It seems a bit cheeky me asking for a crit. when I've not been doing much myself recently. But I will be back, soon, promise.
I mentioned elsewhere that the piece I was working on floated halfway between pornography and infodump, and, to spare the sensibilities of younger members I've cut before the porn (which I'm attempting to tone down to merely erotic, anyway.
It's in first person, and as I intend the story to extend over at least 150 years, the lead character must change. Is first too intimate to follow a sequence of leads?
Every inhabitant of vacuum space, whether in Earth orbit or out where the real frontier is now, past the orbit of Jupiter, carries his own personal Van Allen belt. The stretchsuit we each wear not only protects against depressurisation, but the superconducting threads woven into it produce a magnetic field which captures incoming charged particles and prevents them from penetrating its occupant.
Obviously, every air locked region is treated the same way, be it ship, sleeping chamber or full habitat, and rotating habitats generally add a good thickness of water and rock between their inhabitants and cosmic radiation, around the cylinder rim, at least. On average, space-livers get less ionising radiation than dirtsiders; certainly than those in high mountain regions.
I didn't notice the bumpy feel of my daughter as she hugged me on her way in back then; any of my neighbours would have felt the same, had there been any I felt the slightest impulse to embrace.
"Daddy, these are Jarl and Immendia," she announced, ushering them in and, I was proud to see, running her finger down the environment monitor before unclipping her crotch box and waving to them to do the same. None, I noticed took advantage of the pack of modesty pads beside the sterilisers; they obviously knew each other well as the concealment skirts on the suits were not foolproof, and free fall can play some interesting tricks, even on the experienced.
Immendia I had seen before, at school affairs and parties; plain, plump and cheerful she wore her hair long; ten centimetres, not like the girls we got film of from Earth, but less practical than the five millimetres my daughter and I sported, or the smooth shaven head of their male companion. Jarl was young, open-faced, bright – and if he was intending to take on a pair of fourteen year-olds (almost fifteen, daddy) (and a very mature fifteen at that, dearling), considerably more courageous than I had been at his age.
I didn't think he was my daughter's life mate, but was wise enough by then to know how little my opinion mattered. All three wore conservative fluorescent orange skinsuits under their 'corridor clothes', to make them easier to detect in the improbable situation of a cave in or major decompression, and carried their helmets into the living room with them rather than leave them in the suiting area. So many youngsters nowadays have become lax (although, with the size of some student 'digs' (barely more than scratches) this is understandable). Certainly I've got spare, fully recharged helmets ready in all rooms, and generic crotch pads (hope you get rescued fast; the non-customised models are nothing you would want to spend any extended time in, or use for their primary function), but good habits are to be encouraged.
"If you're busy we can go into my room."
The tone that phrase was delivered in would have translated from wifese as 'You'd farding well not be busy; you knew I'd be turning up with company'. With my daughter it was a little more nuanced – she understood better than most adults and almost all wives, how important I considered my work; not that it was more important than her, but less tolerant, less tough. And I no longer did it for the money (or equivalent in goods; twice in my lifetime credit squeezes or tax regulations, imposed from Earth by people who only only understood planet based economies, and not much of them, had forced us into barter, before there were enough of us to impose our own independent currency, our own banks, against the screams of the planet-bound authorities; so much raw material now came from outside), but because I believed it was essential for the community, and ultimately humanity.
"Nothing too important to drop for my beautiful princess; we don't get enough time together, what with your work and mine, and I would stop anything to be with you."
The only lie there was the beauty. Oh, her slender body under the stretchsuit was supple and athletic, putting her girlfriend to shame, but her eyes were slightly too large, her nose not pronounced enough to balance them, the total impression leaning towards 'cute' rather than 'stunning'. Until that rather too wide mouth grinned, as it did at my words, and illuminated the room, and I hadn't been lying at all.
"If you find drinks and nibbles, I'll start preparing food. Anyone allergic to anything? Anything at all; you never know what will be in something I cook."
Eyes fought their way back from attempting not to goggle at my living room, which was almost the size of their school's assembly hall with walls apparently completely packed with gadgetry, and guide ropes to the central space.
Immendia spoke up. "Um. I don't really go for insect protein – too much of it at home, before I left. It hasn't killed me, though," she said, indicating her not inconsiderable bulk, "so as long as it's not too prominent…"
"All right then, cockroach is off. No more no-nos?"
