MSC – Captivity Part Two – Induction
Title: Memoirs of a Space Corsair - Captivity Part Two - Induction
Author: Jonathan L. Lawrence (Sage on this blog)
Genre: Science fiction
Word Count: 7,863
Warnings/Spoilers: There is violence, foul language, and conditions of torture that may be uncomfortable for some
Credits: Everyone who reads my blog, and has put up with my failed promises of writing, and those following me on Twitter that put up with my Tweets as I was writing and editing this.
Disclaimer: This is entirely an original story, all copyright to this works, and associated works with these characters, and the universe I have created belong to my (Jonathan L. Lawrence), and me alone. I do not sanction the use of my ideas anywhere else, other than for linking back to source, and fair use. Please go here to learn more about copyright: Copyright Service
Summary: This is the second instalment in a regular series I am trying to create, set some five hundred years in the futures, it follows the trial and tribulations of one man as he tries to survive in a hostile galaxy. In the process, he will become a famous pirate with a cause, a corsair. However, we’re not there yet, first we must learn where our intrepid anti-hero comes from, this second chapter follows on directly from the events of the first, after being captured by an unknown party from the Reina del Mar, a luxury liner, and seeing many of his friends die, or be maimed, he know must traverse a new reality, and find the steel within himself to be who he must be to survive. The third chapter in this tale will be forthcoming, however enjoy the second chapter. If you've not read the first chapter, it can be found here.
As I wallowed, selfishly, in my own misery, after having dug for days through foul refuse, I barely even registered the jolt in the room. Chris did however.
"What was that?" he exclaimed.
"What?" I asked, only realising the jolt had happened after I responded.
"I felt it," Garth said, "The whole room bumped."
"What do you think it was?" Tim asked.
None of us knew, but we hoped it was the start of the end of our captivity. Whatever it was, for the first time since we had been locked up, it was a change to our situation not of our own making. We had been in our cell for weeks, during that time we had seen neither sight nor sound of anyone else, but the four of us here. We had been captured on the Reina del Mar, a luxury space cruiser, where we each of the four were labourers. With me were Chris (a good friend), and two others, Tim and Garth, who I wasn't that well acquainted with. I think, had things worked out differently, all four of us would have had a bond for life having shared the same hell.
If we thought that jolt was somehow exciting, half an hour later we practically jibbering hens as sirens went off.
"What is it?" we asked in various forms, as if more information would be revealed by repeatedly asking.
The siren paid us no heed though, it just kept going. It was a klaxon noise, a high pitched noise, followed two lower pitch noises.
It was Garth who recognised it first.
"It’s a docking alarm," Garth said, feeling a bit of confidence from how we suddenly all gathered round him, he was now the centre of our group, the man with the information.
"Go on," we urged him.
"Well back on the Reina del Mar, I do some work in the cargo hold when we docked at stations. That sounds like the buzzer that was used when the cargo doors opened," he said proudly informing us. "We must have docked," he added.
"Wonder where we are?" Chris asked.
Garth just shrugged, he had given us all the information we had. It didn't stop us speculating, and for the next hour, in fact that’s all we did.
Our theories ranged from the rescue we all hoped for by one of the major navies of this area of space, to the less certain prospect of one pirate ship in battle with another, that was now being boarded.
We had no real ideas, until there was another jolt, this one was much heavier, and definitely involved our area of the ship. We had the sensation of being moved, (something you don't really feel on a ship, due to the inertial dampeners in place, and the gravity plating commonly employed on large ships), with the occasional sudden jolt. We were sent careening across the room one time at a sudden sharp jolt.
After that there was nothing, even the sound of the klaxon was replaced by silence. By now were tired, smelly, dirty, bruised, battered and hungry, Garth had a nose bleed from when he fell. We were completely miserable and would have done anything to escape - only there was absolutely nothing left to do, but wait.
As it was, we only had to wait an hour (as far as I could estimate), before there was activity once more. This time noises came from the door, a stiff cranking sound, followed by a hiss of depressurisation.
MSC – Captivity Part One – Terrors of Space
Title: Memoirs of a Space Corsair - Captivity Part One - Terrors of Space
Author: Jonathan L. Lawrence (Sage on this blog)
Genre: Science fiction
Word Count: 6,192
Warnings/Spoilers: There is a bit of violence, foul language, and conditions of torture that may be uncomfortable for some
Credits: Everyone who reads my blog, and has put up with my failed promises of writing, and those following me on Twitter that put up with my Tweets as I was writing and editing this.
