than the short stories I sold directly to you folks reading now.

There's a wonderful Mark Twain quote that goes: "A thing long expected takes the form of the unexpected when at last it comes." While on that panel, I realized: I am a writing professional now, and have been for a while. I just didn't see it. And it's going to take me a while to really feel that in my bones. I wanted to succeed the expected way because that was the only way to do it... at the time. But things are different now, and there are more ways to reach an audience today than there used to be. I didn't win the writing lottery, the one that produces the successes of a Laurell K. Hamilton or a J.K. Rowling. But very few writers do. What I'm doing? Is paying to go out to breakfast with my baby, and bringing home dinner for my family... over and over. Quietly and regularly. And I suspect as time goes by and I have more work available in more forms, that quiet and regular success will become more dependable.

How about that. Dreams do come true, sometimes, if you're flexible enough to see what you really have instead of fixating on how it was "supposed" to happen. I am reminded of another quote by Agnes de Mille: "No trumpets sound when the important decisions of our life are made. Destiny is made known silently."

When I mentioned that statistic about being paid in the panel, the audience surprised me by applauding. That was unexpected, and a pretty great feeling. After years of hard work, here I am. :) My humble hope for all of us, then: May all our labors, be they undertaken in honor and for good purpose, come to their own fruition... no matter what form they take when they do. And may they teach us what we need in the process.





Stardancer Home.

Tags: marketing, writing
Current Mood: grateful
Current Music: New Order - Primitive Notion

Spots the Space Marine is a twice-weekly crowd-sponsored serial. Find out more and read prior episodes.

Control Room.

Control 1. "****...!"

[ Base ] Control 2 : Team Kitty, can you get out from under them?

[ Base ] Control 1 : How are you even keeping them off? Off mic. "****! Where are we going to find reinforcements?"

In the Warren.

Scythe, on the base channel. "We're under a shield bubble."

Claws, low. "Told you. You can just hear them gibberin'."

Flea. "I don't exactly ****ing BLAME them."

[ Base ] Control 2 : Repeating, can you get out?

Scythe. "We'll get back to you." Switching channels again. "All right, everyone got a target? One, two, three, now!"

Everyone under the shield shoots several times. Bugs explode. Ichor and parts fly. Silence.

Claws. "Well, ****. Now we've just got dead bugs piled on us insteada live ones."

Spots, squinting. "Do you think the living ones will move them out of the way?"

Scythe. "I don't know. Let's see."

Two minutes later... nothing.

Scythe. "****."

Hairball. "Maybe we could try grenades?"

Whiskers. "How are we gonna get those ****ers through the dead bugs? Wedge them out?"

Claws. "We'll just end up blowin' up more crabs to lie dead on top of us."

Flea. "****! This is NOT how I was planning to go! Buried alive under a hundred dead crabs??"

Scythe. "More like fifty."

Flea. "****! Can't we move out from under them? Kind of scoot the shield along with us?"

Everyone looks at Spots. She shakes her head.

Spots. "It might be a force-field but it's attached to my arm, and Claws's. We've got a lot of weight on top of us. I don't know if we can move it without breaking something."

Scythe. "Even supported by your suits."

Spots. "Call it a feeling."

Claws. "She might be right. Right now we got the weight in a straight line, arm-spine-ground. We start shiftin' too much we might get shear."

Hairball. "Well, we can't go down. We got this grid under us now."

Whiskers. "And we can't go side to side."

Spots, musing. "I guess that leaves..."

Fang, with teeth. "Up."

[ Base ] Control 1 : Team Kitty, this is Control. Sitrep.

Scythe. "Now we're under a shield bubble with a layer of dead bugs on top. ETA on back-up?"

[ Base ] Control 2 : Seven to ten minutes.

Scythe. "You have anything on exterior cameras?"

[ Base ] Control 2 : Negative, Team Kitty.

Scythe. "****. Anything could be out there, waiting for us."

Hairball. "We can't stay here, though. Ten minutes is what we had on the shield a few minutes ago."