I might have the only free fall private kitchen in the belt. Probably not, as enough people have visited and been impressed to have engendered several copies by now, but I was definitely a pioneer. I'd got the idea from a seriously rich downsider living in the counterweight of the B beanstalk, who'd brought his cook up with him (and his valet and hairdresser, but them I saw no reason to emulate). I had been living on concentrates and dehydrates (moistened with my own distilled urine. Don't ever believe them when they tell you all the taste is eliminated by the purification process) for the preceding three months, and it was fortunate we'd done our negotiating before the flavour shock, or I'd probably have been on my knees worshipping him. That was in lunaspin, where at least the pans, and their contents, tend to stay on the stove; I'd gone a step further out.
Food cooked in space is sterile. It's prepared according to recipes, with computer controlled temperature and timing. For food to be more than mere body fuel you need to smell it, taste samples feel textures. And in free fall this involves the risk of boiling soup, or even hotter frying bits exploding, scalding and burning.
So kilotonnes of prepackaged nourishment left Earth every day and vegetables, tissue culture, fungi and portions of the various animals farmed in habitats' life support regions were treated to attempt to achieve the same generalised homogeneity. Not that it was all tasteless or bland; there were some powerful curries and chili con carnes out there, but it was all soulless.
During my rich, solitary years (pre Magdelaine) I had applied my excess inventiveness and free time to producing vessels that would allow the scented steam into the room without releasing hot liquids, or solids, allow samples to be extracted and additional seasoning added, all without the meal setting off toward the extraction grill; all hand crafted, mostly by me. Back then it was mainly a source of experimentation, as cooking for one is a sad affair, but with the delight my daughter expressed over her first home cooked meal, the hobby had taken on an extra dimension. Now I am probably the best free fall chef in the solar system, not to mention quite likely the only one.
Dorados that had grown up in life support algae tanks were wrapped in foil from Jupiter's moons, along with celery and onions grown by mirror light, mushrooms that would pop up anywhere and herbs whose carefully hoarded seeds had germinated here, in my own quarters. And lumps of the ubiquitous guinea pig flesh were transpierced with skewers and set rotating before an open methane flame, basted with a sauce thick enough not to tend to escape once it had stuck to the surface.
Readouts told me temperatures and pressures of vegetables in transparent containers that didn't bubble as the water in them boiled, but nonetheless wafted fragrant steam into the atmosphere.
You mustn't think that Mad and I ate like this every day; for one thing, it took far too long. Mostly we microwaved packages, like the rabble. But when she brought back guests it was a great excuse to show off a little, and let her show me off, which I enjoyed too.
I mentioned elsewhere that the piece I was working on floated halfway between pornography and infodump, and, to spare the sensibilities of younger members I've cut before the porn (which I'm attempting to tone down to merely erotic, anyway.
It's in first person, and as I intend the story to extend over at least 150 years, the lead character must change. Is first too intimate to follow a sequence of leads?
Vacuum hospitality
Every inhabitant of vacuum space, whether in Earth orbit or out where the real frontier is now, past the orbit of Jupiter, carries his own personal Van Allen belt. The stretchsuit we each wear not only protects against depressurisation, but the superconducting threads woven into it produce a magnetic field which captures incoming charged particles and prevents them from penetrating its occupant.
Obviously, every air locked region is treated the same way, be it ship, sleeping chamber or full habitat, and rotating habitats generally add a good thickness of water and rock between their inhabitants and cosmic radiation, around the cylinder rim, at least. On average, space-livers get less ionising radiation than dirtsiders; certainly than those in high mountain regions.
I didn't notice the bumpy feel of my daughter as she hugged me on her way in back then; any of my neighbours would have felt the same, had there been any I felt the slightest impulse to embrace.
"Daddy, these are Jarl and Immendia," she announced, ushering them in and, I was proud to see, running her finger down the environment monitor before unclipping her crotch box and waving to them to do the same. None, I noticed took advantage of the pack of modesty pads beside the sterilisers; they obviously knew each other well as the concealment skirts on the suits were not foolproof, and free fall can play some interesting tricks, even on the experienced.
Immendia I had seen before, at school affairs and parties; plain, plump and cheerful she wore her hair long; ten centimetres, not like the girls we got film of from Earth, but less practical than the five millimetres my daughter and I sported, or the smooth shaven head of their male companion. Jarl was young, open-faced, bright – and if he was intending to take on a pair of fourteen year-olds (almost fifteen, daddy) (and a very mature fifteen at that, dearling), considerably more courageous than I had been at his age.
I didn't think he was my daughter's life mate, but was wise enough by then to know how little my opinion mattered. All three wore conservative fluorescent orange skinsuits under their 'corridor clothes', to make them easier to detect in the improbable situation of a cave in or major decompression, and carried their helmets into the living room with them rather than leave them in the suiting area. So many youngsters nowadays have become lax (although, with the size of some student 'digs' (barely more than scratches) this is understandable). Certainly I've got spare, fully recharged helmets ready in all rooms, and generic crotch pads (hope you get rescued fast; the non-customised models are nothing you would want to spend any extended time in, or use for their primary function), but good habits are to be encouraged.