Disclaimer: © Jonathan L. Lawrence, 2010. This is entirely an original story, all copyright to this works, and associated works with these characters, and the universe I have created belong to me, (Jonathan L. Lawrence), and me alone. I do not sanction the use of my ideas anywhere else, other than for linking back to source, and fair use. Please go here to learn more about copyright: Copyright Service
Summary: This is the first instalment in a regular series I am trying to create, set some five hundred years in the futures, it follows the trial and tribulations of one man as he tries to survive in a hostile galaxy. In the process, he will become a famous pirate with a cause, a corsair. However, we’re not there yet, first we must learn where our intrepid anti-hero comes from, this first chapter is about his launch into space, and the terrifying consequences of his reach for the stars. The second chapter in this tale will be forthcoming, however in the meantime enjoy this opening salvo of what will hopefully be a long and fulfilling tale.
It’s been a hell of a life.
I don't know who will read this or why, maybe it will make this humble man famous, and infuriate those that mean my end. I do not know. I can only hope, a true account of my life leaks out, and pisses off those that seek to vilify me, more than my due anyway. In small acts of vengeance a wrong man can find comfort I guess.
I sit here writing this in relatively sanitary conditions, (compared with some of my other experiences), a prisoner of corruption and criminals, you probably know the type, the ones that style themselves as "leaders of men", the governments of this galaxy.
If this is the end, it’s been a hell of a life, and I wanted to tell my side of it.
My name is Arsène Frassin, formerly of Pôle Nord, Epsilon Eridani c.
I was born there sixty-four years ago, in the Spring of 2522 (or 392PC depending on where you’re from). My father was a bureaucrat, a port accountant, my mother a store clerk at our town's OriMart (a retail wholesaler). You might think, given the account of my life I am about to retell, I would have had a hard, or repressive childhood, but actually it was okay, until I ventured into space. I went to a middle of the road school, nothing fancy, but efficient, well meaning, and thorough, did well enough academically, though I would say that it left me completely unprepared for the realities of life – there are some things I have learnt you just can’t teach, but I wish they could have.
On our town habitat on Eridani c, near the poles (appropriately named Pôle Nord as I mentioned), most of the business and job opportunities revolved around trade, transport and administration. Areas near the poles are the easiest and most efficient to land ships, and have them take off again after. Even with the relatively light atmosphere and gravity of our small planet, this was important. My first job was with the warehouse retailer where my mother worked, however I soon found it wasn't the career for me. I tried to join the local civil service, however times were tough and they weren't employing, despite my father’s position (which was recognised for its importance). Staying in our home city was limiting, it was a specialised place, however all my life I had watched ships land and take off, ships that had drifted among the stars themselves, travelling from world to world, across vast distances.
That I knew, back then, was what I wanted to do. I wanted to sail through the vastness of space, see alien worlds, and become one with the stars. I really did describe it as such back then, the wonders of youth, the poetical vision. I could have sought employment in other areas of our world, my education was good enough to apprentice in a number of positions, but space filled my vision and my dreams.
The following year I was old enough (15) to accept a commission aboard a star liner, and I signed up straight away. Star Liners were huge ships, carrying masses of people, and tonnes of cargo, and they were always hiring. I was to be a cleaner, I reasoned, being smart, and eager I would quickly rise up the ranks, and such a lowly position wouldn’t hold me for long, so it didn’t matter as long as I was sailing. Again the wonders of youth at such an innocent view of life, optimism abounded as I ventured into unknown waters.
I had only a week to get ready after signing up before I was to leave aboard the behemoth ship. I bid my farewells to my family, travelled round, having meals with relatives that I wouldn't see again for four years (which was a "season", or the standard length of a single term commission aboard space craft back then).
The ship I was commissioned on was the Norstel Spaceways deluxe cruiser Reina del Mar, which was only a moderate size ship, but of opulent quality for its high fare paying guests, and more than big enough to make my eyes bulge as I watched out through a scope hovering in space as its shuttles ferried back and forth.
Annoying Writing Habits…
Doing NaNoWriMo in the company of others has shown me something - how many annoying habits I've built up
I'm not talking about actua writing issues, I'm talking behavourial one. The one I've noticed most often has to be the tapping of keyboards. Not the keys themselves, but the frame or rest area, when I'm trying to think around a problem, or plotting my next move.
I also seem to a very emphatic gesture when hitting the carriage return, it's like every new paragraph is a victory. Also, it seems full stops too.
The other one I've noticed, though I'm trying really hard not to do this in public, is the chewing of my tongue during tense, or really busy period.
There's a few more, but those are probably my biggest crimes against the people around me.
It has led me to wonder, what are your annoying writing habits? Answers on a post card - however since I'm not giving you my address, probably best to answer in a comment.
