[Note from Steve: When I posted this short story in 2017, I already feared the turn to fascism I saw going on in the US under the leadership of Donald J. Trump—the US was looking a lot like 1930’s Germany! I meant the story as a warning then, and it’s even more of a warning now—the date might even have to be adjusted down a bit because the US looks even more like 1930s Germany; Trump wasn’t convicted! Although their leader is hopefully gone for good, and independent of those impeachment trial results, there are still too many fascists masquerading as conservatives who are calling for civil war and the execution of government leaders, accusing the latter of treason. The attack on the Capitol is only one manifestation of a political plague that’s just as dangerous as the viral one—maybe even more so, because we have vaccines for the latter. Democracy is fragile. Like a delicate flower, it must be protected.]

2035

Copyright 2017, Steven M. Moore

Regional Governor Ricardo Sandoval kept one eye on the protests in the NADA capital of Atlanta as he answered his videophone, the red one he generally kept under lock and key. It needed a thumbprint and voiced password.

His counterpart, Regional Governor Desmonda Bailey, appeared on the screen.

“Yeah, I’m watching. NADA’s propaganda machine is whipping them into a frenzy. I’m more worried about the massing of troops on our borders. Our only recourse might be the battlefield nukes.”

“A last recourse, but I agree,” said Bailey. “Our small forces would be run over by those fanatics.”

“At least NADA’s generals have two fronts to divide their forces, but you’re at a geographical disadvantage, Desmonda. They can roll across the Adirondack chain a lot easier than the Sierras and our other western mountains. Maybe the sanctions weren’t such a good idea.”

“Nonsense. Their Great Leader started paying attention when we voted them in. They were a logical first step for trying to make him come to his senses. I don’t know what our next steps should be, but I’m not about to let him and his hordes overrun our Region.”

“I’m with you on that. But my security team warns that they might take out our satcom. We have to be prepared to act unilaterally unless we can agree on something now.”

“Let’s define some plans, old friend. My people warn me this could escalate fast.”

***

The two leaders worked for an hour and a half, coming up with plans that both the Eastern and Western legislatures would pass given the emergency. They worked from scenarios already prepared and studied, originating in the collaborative defense departments.

When they finished, Sandoval told his aid to call for his limo. The trip to the capital was walkable, but the limo was used to keep his security detail happy.

During the trip, which took more time loading and unloading of security personnel on each end than travel time, he went through some historical antecedents he might include in his speech.

Things had gone to hell fast beginning in 2017. That contentious election for president had unleashed pent-up hatreds that had smoldered for years, even decades. Perhaps inevitable, he thought. Reasoned discourse went the way of the dinosaurs.

One thing led to another. The country had already been divided between the East and West Coasts and the rest of the country, the so-called red and blue states, except in that election some blue ones had turned red and then became purple as they oscillated back and forth in future elections creating tremendous instability. People no longer wanted to discuss their politics and dedicated all their energies to hating the opposition. Eventually the Eastern and Western Civil Rights Regions were formed to reflect and protect the East and West Coast views while the rest of the country became the North American Democratic Alliance, or NADA, the use of the word “Democratic” being a déjà vu with the official name of East Germany used so many decades earlier.

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Unlike science, technology often seems to have a mind of its own. Betamax was better than VHS, but the latter won (in the US); now both are dead. No OS today is more stable than that old DEC OS, but even the company DEC is gone with its 100K+ employees. New cars full of chips have a lot more things that can go wrong with them than my old 52 Pontiac, and I’m no longer able to fix anything in the former because of their complexity.

Publishing technology moves at a slower pace because readers are often traditionalists, so they’re loathe to try new media. Readership demographics is more a determinant about how fast the march of technology influences publishing, of course. The spectrum going from young to old readers correlates well with the spectrum of preferences for reading media: older readers tend to prefer print format; younger ones ebooks. (Audiobooks apparently have their own spectrum, and it likely correlates well with commuting times and not so much with demographics.)