Spots nods. "Unless we contract it. We could probably squeeze in tighter."

Flea. "****, I'm close enough to all you ****ers as it is!"

Fang. "So the choice is wait or fight."

Claws. "That's the size of it."

Fang. "The answer's obvious, then, isn't it?"

Everyone looks at Scythe, who grins. "**** yeah. We fight!"


###

This is going to be fun... right? Right? >.>

Stardancer Home.

Tags: serial, spots the space marine, writing

Spots the Space Marine is a twice-weekly crowd-sponsored serial. Find out more and read prior episodes.

Control Room. Several stacked screens of cam footage from Team Kitty: all show flailing crabs, or nothing at all, just a shimmering, writhing dark.

[ Base ] Control 1: Team Kitty, this is Control. Come in, Team Kitty.

[ Base ] Control 2 : Scythe, this is Control. Report.

[ Base ] Control 1 : Team Kitty, sitrep please. We can't see a thing here.

Control 1. "****...! Oh God! Where are they in that mess?"

[ Base ] Control 2 : Team Kitty, report please.

The Warren. The first revision crabs have caught up with the new attackers. Nothing can be seen in the corridor except the remains of the wall and the mound of bugs.

...closer...

...closer, squeezing between two crabs...

Spots. "Crap."

The entire team is packed under Spots's and Claws's second-generation shield, forming a tight hemispherical bubble around them. The crabs are plastered to the edges, trying to get to them.

Whiskers. "Wow. Now I know we're in trouble."

Hairball and Fang chuckle. Scythe grins. Even Fang snorts with a smile.

Spots, squinting as a crab claw scrapes against the shield wall a few inches above her head. "I think we can hold like this for at least ten minutes."

Scythe. "Great, we can shoot our way clear, then."

Fang. "If we can ****ing get a clear shot..."

Scythe. "Well, let's get our backs to one another."

Some writhing ensues.

"****, that was my kidney!"

"Didn't need it anyway."

"Get outta my lap, Hairball."

"Thought you liked me."

"Not that much."

Scythe. "****, Control's been hammering on my circuit and I didn't see it." Changes channels. "Control, this is Team Kitty. Sitrep is ****ed up, but we're alive. We could use back-up."

"Hey, keep your elbow out of my face!"

[ Base ] Control 1 : Team Kitty, this is Control. All we're seeing is bug parts."

Scythe. "That's because we're under them."

Pause.

Claws, sotto voce. "Bet they're going dot-dot-dot."

Flea, disgusted. "This is so ****ed up."


###

A little bit of humor today. -_-

Stardancer Home.

Tags: serial, spots the space marine, writing

Nice review here of The Admonishments:

The true beauty of this collection is the way that the culture is painted in the background as you read. It’s like sitting in a white room, reading, while behind you brush strokes of colour appear on the blank walls, then you look up and suddenly you’re on an alien world, the journey so subtle that you barely felt the movement.

For some reason, Shame gets a lot fewer reviews than the Calligrapher....


Stardancer Home.

Tags: books, reviews, the admonishments of kherishdar, writing

I'm probably not the only person who was taught that appearances count; that you go to job interviews looking your best, that beautiful people are treated differently than the average, that no matter how fair human beings try to be, we do judge books by their covers, at least a little bit.

One of the things that reading e-books has done for me is change that.

Gorgeous cover? My e-book reader doesn't display covers unless I specifically select it from a menu. Stunning layout? Blown away by the homogenizing power of the e-book format. Fancy font? Gone, replaced by a single workhorse applied globally to everything on my tablet.

All of it gone, and I thought I would mourn it; I am an artist, and I do appreciate the artistry of typesetting. But it turns out... I don't miss it at all. Stripped of everything but the most basic of necessities, all designed to make the text easier to read, I find I pay much more attention to the content. The story disgraced by a terrible cover, clumsy layout, imperfect chapter-marking can still make it on the strength of the narrative alone, without the prejudice its packaging might have induced.

