Writing

The buzzing, it wasn’t just in his head. The smell of petrol washed over Morgan. A wind blew through the office, banging doors. It carried yells from below. A thousand voices raised in protest. Blood dripped merrily into his eyes, blurring the desks to outlines. He heard the tap of footwear and his fist balled.
“They say justice is blind.”
“I have a warrant,” he warned.
By the sound of her heels, the woman was to his left.
“That means nothing to them.”
An arm moved in front of him. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. He felt her flinch. His knees ground as he rose, ready to fight again. No one struck. She had no backup. He jerked her arm overhead and leaned in close. Cheap perfume and sweat. The stink of the enemy. Yet, fluttering down into his face was a tissue. He let go.
 
Aine drew back, clutching her wrenched wrist. He towered over her, larger than the world. That savage strength! Even blinded and blinking he looked a tiger trying to work out if she was food. For a moment she wanted to confess, anything, everything, just to get it over with. Her stomach churned at the thought of what those fists could do.
“Who are you? What do you want?” he growled.
“Justice.”
Outside the mob howled, hurling rocks to drive away a helicopter. Morgan dabbed at his eyes to little effect “Go down to the lobby and the guards will escort you out.”
“He’s in the board room with twelve legal aides, two Kings Inns, the rest retainers. They have habeus corpus, quo warranto, in ten minutes Certiorari right to the supreme court. What are you going to do? Hit them?”
Morgan snorted, all he saw was the red rag “Where’s the boardroom?”
“I can guide you. I’ve seen their files. I know their tactics.”
“You work for them.”
“I’ve seen their evil and how they get away with it.”
“If this is a trick, or a ploy for sympathy… You will share the fate of the accused.”
Aine nodded. She went over to the stairwell and with a phone, shattered the glass. The fire alarm added to the background noise of chaos. She unhooked a fireaxe. It was a slender thing, with a head made for chopping wood. Gingerly she offered it to him. Morgan took up the axe like one born to it. He stared through her. Surely it was just the blood but she remembered youthful indiscretions, of those childish years playing punk and antifa. She was in the spider’s lair, climbing on the tiger’s back.
“Let’s go.”
 
The board room was an oasis of calm. In high-backed chairs they sat, sorting through accounts, referencing precedents, straightening alibis. Their suits were identical but their ties bore a certain frivolity.
“False imprisonment,” said one. “Unfair media representation,” another. One was on the phone to the Bar Council.
And at the head of his twelve disciples sat the Man in Black. It was to his chagrin that he had no drink for the occasion. Stirring a cup of tea lacked that je ne sais. On a whim he pulled out his phone.
“How’s it going down there, Inspector?”
“We’ve got them away from the doors sir. There’s no way we’ll be able to get your car out yet though.”
“You’re doing a marvellous job all the same, Tom.”
He left the phone down “Where do you think for dinner? I fancy a little meat.”
 
The door slammed open. A young man, little more than a boy, stood there, in surplus riot gear. He glared with glassy eyes from a blood drenched face. In his hands was an axe.
“I have a warrant for the arrest of-”
The solicitors leapt for him. Their briefcases were shields, their documents swords. Their battle cries were “Failure to serve!”
The boy went down under their weight. Blood joined with blood on his face as they cut him, wrestled him down and buried him in red tape. The Man in Black felt some sympathy. He’d been young once and filled with righteous fury. A flicker of movement caught his eye. Beyond the brawl he saw her, fumbling for the name. Allie? No, Aoife? She was lugging a law journal. He took out his phone again.
“Inspector, any word on that car?”
“Sorry sir, we haven’t tried since.”
“Could you be a pal and give it another go? In fact, I’d consider it a favour if you’d hurry.”
“Sir?”
She darted into the fray, yelling the name of some obscure procedure. The solicitors fell back, blocking the exit.
“Just do it please, inspector.”
The Man in Black rose from his seat. But the tide had turned. Up from the fray rose that bloody, scarred boy, his axe raised high. The solicitors heaved on him, the barristers beat at him. Twelve of the finest men and women money could buy. And he swung, twelve times in all, to the sound of Aine’s pronouncements. He stood amidst the debris of shattered appeals.
“For all who betray justice, I am their fate. And fate carries an executioner's axe.”
The Man in Black could still see their arguments dying, punctured by that sharp little one. He should have seen her coming. It was right there in the name.
The boy approached him, blind, unrepentant. He brandished the axe.
“Mr O’Meara, you are wanted before the court.”

