Here's a chunk from a short story I'm writing. It's science fiction with planets and things, which is unusual for me. The two guys have been sucked out of space onto an alien-controlled work camp planet.
I wondered if this info dump was too appalling.
#
The work camp was desolate beyond imagining. Ruled by suited aliens, filled with dying humans and colder than anywhere he'd ever been. Joe ached with cold. His wrists ached with the tight metal cuffs as well, but the cold went all the way through to his gut. The air was breathable for humans -- in theory -- but every frigid breath burned his throat until he reckoned he was turning into a human-shaped icicle. Bloody useless suns. You'd have thought four would produce some heat.
How Al managed to ignore it, and move in all his metal -- round his neck and ankles as well as his wrists -- was a mystery. He acted like he barely noticed, and kept working in the frozen air, though he was still all cut up from the fight. He'd new bruises too; Sobriyo, the gang boss, picked on him. Apparently the guy he'd knocked down by the trashed shuttle had been some kind of boyfriend.
Like he'd heard Joe thinking, Al turned and glared. In the orange light, his eyes were black. This was his I've-had-a-thought glare, though; the I'm-going-to-kill- you one involved more eyebrow.
"What's it for?" he snarled. He flicked his eyes at the silver arch all the humans worked on until they dropped.
"It's a-" One of the other humans -- a scabby, shaven-haired stick figure of indeterminate gender -- sidled closer and Joe changed what he'd been going to say. "Seven league boots. It's a door beneath a hill. We're a long way from Kansas, Dorothy."
Al's fingers closed hot on Joe's throat. The grip wasn't as brutal as it could've been; Joe hoped it was self-control, not weakness, that stopped Al crushing his larynx.
Whatever, there was nothing wrong with Al's voice: "Stop talking crap."
Fleeing the threat of violence, the other human sidled away. Joe watched him (her?) go. It was a shame they couldn't trust the others, but attempts had cost him food and brought Al another beating; he'd learned the hard way that terrorised prisoners don't make good allies. Sad. He was lonely with only Captain Fantastic to talk to. He missed Melanie, far away (and far awhen, he suspected) in Washington, the way she'd murmured quantum equations to him while her hands-- Yeah. Don't think that here or Al'll get the wrong idea. Joe'd asked her to wait, and she'd said she would. Knowing now that he wasn't getting back, he hoped she hadn't waited long.
Al's shake returned him to miserable reality.
"Let me go," Joe said. How could Al's hands possibly be warm? Was it all the anger? The beatings? His lip was bruised, Joe noted absently, and his neck. How many more beatings before they killed him?
"Down," Joe ordered, and this time Al listened.
"I reckon it's transportation," Joe said when Al let him go, as if there had been no pause in their conversation. "See the beams they're setting in the framework? They'll be for the lasers, to make the gate."
"What gate?"
"This is all theory, you understand that, right? I reckon it's a Bell Gate."
"What for?"
"It's how they got us here -- dragged us out of our mission into wherever the Hell this is. A big one of those. It'll give them instantaneous transport? What do you think? Maybe they want to start an intergalactic supermarket."
There was a flash of teeth -- a snarl. "Guess."
Joe sighed. "Let's see. They're building this as fast as they can, with kidnapped slave labour, and they always seem to be able to get more. Have you spoken to any of the others?"
Al glared. Joe diagnosed this one as confusion. "The other people," he explained, glad to have an outlet for his theories. "These guys are lifting human labour from all over space -"
"How's that poss-?"
"-and time. Most of these guys are from our future. They'll want humans because we can breathe here, and there are lots of us. Anyway it doesn't bode well for what they're planning. If you're after a guess I'd say[FONT="]…[/FONT] Galactic domination? Mass extinction? Would you want to live anywhere Sobriyo was in charge?"
Al's jaw set.
"Whatever it is," Joe finished, "we're the good guys."
"So we stop them."
Joe stared at Al, chained, bruised, blood on his grubby NASA uniform. Al glared back. He didn't seem to have any truck with moral ambiguity, the idea of can't or even Joe's favourite, Let's not die.
Good guys fight bad guys. That is all.