I can't emphasize what it does to see everything, no matter how it was pushed to my e-reader, formatted in exactly the same way. It makes mistakes far clearer; it also destroys boundaries. I find typos everywhere, from every kind of book, vetted or not. I find myself reading bestsellers wondering how they'd do if they were seen like this: completely unvarnished. I read unpublished work expecting the same standard as the books above and below it on my index because I can't tell at a glance where it came from.

This means that several of my favorite e-books aren't published in the traditional sense. They're stories written by people with no intention of traveling that road, or who haven't started the search for a venue. They're stories by hobbyists as well as hopefuls. And they look exactly the same as their bought, sold and better-marketed brethren.

Exactly. The same.

This phase of e-book publishing probably won't last; I suspect that soon enough we will return to a place where packaging matters at least a little when e-book readers become more capable and have color displays, though the mobile market probably won't permit too much more fancification. But until we get back to that point, I welcome this change in perspective, and wonder how it's affecting other consumers of e-books, particularly those whose primary book consumption is electronic.


Stardancer Home.

Tags: alt publishing, kindle, new publishing paradigms, writing
Current Mood: interested

Spots the Space Marine is a twice-weekly crowd-sponsored serial. Find out more and read prior episodes.

The Warren. Team Kitty and Guests are patrolling, casually killing the first revision crabs.

Fang. "****ing insult, I tell you."

Claws. "Think of it as an opportunity to practice."

Fang, gunning down another three crabs. "How the **** is this practice? I could do it in my ****ing sleep."

Claws. "Well, I hear tell the only way to really be sure a crab is dead is to shoot it in the head."

Fang shoots the next group of three in the head, *bam* *bam* *bam*.

Claws, drawling. "And the Kings, you gotta shoot 'em at the base of the thorax too."

Fang. "I'll keep that in mind when we actually see one."

Scythe. "What's this now?"

Spots. "The lieutenant wants to make sure we deny the enemy the chance to use their own for reconnaissance. If you don't get the head on the commoners and the head and second brain on the Kings, they might live long enough to be useful."

Scythe. "****. I'm guessing she'll be wanting us to do that then."

Whiskers. "Even when we're looking at a ****ing wall of them?"

Flea, the Varmint Guest. "You saying you can't make that many headshots?"

Fang. "Get real, you ****ing ***. Even I can't take down every head on an advancing wall, and if you think you can do better we've got a date on a ****ing range where you can prove it."

Flea. "Oooh, a date. She likes me."

Fang. "Don't make me rip your ***** up through your ***, you ****er."

Flea. "Mmm, I like spicy—"

The wall beside them falls in: writhing bodies, arms, a solid wall of the new carapaces Fang found, not the older ones they've been shooting.

Spots. "Breakthrough!" Her new shield slices through four of them with a corner-of-the-eye flash of gold.

Scythe: "NORTH!"

The squad breaks that way, with Spots and Claws in the rear with shields up, intercepting a hail of alien needles.

Fang. "Finally! Something worth the ammo!"

Claws. "**** that, I didn't want more excitement!"

Scythe. "****!"

The old revision crabs have poured out of the intersection in front of them.

Scythe. "Mow them down."

Fang. "Here's your ****ing chance to make your wall of headshots, moron, let's see it."

Flea. "Are you always this much of a ****?"

Spots. "Hey! Don't call her that!"

They are in the middle of shooting a way clear through the second group.

Flea. "What? A ****? She sure acts like one."

Spots. "That's uncalled for. Don't do it again."

Flea. "Or what? ****, can't take a little—"

Spots, still shielding the rear. "SHUT UP. And tell her you're sorry."

Flea. "For ****'s sake, isn't anyone gonna say 'we're a little busy right now for this kind of ****?'"

Claws, covering the rear with Spots. "Nope."

Hairball, shooting. "Uh-uh."

Scythe, shooting. "I'm with them."

Flea. "**** you. At least I'm not getting cozy with the en—"

Spots. "Don't you dare finish that."