While crossing the mountains with the Lady Saniyya prisoner, Yllen and Gundrea’s caravan is attacked and they are driven into the mountains. With nowhere to go but up, their hopes are pinned on an expedition that passed that way a week ago.

Snow blasted them. It cleared away to expose a harsh, unforgiving sun. Then more clouds swept in and lashed them with hail. The weather couldn’t decide whether to burn or freeze them. In brighter moments the mountains rose around their path, an impenetrable wall. Craggy peaks overlooked their path and the ground slid treacherously underfoot.

Yllen felt the air thinning as if it couldn’t be bothered to keep up. Her lungs protested but she seized the panic by force and shallowed her breathing. There were more pressing problems. The makeshift snowshoes she’d cut were coming apart. Cold bit into her toes. She clenched a fist. The nails dug into her palm and she felt the pain as warmth. The others didn’t fare so well. Kamal struggled on his leg. Gundrea tottered along drunkenly. The loss of his hearing had affected his balance. The Lady Saniyya looked barely capable. She wasn’t built for this, none of them were.

When the storms descended they dug in. The stops were almost welcome, allowing the group to huddle together and regain ragged breath. The hard hunks of Detapi bread were flavourless but at least they weren’t frozen.
But then it ended and they had to clamber into a pass filled with fresh fall, the marks of their passage obliterated.

“How far up do you think they went?”

Consider Phlebas remains for me the gold standard of Culture novels. So stand by for comparisons to it and complaints that Banks didn't just reproduce the exact same plot. But anyway, The Hydrogen Sonata is another book set in the Culture Universe. That means space opera and fast talking AIs.

The Hydrogen Sonata is about one Vyr Cossont, a member of the Gzilt civilisation in their final days. The civilisation as a whole is preparing to Sublime, that is transcend the physical universe. However with just a few days to go before the big event a dirty secret threatens to emerge that could wreck the whole affair. So it's up to Vyr and whoever she happens by to figure out the secret, decide whether to let everyone know and not get killed by the entire army that's after her.

The Hydrogen Sonata can be viewed as a topic book. It takes a particular topic, the process of Subliming, and demystifies it. In previous Culture books Subliming was mentioned and those who had done so were cosmic forces interacting with the mundane world only through visions or occasionally supernovae. Here we get to see it happen and realise the people who undergo it aren't ascetics or mighty beings, they are really just people. All the other topics around subliming are mentioned. Those who choose to remain behind, what happens to all the technology, how people live out their remaining days when there's a definite end to civilisation. It's a monumental book that succeeds in digesting this vast setting concept and boiling it down for us. There's very little to beat the opening of Hydrogen Sonata, as Vyr walks through a near abandoned city, her home city. Later on she visits a party boat representing the other extreme, a massive celebration of life before it ends as we know it. There's pay-off for it later on too.

Unfortunately it's like the plot gets in the way for the rest. Vyr is whisked away and at the same time thrown out of her own story. Various other characters take over, especially the Culture who are only tangentially involved. They're not bad characters, even the antagonists get Banks careful development to the point where you can understand their motives. The problem is they just end up spoiling the mood of Vyr's story. Her ending is the real ending but it's crammed in amidst endings for every character we met, so the effect is lost. The ending is in many ways similar to Consider Phlebas. A lot of people die for dubious achievements and we're forced to ask if anything the main characters did really mattered.

The Hydrogen Sonata is almost two books. One a very interesting look at the end of civilisation through one of its members, the other a lot of people trying to out-maneuver the apocalypse. Perhaps it would have been a better book if it had just been one or the other. Looks like this sonata should have been a solo.

Consider Phlebas remains for me the gold standard of Culture novels. I loved the protagonist. I loved the story set against the backdrop of a major interstellar war. I loved the depressing ending. I even love the cannibalism. So a true sequel has a lot to live up to. Look to Windward both achieves and fails this for highly personal reasons. So let's jump right in shall we?

Look to Windward is set for the most part on the Masaq' Orbital. It's just another Culture ring that orbits space and is home to billions of people. The events of the novel are set around an anniversary of sorts, light from the detonation of two stars blown up at the climax of the war from Consider Phlebas is finally reaching the orbital eight hundred years later. It's a cause for celebration and reflection. To complicate this an emissary is arriving from a species just recently recovered from a civil war. A war the Culture caused. So Culture citizens have cause for reflection on sins long past and sins recent. As the emissary arrives Culture delegates, the Homomdan ambassador and others plan and worry their way through daily life and the anniversary. But the emissary has a secret. He's on a mission of vengeance. The Culture started a war that killed five billion of his people and he's going to repay them, life for life.