Joe cleared his throat. "Sure. Let's do that. We just need a plan."
I wondered if this info dump was too appalling.
#
The work camp was desolate beyond imagining. Ruled by suited aliens, filled with dying humans and colder than anywhere he'd ever been. Joe ached with cold. His wrists ached with the tight metal cuffs as well, but the cold went all the way through to his gut. The air was breathable for humans -- in theory -- but every frigid breath burned his throat until he reckoned he was turning into a human-shaped icicle. Bloody useless suns. You'd have thought four would produce some heat.
How Al managed to ignore it, and move in all his metal -- round his neck and ankles as well as his wrists -- was a mystery. He acted like he barely noticed, and kept working in the frozen air, though he was still all cut up from the fight. He'd new bruises too; Sobriyo, the gang boss, picked on him. Apparently the guy he'd knocked down by the trashed shuttle had been some kind of boyfriend.
Like he'd heard Joe thinking, Al turned and glared. In the orange light, his eyes were black. This was his I've-had-a-thought glare, though; the I'm-going-to-kill- you one involved more eyebrow.
"What's it for?" he snarled. He flicked his eyes at the silver arch all the humans worked on until they dropped.
"It's a-" One of the other humans -- a scabby, shaven-haired stick figure of indeterminate gender -- sidled closer and Joe changed what he'd been going to say. "Seven league boots. It's a door beneath a hill. We're a long way from Kansas, Dorothy."
Al's fingers closed hot on Joe's throat. The grip wasn't as brutal as it could've been; Joe hoped it was self-control, not weakness, that stopped Al crushing his larynx.
Whatever, there was nothing wrong with Al's voice: "Stop talking crap."
Fleeing the threat of violence, the other human sidled away. Joe watched him (her?) go. It was a shame they couldn't trust the others, but attempts had cost him food and brought Al another beating; he'd learned the hard way that terrorised prisoners don't make good allies. Sad. He was lonely with only Captain Fantastic to talk to. He missed Melanie, far away (and far awhen, he suspected) in Washington, the way she'd murmured quantum equations to him while her hands-- Yeah. Don't think that here or Al'll get the wrong idea. Joe'd asked her to wait, and she'd said she would. Knowing now that he wasn't getting back, he hoped she hadn't waited long.
Al's shake returned him to miserable reality.
"Let me go," Joe said. How could Al's hands possibly be warm? Was it all the anger? The beatings? His lip was bruised, Joe noted absently, and his neck. How many more beatings before they killed him?
"Down," Joe ordered, and this time Al listened.
"I reckon it's transportation," Joe said when Al let him go, as if there had been no pause in their conversation. "See the beams they're setting in the framework? They'll be for the lasers, to make the gate."
"What gate?"
"This is all theory, you understand that, right? I reckon it's a Bell Gate."
"What for?"
"It's how they got us here -- dragged us out of our mission into wherever the Hell this is. A big one of those. It'll give them instantaneous transport? What do you think? Maybe they want to start an intergalactic supermarket."
There was a flash of teeth -- a snarl. "Guess."
Joe sighed. "Let's see. They're building this as fast as they can, with kidnapped slave labour, and they always seem to be able to get more. Have you spoken to any of the others?"
Al glared. Joe diagnosed this one as confusion. "The other people," he explained, glad to have an outlet for his theories. "These guys are lifting human labour from all over space -"
"How's that poss-?"
"-and time. Most of these guys are from our future. They'll want humans because we can breathe here, and there are lots of us. Anyway it doesn't bode well for what they're planning. If you're after a guess I'd say[FONT="]…[/FONT] Galactic domination? Mass extinction? Would you want to live anywhere Sobriyo was in charge?"
Al's jaw set.
"Whatever it is," Joe finished, "we're the good guys."
"So we stop them."
Joe stared at Al, chained, bruised, blood on his grubby NASA uniform. Al glared back. He didn't seem to have any truck with moral ambiguity, the idea of can't or even Joe's favourite, Let's not die.
Good guys fight bad guys. That is all.
Joe cleared his throat. "Sure. Let's do that. We just need a plan."
)