Disposable income factors in too: print versions cost more than ebooks, at least for self-publishing. (Traditional publishers attempt to skew those stats, charging almost as much for the ebook version of a blockbuster as the print version, although they’ve been attacking self-publishing by selling “evergreen versions” of old blockbusters at competitive prices compared to recently self-published ebooks.)

Many older readers won’t read ebooks or listen to audiobooks; they prefer print formats. I was thinking about this as I struggled to read President Obama’s A Promised Land, a weighty gift and not only for its prose—it probably weighs ten times what my Kindle weighs! It’s an epic book, to be sure, but it would lose nothing in ebook format. Yet gift-givers are traditionalists too—and maybe with good reason? It’s hard to wrap an ebook!

So publishing technology changes slowly, but it changes. That said, what exists on the future horizon for publishing?

The first obvious change will have less to do with media and more with those who produce it. Self-publishing, whether 100% DIY or partial, will be the asteroid that turns traditional publishing into a dinosaur except for coffee-table books non-readers proudly display as home decorations. That’s inevitable as more and more authors become fed up with traditional publishing’s delays, sycophantic agents and irascible, prejudiced editors, and, above all, royalties that are laughable. (Forget the advances. Few traditionally published authors besides the old and privileged mares and stallions in the big conglomerates stables receive them.)

That will be the catalyst for the second change (or it might be the other way around): Traditional publishers dependence on print will hasten their demise. We know brick-and-mortar bookstores are hurting: When was the last time you spent hours in one browsing among the stacks, elbow to elbow with other book lovers? Like everything else, people are now buying books online, even before COVID, and that’s a lot easier to do with ebooks. Print versions require shipping infrastructure, from the USPS, which no longer is dependable, thanks to you-know-who, or some other shipper. At the very least, that represents a significant delay compared to simply downloading an ebook. Waiting is so 20^th century; instant gratification is demanded in the 21^st.

Another format that will kill traditional publishing is the audiobook format. Anyone can make them. Sure, traditional publishers might have the advantage now because they can pay for the expensive narrators, those famous voices taking time from making cartoons to make some big bucks reading some big books, but how long can traditional publishers keep doing that? I’ll bet that self-publishers will find new and better voices—you don’t have to be a Hollywood star (or should I say a streaming-video hack?) to own a pleasant reading voice. And these new voices will get their opportunity as traditional publishing’s control of the book business shrinks to nothing.

This evolution will be slow, but will it be good or bad? The march of technology is neither per se—it’s indifferent. And it is what consumers want in the end, no matter how much traditional publishers try to mold readers’ attitudes and scam them with expensive advertising and other hype. Maybe robocalls in the future?

And it’s also possible that storytelling will die along with books, bookstores, and traditional publishers, because readership will dwindle to nothing. I’d hate to see storytelling reduced to the drivel found in streaming video, but I won’t have to suffer with that. I’ll be long gone before that happens. You and I might be more worried for our children and grandchildren, though. If human beings lose the art of good storytelling, can they really be called Homo sapiens, emphasis on sapiens? In a thousand years, that question probably won’t matter. In 2050, it might be more important—just think of Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 as autocrats strive to control us even more, telling us what we can say…and read.

***

Comments are always welcome.

A Time Traveler’s Guide through the Multiverse. I like to think of this sci-fi rom-com as Douglas Adams’ guide done right. At least time travel is done right and might just be possible. And the time-traveler’s wife is the kick-ass physicist who invents the process! If you missed my guide, you’ll want to rectify that situation, as applied physicist Gail and her techie Jeff develop a process that allows them to jump around various universes in the Multiverse. Robots, ETs, dystopias, and apocalypses await the reader on this incredibly far-out roller coaster ride. Also available at Smashwords and wherever quality ebooks are sold (iBooks, B&N, Kobo, etc.).

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

[Note from Steve: In the collection Sleuthing, British-Style, I introduced DI Clarke and DS Blake in three short stories as a homage to British-style mysteries. While this short didn’t make it to novel status (as the British coppers might have wanted, and I suggested might eventually happen one day), or the self-imposed editorial deadline for that collection (as a test case for Draft2Digital), you might find it equally entertaining. The first four chapters are found on the past four Fridays in this blog—or see the “Friday Fiction” archive.]