They kill off the second group, leaving the crabs behind them to clamber over the dead.

Scythe. "Next fox-run, take it. Let's head them off and set up on the corner."

Whiskers is the first one in the fox-run, then Hairball, then Fang. Flea is just going in after her when:

Whiskers: "****! ****! Go back!"

Hairball: "Uh, there's no going back—"

Whiskers: "****!"

The wall starts shaking. Scythe looks up at it. "Oh, ****."


###

I missed the Marine Corps's birthday yesterday! Consider this a belated well-wishing. Also, today is Veteran's Day! Half of all the donations I get today will go to charity, instead of ten percent. If I hit $50 total, poor Claws is going to get his turn as a pin-up... but don't worry, I'll be as nice to him as I was to Spots for her shower scene. The planned picture even has some plot teasers in it, for those of you who aren't interested in it for the rippling abs and stuff.

Man, Claws is giving me the evil eye now. Heh.

Edit: tango took care of Claws's pin-up...! Thank you, tango! Spots readers have already given over $75 to charity for active duty soldiers and wounded vets. Let's keep it going. :)

Stardancer Home.

Tags: serial, spots the space marine, writing

Among the many ways that the Internet and e-books are changing writing, one of the most fascinating to me is the realization that... because of the new accessibility of niches, you don't have to be a trained writer anymore.

We all have topics we like... themes and types of stories that engage us. If we're lucky (supremely so), our tastes mesh with enough people's that it becomes profitable for businesses to package and sell content to us. Or, if we're adaptable, we get used to what's available and comb through it for the little gems that satisfy.

But we don't have to do that anymore.

Somewhere on the Internet, if you look hard enough, you will find someone who likes what you like, no matter how bizarre or specific. Probably not just one person... several, or even enough to make a website devoted entirely to the things you like best. And there will be someone writing on the themes and subjects you want. Probably a lot of them. You don't have to settle for what's marketable to the majority... you can get exactly what you want. You just have to be willing to look for it.

And here's what I've observed: a lot of people, given the choice between a stunningly crafted story which they're only peripherally interested in and a patchwork, sometimes even awful story about what they're interested in, will choose the latter. If your niche subject has some excellent storytellers in it, they will attract and hold a lot of the audience. But a small enough niche has room for even untrained writers, because there's simply not enough material available for readers to care to be choosy.

I find I can express no value judgement of this phenomenon: there's so much good in it and so much bad that it all cancels itself out. I find myself mostly wanting to watch how it plays out. But what I do see, very obviously, is that you no longer have to write to please a majority, or to pass any particular gatekeeper. If your work only appeals to a small segment of the population, you can still reach an audience. And you can still make money. In fact, you can make good money.

And that's huge.


Stardancer Home.

Tags: alt publishing, culture, marketing, new publishing paradigms, writing
Current Mood: thoughtful

Spots the Space Marine is a twice-weekly crowd-sponsored serial. Find out more and read prior episodes.

Armory as Spots, Claws and Samuel-Colt enter.

Spots. "We're the first ones here!"

Samuel-Colt. "We will check the data on your suits first, if that is acceptable. The new shield data should be valuable."

Spots. "Go ahead."

Claws, taking down one of the power cells. "Hey, Sam... how do you make sure a crab is dead, anyway?"

Spots. "I assume you shoot it with the guns you keep telling me I need practice with."

Claws. "Man, you are never gonna let me forget that, are you."

Spots. "Nope.

Samuel-Colt. "Your escort asks a valid question, Mother. The answer is not a simple one."

Spots. "It's not? But we shoot them and they go down. Or explode, depending on the round."

Samuel-Colt. "The soldier class, perhaps. Different classes have different nervous systems. For example, Kings commonly have two neural nodes, a brain and a nexus at the base of the thorax. This second node handles music and scent, so it retains memories related to those senses. In order to neutralize the King you must destroy both nodes."

Claws. "****! You mean all this time we've been leavin' them mostly not-dead?"