Look to Windward is a very standard novel in the Culture setting. That's not a putdown. It's a portrayal of the setting in a time of peace, when people's greatest concerns are whether they'll go skydiving or lavarafting tomorrow. Banks goes so far as to have sections entirely of dialogue, drowning us in irreverent concerns of background characters. The main characters engage with all of this to varying degrees. Ziller, the outcast composer revels and detests it but appreciates the culture. The Homomdan ambassador, representative of a people who fought against the Culture all those years ago participates with some bemusement. And then there's Hub, the massive computer who runs the entire Orbital. The novel meanders with these characters and others, even as it slowly builds the tension with Quilan.

Quilan, the emissary sent to kill. He is in a sense the main character of the piece, even though he's the antagonist. His story is the very beginning of the book and his history is a sharp contrast to the ease the others exist in. It's a testement to Banks' skill that he uses such a bold idea and makes it work. You engage with Quilan, you learn his assignment as he does, in the end you even sympathise with him, even as he readies to commit mass murder.

There's a lot of twists to the story as it goes on, some you see coming, others you may miss. The resolution was too neat for me, though looking back there was a blink and you'll miss it Chekov's Gun. The book is a true sequel because it is about the grief and loss that comes after war, whether that war be recent or long ago If there's one narrative compromise that sticks out, it's that these people need therapists.

In short, A worthy follow-up to be sure.

For the young devil in a hurry I provide these useful notes which may serve one to the purposes of success, should one find themselves on a prime plane in dialogue with forces of the planes above.

Always remember that while we may hold dear these tenets and execute them to the fullest, our counterparts can be less wholesome in their dedication. Plan accordingly.

Inalienable Rights

1. Right to exist
   
   • You have the inalienable right to exist on the prime plane. Our counterparts must respect the binding or pact under which your presence is maintained.


2. Right to work
   
   • Your duties to Baator include the collection and due punishment of souls judged by the Planes.
   • You are entitled to perform these duties in addition to the remit of your current binding.
   • The Pact Primeval supersedes all others, thus you are entitled to perform these duties even if your current binding forbids you from doing so.
   • The right to work only extends to souls of the departed. You are expressly forbidden from harvesting a soul whose death you caused through action or inaction, unless the owner makes a pact that permits it.


3. Right of dealership
   
   • You are permitted to form pacts and conduct business with mortals while on the prime plane.
   Mortals may be tempted openly so long as you declare your intentions and fully inform them of the results of such pacts.


4. Right of pacts
   
   • The devil-on-the-shoulder-clause. A pact may be entered into where each side shall provide an agent to act as a guide to a mortal, in direct competition for the soul.
   • Under such a pact both agents are bound to the mortal subject. They cannot be banished or killed so long as the mortal is alive.
   • Both agents are prevented from harming each other and their charge. There is nothing preventing the charge from hurting the agents.


5. Right of Interregnum
   
   • This right must be actively invoked. When used we may ask any question of our counterpart and they must answer truthfully. They may then ask us a question which must be answered in kind.
   • A little known clause that has fallen out of use. Our counterparts started asking for true names. A sub-committee is hard at work on a way to counteract this.


6. Right to Adjudication
   
   • This right entitles us to request adjudication by a neutral third party in disputes with our counterparts.
   • May be invoked in the midst of any disagreement whereupon both sides will cease hostilities and submit to the authority of Law.
   • The invocation is specific and if mispronounced may cause one side to believe they must cease immediately while they await arrival of the third party. This usually gives five minutes’ grace local time.
   • The adjudicator usually takes the form of a Modron, though other agents have been seen, including mortal Fraternity of Order members
   • The adjudicator will implement the exact letter of the law and cannot be bribed or threatened. Plan accordingly.

After these come the responsibilities. These are defined in less clear language and thus open to interpretation. Be assured that our counterparts will treat them as if they were rock solid. Do not disabuse them of this notion, no matter how much it may amuse.

Vague Responsibilities

1. Destroy Chaotic Forces
   While on the prime it is your duty and pleasure to remove those which obstruct the rule of Law or undermine it. Where possible, pass information of such peoples to your upper counterparts. Where necessary, engage them directly.