Mr. Gualchmai

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Five

The search for Lee Hayley bore no immediate fruit. The man had been hiding in plain sight as the appraiser, Sam Whiting, but after leaving Clarke with a terrible bashed head and headache, the focus on her assailant turned up nothing. Caine had touched base with the bank manager again; Blake had revisited the reporter. Others had also gone through other futile motions, including asking all ports and ferries to check departures to Europe or Ireland, made easier now with BREXIT requiring more complete immigration and customs procedures.

Clarke seemed knackered; they all were. Blake knew she was angry for letting Hayley scarper. She sent everyone home so they could start early in the morning. Everyone figured the manhunt would have to cover all the island as well as Northern Ireland.

“I’m off early too,” said Sally, stopping at Blake’s desk. “Want to lend me your wonderful rubbish tip pretending to be a car, or will you drive me? I got a call from Pops. He’s bored, so I thought I’d fix whip up a home-style meal for us. Turns out my irascible mother hasn’t been much of a cook lately.”

Blake was beginning to regret offering Sally’s father a stay in his flat to save the price of a hotel. He took his keys out of his pocket and tossed them to her.

“I’m out of here too in a moment. Tomorrow’s going to be a day from hell.”

He soon slid into the passenger seat as she let the car warm up a bit. He said to Sally, “What are you cooking for your men?”

She smiled. “It shall be a surprise.”

***

Owen slid one picture over to Sally. “I know this man.”

Blake glanced at Sally and then back at her father. “He’s a person of interest in the case.”

Owen had wanted to get a feel for police work, so after a fine dinner and against his better judgment, Blake had given the old man a summary of their current case after obtaining a promise to keep everything a secret. Sally had flashed a smile worth gold to the detective, so he’d known she was more than happy with that decision. Or, it might be because her SOCOs had done little work for the case, so she was curious. Clarke would never know about his lapse, and it was a part of the conversation where Blake could contribute something.

Owen took the picture again and cleaned his glasses. “On second thought, I might be wrong. I thought he’d be my old war chum Hayley for a moment.”

“Lee Hayley?” Blake said.

“Yes. How’d you know his name is Lee?”

Blake ignored the question. “This man can’t be your old war buddy. He’s not that much older than I am. He must be Lee Hayley, Junior.”

“Could be. Looks like Lee when we were in the army, though. But I haven’t seen old Lee in ages.”

“Did your old friend live around here?” Sally said.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. In Southington. He grew up there and inherited the family abode.”

Blake nodded. He’d never been to the little village just south of Riversford, but he knew about it. Their substation served it and many others, although most had at least one local and very bored constable. He reached for the phone as he winked at Sally.

“I think I now know where Hayley Junior is hiding out,” he told Clarke.

***

The prodigal son had returned home. The address Owen had provided belonged to someone else now. Were they held hostage? Or had Hayley committed one or two more murders?

“This can’t turn out well,” Blake said to Clarke as he watched the SCO19 get ready.

“He must know we’re out here,” Clarke said. “Why doesn’t he answer the phone?”

Surveillance of the little cottage in Southington had confirmed Lee Hayley was in the house. They didn’t know if he was armed, but he certainly was dangerous. Besides the alleged arson and murder of Charles Morton and his family and the attack against Clarke, he had shanked a prisoner while in jail. That charge had been dropped because all witnesses recanted on their statements about what they’d seen. Hayley had led a life of often violent crime after being in and out of foster homes. Clarke had called in the firepower as a consequence.

“Maybe we should try to talk him out of there,” Clarke said. “In spite of his crimes, I feel a bit sorry for the bastard.”

Blake decided to ignore the double meaning of that word, knowing that there was a third: No one had wanted Lee Hayley, Junior, after his mother passed on, not even his real father. Foster parents all too often took children in to collect government stipends. The son had returned to a home he’d never known.