Poetry Practice: Day Eleven
My eleventh day of poetry practice, somewhat delayed after first having site issues, and then computer ones to boot. I'm not giving up, and I do have a back log of poetry to post, however I'm at work, so figured I'd write a quick one, and prove I'm still alive.
Disaster of a Dream
Soaring high above the world,
Glorious hue of unadultered blue,
Wisps of clouds stretching far beneath,
Breaks of green, and brown, and blue,
I am free, nothing can ever get to me here.
Feeling secure here, I swirled,
Blinded by beauty, I never had a clue,
My flight is at an end, I fall towards heath,
Panic flairs, my joy now seesm untrue,
I am trapped, falling to my death in fear.
Without warning, I am curled,
My workplace, twisted and strange,
An assault of vaunted ceilings, and a scary bar,
Signs of the office I know in the range,
I flee, this new world is out to get me.
The scene to Birmingham I'm hurled,
All about me recognised in change,
I bump into a scarey person with a scar,
He grabs me, we fall down a derange,
I hold on, he continues to fall free.
©, Jonathan Lawrence 2009
Now just a bit about this poem :
Poetry Practice: Day Ten
My tenth day of writing practice poems to get myself fit for competition.
Today we have one about the weather, which bears no relation to the weather experienced this weekend funnily enough.
Atmosphere Alight
Furous titans battle at the edge,
Tempestuous gods push back,
Might against might
The battle of nature rages.
Hurricanes battle warm fronts,
Thunder and lightening attack,
Atmosphere alight,
Man measures its puny gauges.
Rivers swell breaking banks,
Weather defences seem to lack,
Dangerous sight,
The battle for nature through ages.
Poetry Practice: Day nine
Well today is day nine, I'm starting to feel good about writing poetry, well I always did, but having been away for nearly a year, I felt anxious about writing. I'm not a confident person, I'm honest, hard working, and caring - all great qualities but I lack confidence. Writing today's poem, I felt confident about writing poetry, and that is a fantastic feeling.
Anyway, here's today's poem:
Trumble
Trumble trumble
The train is speeding along the tracks,
Like the cliche it goes on and on,
It doesn't care how many poets pay tribute,
How could it? It's a train, it suffers no dispute,
Like the cliche it goes on and on,
Until age, fault, or accident attacks,
Trumble trumble.
Trumble trumble,
It might carry passengers or sacks,
Train doesn't care, just goes it's way,
For cheap fast long distance it suffers no substitute,
It's masters do, they're not nearly as astute,
They only care about getting more pay,
Preventing the goofd things train lacks,
Humble grumble.
©, Jonathan Lawrence 2009
Well we're back to political rantscommentary as poetry, throw in a bit of business, but mostly it's politically motivated. The train may not care about the state of British railways, but I do - between Labour and Conservatives, the railways have been turned into a wasteful, inefficient, unenjoyable, expensive and ill-fated form of travel. Why ill fated? Well if enough train companie go under, the rail network would grind to a halt - either someone wealthy would get wealthier running a shadow of the service, or it simply stops. The rail network, and it's subsidies, have been so artificially raised up, no government could take it back - though they'd happily pay as much to the wealthy hero to take over.
I'm grouchy - I love public transport, or loved is more accurate. Have such fantastic memories, and feelings of trains of old. By old I mean my relatively recent childhood - big black and white Intercity's with their golden stripe were always a mystery. I never got to go on one before they became GNER, then National Express trains. The design, and routes may not have changed, these cheap rip-offs, the amateur replacements are no match in my mind for the glorious behemoths of memories.
I remember going to the National Railway Museum in York as a child with my grandparents - if I loved the idea of the Intercities, this was where I was blown away. Amazing contraptions everywhich way, Mallards, and Stephenson's Rocket, walk through 30's 1st class carriages, and even take a short ride along the tracks, steam billowing from the front, distinctive whistles blaring.
I'm on a train now, a Pandolino (on mobile so not easy to check spelling), it doesn't compare, and though I have somewhere good to go, the journey isn't the same.
I should probably have written a second poem, this post deserved it, as did my memories. Maybe another time I'll revisit that passion.
Poetry Practice: Day Eight
So my poetry practice continues, where now into the second week, and still I hope to continue upon this path. I am going to start introducing mandatory elements into my daily practice poems, just to liven it up, and stretch myself technically, and emotively. I will cover these in more details in a post later, laying out what I intend on doing.
That being said, it is possibly that I won't be posting for a few days as I go away, however I will try to avoid this, as I really like keeping to a poem a day, and will be writing them, so it is only a minor hassle to fathom a way to post them.