2. Obey lawful authorities
   It is of the highest paramount that the rule of Law triumph in the mortal realms. As such you should always act in accordance with the Law and respect those who represent it.


3. Respect for co-workers
   Despite what you may think, our counterparts are not the enemy. In fact they are fellow employees, working toward the same goal. Their lesser capability should not be looked down upon.
   

“We should be under G.” Sable leant over the stand
The doorman remained unmoved “I’m sorry, I don’t see it.”
“It must be a mix-up. Let me just ring the office.”
“If you could step out of the queue?”
Other groups filed past, security checking them off the list. Sable turned a shade of red, her phone ringing out.
Ben’s tone was gentle “It’s alright, I didn’t really want to go anyway.”
Sable turned away “I am so sorry for wasting your time.”
He patted her on the shoulder, eyes drawn to the people filing through. One caught his eye, a lanky business man with long, greasy hair. Recognition kicked in “Xac?”
“Alright, Safeway? You waited for me.” Xac stepped up to the door, flashing a card from his wallet “These pozzers are with me, Jack.”
The doorman frowned, forgetting he had a name tag on “Of course Mr...”
Xac leaned over the clipboard running his finger down the list “Ah! There we are.”
“The Matlock Agency?”
Xac winked “That’s us. Alright if I tip you, Jack? You’re looking bang up.”
“That’s alright Mr Musonius,” said Jack, waving them through.
“Peachy keen!”

Another day in hell.
Matthew pushed open the glass door, staring bleary eyed at his phone.
“Sync complete,” said a pleasant female voice.
He stopped in the doorway and took a breath. Sweet, pleasant air lolled around him. The old security guard at reception nodded in greeting
“Matt, how you doing today.”
He waved Matthew through.
Matthew walked. The corridor rose gently underneath him, becoming a glass umbilical that parted the crisp, green lawns surrounding the building proper. His phone rumbled in his pocket, handling all the automated requests and scripted tasks he’d set up. He paused at the door, detecting the faint sounds of music, then swiped himself in.
Rows of racks lay before him, circling a central control station. The hum of a thousand servers lulled him as the gentle strings of Vivaldi excited him.
“Spring, uh in E major?”
“You’re getting sharper, Matt!” An older man emerged from the rows, his pockets stuffed with spare parts.
“Oh hey, morning Steve.”
The technician leaned on one of the earthing rods. A faded nametag hanging onto his turtleneck read CEO
“I was just putting a few optimizations in on Block C. You could give me a hand, or did you want to check status from the panopticon first?”
“You’re rewiring the HPC clusters?” Matthew pulled out his phone and scrolled through a list of success messages
“I figured why not? Your test worked so well, we can get the entire Block converted across today.”
Matthew rubbed his hands together “I can’t wait to start.”

“Matthew?”
Matthew lurched upright, the screen coming into focus in front of him. Where- oh right. Another day in hell.
“What?” he snapped.
Daniel appeared on the edge of vision “Thought you might want lunch.”
“Yes, No. I mean, I’m very busy.”
“I can see that,” Matthew was always impressed by Daniel’s ability to accept lies. It was probably why he did so well here “But I snagged leftovers from a meeting.”
Matthew jumped up “Let’s roll,” he spared a glance over the other desks but Steve and Kobe were gone.

Daniel led the way to the meeting room. He even held the door open for Matthew. There were indeed muffins on the table. However they were not alone. Amelia sat facing the window. A lowly intern, she’d yet to perfect the thousand yard stare. And at the head, Farah, one of the ambitious young project managers.
“After all I’ve done for you. Traitor!” Matthew fled.
Daniel stepped inside with a pained expression “I tried.”
Amelia watched as Matthew flew down the corridor, collided with an analyst and yelled an apology. She turned back to the meeting. Daniel, resigned to the madness, dug into the muffins. Their project manager Farah was preternaturally calm “That went pretty well. You were supposed to give him the requirements deck beforehand though.”
Daniel shrugged “He would have known something was up.”
Farah tapped on a conference phone “M… M… what’s his extension?”
“He’s ex-directory. You know IT. Amelia has his number.”
“That’s for emergencies,” Amelia said protectively.
“Amelia,” Farah leaned forward “Let’s do a little roleplay.”
“Ok?”
“The building is on fire. Can I have the number?”
“I....”
“Remember we’re roleplaying. You, Daniel and I are writhing in agony as fire consumes our flesh.”
“It burns.” said Daniel between muffins.
Reluctantly Amelia produced a dog-eared note.