Samuel-Colt. "The Kings do die if you damage them, Mother's Escort. But it isn't immediate. If you are asking how to keep their memories from being used by the enemy, then these are nuances you need to understand."

Claws. "****! And the normal bugs?"

Samuel-Colt. "As far as we know, a head shot should be sufficient."

Claws. "But not the body shots we usually use to mow 'em down."

Samuel-Colt bows a regretful note.

Claws. "****.****! Do you know how much harder that's gonna make our jobs?" Sockets the power cells into his suit. "****! Also, I've probably earned six bars of soap cussin' about this. **—crap!"

Spots makes no comment, but her mouth is quirking. The door opens for Scythe, who halts at the scene.

Spots, pulling her suit on. "Hi, Sergeant. Have you met Samuel-Colt?"

Scythe. "I... haven't had the pleasure."

Spots. "Samuel-Colt, this is Scythe, our sergeant. Scythe, Samuel-Colt, the designer. He's downloading suit data for evaluation."

Samuel-Colt, melody with flourish. "We are glad to make your acquaintance."

Scythe, a little off-balance, but taking it in stride. "Likewise." He takes down his suit. "You two are early."

Claws. "Bonny Peaches called us down to have a look at a crab corpse, tryin' to figure out how come they're sendin' us their dregs."

Scythe. "And?"

Claws. "Sam thinks it's cuz they're preparin' to sic some super-crabs on us. All at once."

Scythe. "****ing wonderful."

Samuel-Colt to Spots, with rising arpeggio. "Do you make the Scythe eat bars of soap also?"

Scythe. "Make me what?"

Spots, laughing. "No, no, if every Marine on this base had to wash out their mouths every time they cursed in front of me, we'd be out of soap in a day."

Claws, muttering. "In an hour."

Scythe. "A few minutes, I think."

They're all laughing, Samuel-Colt's a springing melody, when the rest of the team enters with the Varmint guests.

Silence.

Claws. "So, you got your data, Sam?"

Samuel-Colt, no music. "Yes. Thank you." He inclines his body to Spots. "Mother."

Spots. "Samuel-Colt. Rest well."

The alien exits. Another silence. Then the team resumes suiting up.

[ Buddy-to-Buddy ] [ Claws ] : If they give us trouble...

[ Buddy-to-Buddy ] [ Spots ] : They won't. Turn around so I can do your check.


###

It took me a long time to put this together, given the news. This is a sad day.

Stardancer Home.

Tags: serial, spots the space marine, writing

Serials have been working for me. Starting next year, I'll probably serialize some of my novels before releasing them to hard-copy. Which means now is a good time for a poll! Tell me how you like to read them!

Poll #1480658 Serials!
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 84

How do you prefer to read your serials?

How do you want to be notified of new episodes?

How important is the ability to comment on a chapter?

Stardancer home.

Tags: poll, serial, writing
Current Mood: awake

Spots the Space Marine is a twice-weekly crowd-sponsored serial. Find out more and read prior episodes.

The Board Room, again, where the aliens are dissected. Peaches is standing next to a lab technician and an ONI specialist. They are looking at a crab corpse.

Lab Tech. "This is their standard soldier carapace, Lieutenant. First revision."

Peaches. "First? Aren't we on third revision?"

Lab Tech nods. "This is the design that was typical when we first dug in."

Peaches. "But that makes no sense. I've been looking through the records, and the crabs have never sent old carapaces back at us. Have they?"

The other two exchange a look. The specialist says, "They've never done it here, no."

"But elsewhere?"

Specialist shakes her head. "I can't say." At Peaches's look: "I mean that literally, Lieutenant. I just don't know. If there's more information on it, I can't read it."

Peaches. "****. No clue what it might mean, then."

"None."

Peaches rubs her forehead. "All right. Then I need you working on something new."

Lab Tech. "Ma'am?"

Peaches. "Find some way for us to destroy the utility of these things once they're dead. I don't want the bugs making use of them."

Specialist. "We don't have any evidence that they can use these carapaces that way."