"If you're busy we can go into my room."
The tone that phrase was delivered in would have translated from wifese as 'You'd farding well not be busy; you knew I'd be turning up with company'. With my daughter it was a little more nuanced – she understood better than most adults and almost all wives, how important I considered my work; not that it was more important than her, but less tolerant, less tough. And I no longer did it for the money (or equivalent in goods; twice in my lifetime credit squeezes or tax regulations, imposed from Earth by people who only only understood planet based economies, and not much of them, had forced us into barter, before there were enough of us to impose our own independent currency, our own banks, against the screams of the planet-bound authorities; so much raw material now came from outside), but because I believed it was essential for the community, and ultimately humanity.
"Nothing too important to drop for my beautiful princess; we don't get enough time together, what with your work and mine, and I would stop anything to be with you."
The only lie there was the beauty. Oh, her slender body under the stretchsuit was supple and athletic, putting her girlfriend to shame, but her eyes were slightly too large, her nose not pronounced enough to balance them, the total impression leaning towards 'cute' rather than 'stunning'. Until that rather too wide mouth grinned, as it did at my words, and illuminated the room, and I hadn't been lying at all.
"If you find drinks and nibbles, I'll start preparing food. Anyone allergic to anything? Anything at all; you never know what will be in something I cook."
Eyes fought their way back from attempting not to goggle at my living room, which was almost the size of their school's assembly hall with walls apparently completely packed with gadgetry, and guide ropes to the central space.
Immendia spoke up. "Um. I don't really go for insect protein – too much of it at home, before I left. It hasn't killed me, though," she said, indicating her not inconsiderable bulk, "so as long as it's not too prominent…"
"All right then, cockroach is off. No more no-nos?"
I might have the only free fall private kitchen in the belt. Probably not, as enough people have visited and been impressed to have engendered several copies by now, but I was definitely a pioneer. I'd got the idea from a seriously rich downsider living in the counterweight of the B beanstalk, who'd brought his cook up with him (and his valet and hairdresser, but them I saw no reason to emulate). I had been living on concentrates and dehydrates (moistened with my own distilled urine. Don't ever believe them when they tell you all the taste is eliminated by the purification process) for the preceding three months, and it was fortunate we'd done our negotiating before the flavour shock, or I'd probably have been on my knees worshipping him. That was in lunaspin, where at least the pans, and their contents, tend to stay on the stove; I'd gone a step further out.
Food cooked in space is sterile. It's prepared according to recipes, with computer controlled temperature and timing. For food to be more than mere body fuel you need to smell it, taste samples feel textures. And in free fall this involves the risk of boiling soup, or even hotter frying bits exploding, scalding and burning.
So kilotonnes of prepackaged nourishment left Earth every day and vegetables, tissue culture, fungi and portions of the various animals farmed in habitats' life support regions were treated to attempt to achieve the same generalised homogeneity. Not that it was all tasteless or bland; there were some powerful curries and chili con carnes out there, but it was all soulless.
During my rich, solitary years (pre Magdelaine) I had applied my excess inventiveness and free time to producing vessels that would allow the scented steam into the room without releasing hot liquids, or solids, allow samples to be extracted and additional seasoning added, all without the meal setting off toward the extraction grill; all hand crafted, mostly by me. Back then it was mainly a source of experimentation, as cooking for one is a sad affair, but with the delight my daughter expressed over her first home cooked meal, the hobby had taken on an extra dimension. Now I am probably the best free fall chef in the solar system, not to mention quite likely the only one.
Dorados that had grown up in life support algae tanks were wrapped in foil from Jupiter's moons, along with celery and onions grown by mirror light, mushrooms that would pop up anywhere and herbs whose carefully hoarded seeds had germinated here, in my own quarters. And lumps of the ubiquitous guinea pig flesh were transpierced with skewers and set rotating before an open methane flame, basted with a sauce thick enough not to tend to escape once it had stuck to the surface.
Readouts told me temperatures and pressures of vegetables in transparent containers that didn't bubble as the water in them boiled, but nonetheless wafted fragrant steam into the atmosphere.
You mustn't think that Mad and I ate like this every day; for one thing, it took far too long. Mostly we microwaved packages, like the rabble. But when she brought back guests it was a great excuse to show off a little, and let her show me off, which I enjoyed too.
o, but feel very presumptuous even mentioning it as I am a punc. amoeba)