Anyway, onto today's poem - as I write this, I haven't started writing the poem, this is coming straight out of my head and into the pages of this blog. No preparation, or hesitation.
The Gifts of Poets Gone
As I lay here, on the backs of giants,
Poetry forebearers that carried the skill into art,
Whose tireless efforts, and many a sacrifice,
Have given me today,
The bed upon which I lay.
By which I mean the literary warrants,
The rules, tempers, and heritages they impart,
For which I am able to add my words, spice,
And never say nay,
The words my mind may.
As I lay here dwelling in fragments,
Of poetry past and present, musing my part,
I have yet to play, indulging my vice,
I suffer no defray,
It will be words day.
©, Jonathan Lawrence 2009
I think this poem is relatively clear, and it's source easy to identify (see my last blog post), it is also something I genuinely believe and hold dear. Though I am a pale imitation of their art, their skill, and their lives, I am no less beholden to them for the gifts they have given that have led me to where I am.
Where I imitate there style, where I borrow from their prose, I hope they would be flattered, and hope they would appreciate my gratitude.
Poetry Practice: Day six
As part of my aim to enter some poetry competitions, I have been practicing writing (hopefully getting better along the way). Today (Tuesday19th May) is day 6, so here’s today’s poem:
On Tom Welling
In regards to Tom Welling,
I'm reliably informed,
The actor of Superman to be,
Is hotness to the core,
His love for fellow man is to be admired,
His humility in the face of fame,
Well shames even the fameless.
A story telling,
I am impressed by his Clark,
Across fandom it has stormed,
I'm told the love he portrays,
For villanous Lex Luthor,
Will be a thing of a legend making,
That isn't the in my rules of the game,
I just love the hero making I guess.
©, Jonathan Lawrence 2009
I was struggling a bit today, didn't think I would make it for poem of the day, but hils came up with this idea, in response to my plea on Twitter. Now I do love Smallville, even as people are struggling with it - I think it's been better, but since watching the most recent episode, initially I thought I was more disappointed than anything else - but once my super random brain kicked in, I'd formulated at least a handful of brilliant points, and ideas where it could be going when it restarts in Autumn.
Anyway, this is a short poetic tribute to the shows main star, Tom Welling who plays Clark Kent, the Superman in the making.
Hope you enjoy.
Poetry Practice: Day five
As part of my aim to enter some poetry competitions, I have been practicing writing (I'm a touch rusty). Today (Monday 18th May) is day 5, so here's today's poem:
Sleep Protector
Lie down in velvet shadows,
Find warmth in the heavy presence,
Wrap yourself in the love we share,
Feel our protection from the darkness,
I will be there for now by your side,
You need not fear this deep night,
As we rest in peaceful slumber,
Enjoy.
Rise in caramel illumination,
Flood awareness flood to your senses,
Find your way out of your downy care,
Avoid realising your profound cureless,
In your dreams to yourself you lied,
Found comfort away in the fright,
I'm a figment in the dream of forever,
Sorry.
©, Jonathan Lawrence 2009
This is a really sad poem, it starts off sounding romantic, but it's almost unreal. A couple go to bed, nice and romantic, but only one talks, sooths, the other offers no reaction, but to fall asleep. My intention was to invoke the feeling of a night guardian, he stands watch over our fateful sleeper.
I don't know about you, but I long for that - it's almost a magical romantic ideal. Which the second verse reveals is the truth. I would feel a prodound sense of loss at realising this dream wasn't real, but can you be sure can you? The figment apologised - which to me, says that maybe this phantom protector is real, but gone when you awake.
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Poetry Practice: Day Seven
Well I'm now upto a week of writing daily poetry, it's going pretty well, I even managed an extra one on Monday - however it was so bad, I dare not let the rest of the world see it.
Today's poetry practice is brought to you by 12Seconds, the short video blogging site to which I just signed up. No idea what I'm going to do with a 12 seconds account, I'm not exactly photogenic, and my voice isn't great - but for 12 seconds, who cares? It's a bit of fun. Anyway, it's the inspiration for today's poem, and I've even done a 12 second version for 12Second, which will add after the poem itself.
12 Seconds...
"12 seconds you're on Mister Legend",
"Who me? I'm just well me",
"It's your 12 seconds Mister",
"Erm, what do I say?"
That woman with the camera,
She looked at me funny,
And then just laughed,
"You're 12 seconds is up Mister Legend,"
She said, with an impish giggle,
Indeed they were,
12 seconds flies by,
My 12 seconds of fame,
Good bye.
©, Jonathan Lawrence 2009
From 12seconds.tv
Video of me doing a 12 second version of this poem.