Peaches. "We don't have any evidence that they can't, either." Looks at Lab Tech. "I need fast, complete and safe. No compromise, I want all three."

Lab Tech. "I can experiment with compounds, but what you're talking about is really more of a weapons matter."

Peaches. "Not if what we want is to disintegrate whatever they're using for brains."

Lab Tech. "That's the problem, ma'am. How do we know what they're using for brains? For all I know they could be storing memories on the insides of their chitin with scent markers."

Peaches frowns. Then strides to the wall and toggles the intercom. "Lieutenant here. I'm in the Board Room. Get Private Guitart for me, please, and tell her to bring Samuel-Colt here. We have questions."

When she turns away from the intercom...

Specialist. "The alien's talking to you?"

Peaches. "The alien's talking to one of my people. She's talking to me."

Lab Tech. "Nice!"

Specialist. "****, I've known Samuel-Colt for a year and he's never said a word to me."

A little bit later, Spots arrives with Claws escorting and Samuel-Colt behind her. The alien watches the military courtesies between Spots, Claws and the lieutenant but does not interrupt.

Peaches. "Thank you for coming, Samuel-Colt."

Samuel-Colt. "You are welcome, Lieutenant-Savannah-Bonnet. There is an issue?"

Peaches nods toward the table with the dead bug. "We were looking for a way to make the bodies unusable to the enemy for their... memory-eating."

Samuel-Colt. "Lieutenant-Savannah-Bonnet, they are already useless if they are dead. Memories can only be consumed from the living."

Peaches. "Always?"

Samuel-Colt. "Always."

Claws is looking at the body. "Damnedest thing, them sendin' the old ones after us. What's it mean, you think?"

Peaches looks at Samuel-Colt. Samuel-Colt looks at Spots. The specialist and lab tech watch, fascinated.

Spots. "It would help us to know, Samuel-Colt. Please."

Samuel-Colt. "This would be a guess, Mother-Marine."

Spots, smiling at the name. "Then we won't be upset if you're wrong. But even a guess would help."

Samuel-Colt. "Then, Mother... our guess is that they are changing production lines."

Everyone goes still.

Peaches. "You mean they're doing something new."

Samuel-Colt. "Yes, Lieutenant-Savannah-Bonnet. A sufficient difference in models often requires a complete halt to production, particularly if only so many cloning chambers have been deployed. Production halt also allows new models to be fielded in force, rather than piecemeal."

Claws. "****. You mean they're sendin' their leftovers while they're cookin' up the awful new stuff."

Samuel-Colt. "That is our guess, yes." A hesitation.

Spots, watching his bowing. "Is there something else you wanted to say, Samuel-Colt?"

Samuel-Colt. "Mother-soldier; if they plan to cannibalize their base soldier models for memories, they will probably design them to fall insensate in advance of a true killing blow. It's what we would do."

Claws. "Oh, that's just great. So we'll have to go through piles of maybe-dead crabs to make sure they're really dead?"

Peaches. "Well, that just brings us back to the beginning. We have to make sure they can't be used for reconnaissance, so we'll just have to kill them dead-dead." She glances at Samuel-Colt. "I'm right?"

Samuel-Colt. "Essentially, yes."

Spots. "Essentially."

Samuel-Colt spreads his middle, claw-bearing arms (causing the specialist and lab tech to edge away). "We are assuming they are working the way we understand, Mother-Marine. But they no less than we advance, and their biotechnology is their weapons technology. What if they have evolved some new method? We will not know until we see its effects."

Peaches, low. "****." Then clearer. "Well, that's war. We signed up for it. Is there anything else?"

Spots glances at Samuel-Colt. He shakes his head in a very human gesture, which looks strange on his stalk of a neck.

Peaches. "All right. Thank you all."

Once they've left:

Specialist. "****."

Lab Tech. "Get me some more specimens, Lieutenant, if they send new ones. I'll see what I can do."

Peaches. "Right. Specimens of new killer bugs. You want them dead or alive?"