Farah smiled “The first rule in business is knowing how to deal with people.”
She dialled the number and switched to speaker phone.
Back to the hell that spawned ye!”the voice sounded slightly out of breath.
“Matthew, was it? This is Farah from Projects. I was told you have just the skills we’re looking for.”
“No, I don’t know anything about that and I’m busy with a priority incident!”
“I already cleared the time with your manager. You’ll be released from all ongoing maintenance to work with us.”
“Satan is the father of lies.”
Farah nodded to Daniel. He cleared his mouth of crumbs.
“Hi Matthew.”
“And as for you Judas! I will see you-“
“This is just a scoping exercise, you won’t be required to give concrete estimates.”
There was a long pause at the other end of the phone
“I want that in writing.”
Amelia realised she should probably be taking notes.

Freshly laid, bespoke, handmade snow. Every flake unique for you, the consumer.

Wait, let me recheck the title. 2312 is not this year's round-up of what I played but a book title. I've not read lots of books this year, snacking rarely between mealtimes. However this was probably the one that stuck with me. There's an amusing divergence between books and games. If I said I hadn't finished a book and tried to review it, I'd be laughed out of town. Yet some games are downright unfinishable, with bugs out to here or gameplay that loops round like Finnegan's Wake(which I promise to review as soon as I finish it). Anyway, no more digressions. It's time for the review.

Prologue
The Age of Heroes was ending. Metal screamed across a twisted landscape. Spirits fluttered in their lantern cages as Edward sped along the highway. Overgrown fields passed him by. Scorched battlefields, Collapsed buildings and places fouler still were background to his quest. Born of steel, his steed spat fire as its wheels devoured the ancient road. Edward patted the arcane beast’s flank, looking ahead to the past. Skeletal spires split the mauve sky. Englitch had forged their cities from black steel, though never so black as their hearts. The beams of ancient searchlights roved the skyline. They had for a thousand years, as they would for a thousand more. Their infernal contractors bound in perpetuity. This was more than some demon haunted ruin. This was home. No wonder Edward wasn’t happy about it.

Raven, omen of doom
Hen, always clucking
Starling, blink and it's gone
Booby, good for an eyeful
Pigeon, so long as you've food
Swan, safe from a distance

Empty pews lie flanked by
shadowy eaves.
Midnight crows roam about
Snuffing candles.

Smoky presence left by
Incense pooling.
Silent prayers now where
Hymns resounded.

Not my first but probably my most successful D&D campaign, Planescapin began back in 2013 and ran until July 2016. It finished successfully, albeit slightly rushed due to growing player fatigue. For a Planescape campaign it was surprisingly Prime focused, through my fault rather than intention. The group never really got involved in faction politics or the great conflicts of the setting, with the planes becoming exotic locales for them to visit in between wrestling with plot. What follows is my own retrospective of what happened, what worked and what didn't.

The simplest Surrealist act consists of dashing down the street, pistol in hand, and firing blindly, as fast as you can pull the trigger, into the crowd. --André Breton
Space was important. there’d never been space in Vienna. Space provided room for ideas to grow.

Charlie unlocked the door, slipping the key back into his pocket. It was the ornate one Sable had given him the morning they’d met.
”You look like someone who needs space.”
He’d followed her, the little tramp and his darling. He’d sketched her across the street, up the stairs into the empty room above the pottery store. They’d talked about the war, about Manchuria, about her cafe. They’d gotten closer and closer. And then she’d left.
“Don’t worry, just drop the key back when you’re done.”

A rainy prelude

No one went thirsty in Pascolo. A throat going dry had only to open its mouth. Not that this fact was appreciated. Travellers crowded under the overhangs outside the city wall, edging each other out for the dry spots. Labourers rubbed shoulders with traders, heroes with vagabonds, though few could tell the difference. There was a begrudging acceptance among the crowd, everyone hated the weather. Beggars were the only ones that dared the rain, going from group to group in search of a stray crust or a pitying noble too much coin. A pair of them walked along the edges, rain running through the holes in their caps, bare feet slapping off wet stone.
“Scuse me. Can you spare a bite?”

The old man looked up from a bowl of rice, leaving down his fork. He sniffed loudly.
“Why don’t ye get a job and earn it.”