“I’m telling the troops to move in.”

Clarke raised her arm. Blake grabbed it.

“Wait! I have an idea. There’s someone Hayley might have heard of. Sally’s father.”

“Does Hayley Junior even know him?”

“Hayley Junior might not even have met Hayley Senior, but his mother probably talked about him.”

“Maybe not fondly.”

“Point taken. But it might be worth a try. And she might have mentioned the father’s old war chum.”

“Okay. Sally might not like our involving her father in a standoff.”

“He’ll be safe.”

It took Sally about twenty minutes to arrive with Owen. Blake explained the situation. After their discussion about policing, Owen was keen to try to get Hayley to surrender. Clarke showed him how to use the megaphone.

“Lee Hayley, Junior. This is Owen Gualchmai. You’ve never met me, but your real daddy and me were army chums. Maybe your mum Alice mentioned me. Your father was a good friend o’ mine. I don’t want to see his son die. Believe me, he wouldn’t want that either. Nor your mum. But if you don’t surrender, that’s a definite possibility. You killed three people with that fire, and all your half-brother did was name you as his heir. He felt bad that Ralph Morton sent you and your mother away. He missed his mother; he missed you. It’s time to make amends, Lee. You don’t want to die tonight.”

Owen looked at Blake and shrugged. Blake nodded and Sally patted him on the shoulder.

“Didn’t hurt to try,” said Clarke. She raised her had again to send in the SCO19.

“Wait!” Sally said.

Lee Hayley came out of the house, hands held high. With the harsh police spotlights, Blake could see tears streaming down his face. For once, someone had recognized him as a person.

***

“Do cases always turn out like this?” Owen asked at the pub where Clarke’s group was celebrating yet another successful case.

“This one better than most,” Clarke said. “Lee Hayley will undergo a complete psych evaluation. It should have been done years ago. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an invitation for a late dinner.”

“That’s a first,” Sally said.

“She sounds very sexy with that contralto voice,” Caine said. “Anyone know who’s doing the inviting?”

Blake shrugged, wondering if Caine had a thing for his boss, or just wanted to know more about her and her group. That was always difficult at first. Group members knew things about other group members; they also knew when not to talk about them.

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(Nathaniel Henderson, Centricity, 2020, 978-1735759098)

Like the author of this novel, William Gibson’s Neuromancer (1985 Hugo winner) made an impression on this reviewer. I can’t say my sci-fi is cyberpunk, but Gibson’s novel influenced me and many other authors. Centricity is a good modern example of the subgenre.

It’s also a cross-genre tale with mystery and political thriller elements with those other subgenres of sci-fi, dystopian and post-apocalyptic, thrown in for good measure. A pandemic caused by a bio-engineered virus wreaks havoc on Earth, resulting in an evolution to society living in what I can compare to the city-states of ancient Greece turned into chaotic cesspools of technology, where violence rules more than democracy and human life has little value.

If that were all the story, readers might want to slash their wrists before they even finish it, but there are some glimmers of hope. One character’s visit to his demented mother in her nursing home shows that love still exists in this dark world, for example. And it is far darker than Gibson’s (in the latter’s defense, all the nefarious consequences of technology run amok couldn’t be imagined when he wrote Neuromancer). The novel’s main theme could also be construed as what happens when tribalism augmented by technology, and not in a good way, runs amok.

The world the author creates is a dangerous and violent one. As one character walks down a street (I’ll call it that for simplicity), someone turns someone else into a fireball just for the fun of it. Almost every person of means has a human “shield,” a cybernetic guard who is armored and weaponized, ready to protect the person who’s shielded. The more important the person, the better the shield, better implying the latest weaponry and software. I often see this as a futuristic version of the Aztecs’ cultural organization in its brutality and lethality. Yet the organization here is so complex you might want to refer to the end notes as well as to the map at the beginning.