Lab Tech. "...is that a joke?"

Peaches, fell smile. "We're the ****ing Marines. If you need a live crab, we'll get you one."

Silence.

Lab Tech. "Dead will do. For a start."

Peaches. "You got it."

###

In the hall, Spots bows to Samuel-Colt. "Thank you."

Samuel-Colt. "You make my duty easy, Mother-soldier. Thank you. Do you go back to your rest now?"

Claws. "Think by now we should be gettin' to the Armory, actually."

Samuel-Colt. "May I accompany you? It has been some time since I checked the statistics on your gear. The shield modifications were distracting."

Spots. "We'd be delighted."

###

Still pondering Veteran's Day incentives! Only 8 more days. Maybe a Claws shower scene! *laugh* Claws is giving me seriously dirty looks at the very thought.

Stardancer Home.

Tags: serial, spots the space marine, writing

Spots the Space Marine is a twice-weekly crowd-sponsored serial. Find out more and read prior episodes.

Team Doggie and guests continue their patrol with some grumbling, much banter and no incident. Halfway through the shift finds them back near base.

[ Squad ] Dusty : Time for your drop-off, Kitties. Thanks for filling us out.

[ Squad ] Claws : No problem.

[ Squad ] Coyote : And next time bring your canary with you!

[ Squad ] Spots : We'll tell him you asked for him.

[ Squad ] Fang : He'll love that... 'My legend grows.'

[ Squad ] Claws : Hell, you sound just like him!

[ Squad ] Fang : Shu—SHIELDS!

A knot of crabs with one King, so sudden. Spots's shield flares with a golden ripple, Claws's comes up in blue; they flicker green where they intersect in front of Fang. Her shot brings down the King; the Wild Dog sniper is fast but not as fast as this ex-Dragon. The rest of the team mows through the enemy.

[ Squad ] Fang : ****! ****! ****! What the hell? She wades through the bodies to kick the King in the abdomen. What is this ****? They insulting us?

[ Squad ] Claws : ****!

The entire squad is looking at the downed bugs. The King, the soldiers... all the earliest models, from before the new carapaces Fang brought down.

[ Squad ] Dusty : ****, this is not good.

[ Squad ] Fang : ****ing target practice, what this is.

[ Squad ] Claws : They're cookin' somethin, and I reckon we ain't gonna like it when they're done.

[ Squad ] Dusty : You Kitties get back, and send us your replacements pronto. I don't know where this is heading, but I'm not happy.

[ Squad ] Claws : You got it.

The Varmints replacing Claws, Spots and Fang are already entering the Warren. The Kitties nod in passing and get inside.

Fang, sitting, helmet off. "****. What does it mean?"

Claws. "Like I said. No good."

Spots is looking at the markers next to the first locker. "Fang?"

"Yeah?"

Spots picks out the black one. "Turn around, let's get your newest King painted on."

"What? Oh, right. I stopped keeping count." She hesitates.

Claws. "Scared we'll catch up to ya?"

Fang snorts. "Hell no. Come put that star on, and let's see if I can remember the rest."

Spots winks at Claws when Fang turns her back and crouches to do the honors.

###

Later, preparing for bed:

"That was good thinkin' back there."

Spots. "I noticed her kill count wasn't incrementing. I thought it was because no one wanted to paint them for her."

Claws. "You were right."

Spots. "You know, Fang might have been a pain when she first came on, but you didn't exactly make it easy for her to integrate either."

Claws. "Hell, we're Marines, Spots. We don't do easy."

Spots, turning in her bunk to look at him. "That's an excuse and you know it."

Claws, uncomfortable. "She was a *****, Claws. A real *****, and there's no other word for it, sorry."

Spots. "Yeah, and? When she joined Team Kitty, she became ours. Attitude and all."

Silence.

Then Claws nods. "Yeah. Guess we shoulda tried harder."

Spots nods and turns out the light.

In the dark: "****, Spots, you are one hard mother."

"Claws!"

"I know, I know. I'll soap up in the mornin'."

"Actually, I'm just glad you didn't finish that."

"Finish...?"

"Mother-... you know. I mean, what would that make me?"

"One very dangerous lesbian."

"Claws!"

"Or bisexual, I guess, what with the kids and the husband and all...."

"Claws!"

"I guess I'd better stop now or I'll have to eat that bar in the mornin', won't I."

"Yes!"

"Night, Spots."

"Good night, Claws!"


###

I had to add that last part, it wrote itself. >.>

Stardancer Home.

Tags: serial, spots the space marine, writing

Spots the Space Marine is a twice-weekly crowd-sponsored serial. Find out more and read prior episodes.

Corridor. Spots, Claws and Fang are heading to the Armory.

Fang. "How come we're the lucky ones who have to pull an extra half-shift?"

Claws. "It's the sleep thing. Moms don't need it and ex-Dragons are too hardcore for it."

Fang, snorting. "And you?"

Claws. "I'm the poor sod who has to keep up with you two."

Spots grins as they enter the Armory. Team Doggie's suiting up.

Dusty. "Hey, Kitties. You have Guest Channel 4. Squad channel's inclusive."

Claws. "We copy that, Sergeant. Channel 4, all kitties, all the time."

One of the Wild Dogs: "Meow."

Another: "Woof."

Fang. "Oh, shut it."

Claws. "Ex-Dragon. Ya know how they are." He ducks Fang's swing.

Dusty. "Enough horsing around, we got crabs to kill. Into your armor, dogs. And guests."

After suiting up, the Wild Dog squad, augmented by the three Kitties, heads into the Warren.

[ Guest ] Fang : Seriously, Claws. I know everyone's supposed to filling out the squads... but do you know why Scythe sent us? Us in particular?

[ Guest ] Claws: Cross mah heart, Fang. I got no idea. We'll probably rotate through, next time it'll be Whiskers, Hairball and Fang2 if he's outta sickbay.

[ Guest ] Fang : At least it's the Doggies and not the ****ing Varmints. Caressing the barrel of her rifle.

[ Guest ] Spots : For now, anyway.

Fang shoots her a look.

[ Guest ] Claws : Let's just concentrate on givin' good support, eh?

[ Guest ] Fang : Right. The band of brothers ****. I can do that. As long as they do it back.

The squad begins patrol duty. After weeks of escorting engineers, equipment and materiel, the Warren is very quiet.

[ Squad ] Coyote : So, I hear we got the Alien-Whisperer with us.

[ Squad ] Claws : You have got to be ****in' kiddin' me.

[ Squad ] Spots : You mean me?

[ Squad ] Coyote : Yeah, so... can you tell us when they're gonna attack? That would be handy.

[ Guest ] Spots : Anticipating. Don't, Claws. It's an honest question. Switching channels. I don't know, I wish I did.

[ Squad ] Fang : Yeah, for that we'd need my tumor, Fang-****ing-two. He can feel them coming through his boots. I swear. You hear Fang2 saying 'I feel something' and next thing you know there's a crab in your ****ing face.

[ Squad ] Coyote : ****! When's he guesting?

[ Squad ] Fang : When he gets out of sickbay. Two of us got caught between two breakthroughs. Rough ****.

[ Squad ] Coyote : We'll kill a ****ing crab for him.

All the Wild Dogs chant on the channel: We'll kill a ****ing crab for him!

[ Squad ] Claws : Woah.

[ Squad ] Coyote : We kill a ****ing crab for every Dog who's down. We'll do one for you kitties, since we're rubbing elbows.

[ Squad ] Spots : Hey, thank you.

[ Squad ] Dusty : Now if there were only some crabs to kill... where are they?

In the Command Center, Peaches is scowling at the live-cam footage.

"She's right. Where the hell are they?"


###

Only $25 to our next charity goal! Plus I need to think of something special to do for Veteran's Day.

Stardancer Home.

Tags: serial, spots the space marine, writing
Current Music: Seal - Crazy