There are inconsistencies. One can ask why such a technologically dominated society has human receptionists, for example. As the character walks into his mother’s nursing home, he encounters one. The simple answer, as true today as it is in this imagined future: Everyone needs a job. Only by controlling the population in a future society (e.g. in Asimov’s The Naked Sun) can a society’s members have a leisurely existence and avoid giving mundane jobs to humans! This leads to the question: In the city-state Naion, where did all the people come from? Presumably the world’s population was decimated by the pandemic and ensuing chaos. Did technology forget how to make birth control pills?

But I digress. What sets this tale above others in the genre is its characterization. There are many. (To keep them straight, a cast of characters would also be useful, unless the reader is out to have a literary orgy by reading this novel in one setting! There is one for the principal characters in the end notes, but perhaps it should be up front.) Adasha is the main character who’s much more than a receptionist, a woman who has the impossible task of making the city-state Naion’s bureaucratic fiefdoms get along with each other. She’s also trying to find out who killed her mentor Gabriel. The tale starts with Ekram’s murder, though; he’s become involved with the kidnapping of an ambassador’s daughter, and this violent incident percolates through the story.

Yes, the number of interesting characters increases as well as the world-building, so the reader must pay attention. Don’t worry, though. The relationships between all these characters is revealed the farther you progress in the book. This is epic sci-fi made for a reader who does pay attention, more so than in Gibson’s novel. It’s a heady brew. The reader must be prepared for vile language, violent action, and strange sexual tensions—all fair game when dealing with human beings’ futuristic lives. Just when readers think they’ve obtained a glimmer of understanding, something surprising comes along to yank their feet from under them. To use the old metaphor so ubiquitous in thriller reviews, this is one hell of a roller-coaster ride! While I can imagine a video game based on this novel, I can’t imagine one doing justice to all this crazy complexity.

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[Note from Steve: In the collection Sleuthing, British-Style, I introduce DI Clarke and DS Blake in three short stories as a homage to British-style mysteries. While the following short story didn’t make it to novel status (as the British coppers might have wanted, and I suggested might eventually happen one day), or the self-imposed editorial deadline for that collection (as a test case for Draft2Digital), you might find this short story equally entertaining.]

Mr. Gualchmai

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Four

The appraiser’s office was what Clarke had imagined it might be: a tip playing the role of a place of business. It was on a side street in a squalid area of town; there was garbage on the street, mostly from some seedy pubs, and a few kerb-crawlers prowled even in the morning. They looked a bit worse for wear, so maybe they were strung out after a busy night, trying to remember where they might find a place to rest their weary head. She decided it was a place where Logan Blake might feel at home—it was as bad as anywhere in the capital, maybe worse if coppers avoided the place.

She was glad she wore trainers because the stairs up to the office didn’t seem well-maintained. There were three offices at the top. She knocked on the door with the name Samuel Whiting.

“Door’s open,” said a gruff voice.

She entered and flashed her warrant card. The badly dressed man gestured to a chair; she sat and found it unbalanced. Intentional?

The single office wasn’t welcoming to visitors. The furniture seemed secondhand and the threadbare rug was sprinkled with indeterminate splotches, while the cot in the corner told her that the renter slept there sometimes. Maybe always? A door at the foot of the cot was ajar, so she could see a half-loo that looked like a rest stop’s on some remote road in His Majesty’s kingdom.

“I usually don’t see anyone here. My work is out and about Riversford and the surrounding villages. Sometimes as far as the Cotswolds.”

“I understand,” she said. “Gives you some fresh air, at least.” She saw the frown. Good, he got the message: this office is a rubbish tip! Was that why he panned Morton’s building? “Mr. Whiting, I’m here to talk about your appraisal of Charles Morton’s building, like I said on the phone.”

“Yeah, well, did you see it before the fire? Morton’s flat was okay, but he hadn’t kept up the others. Can’t blame him, I suppose, what with two or three students in each destroying them. It’s a good thing the whole thing burned. I’d calculated that if the bank ever had to foreclose, they’d spend even more money fixing the place up for sale, thereby losing a lot of money when added to the loan amount. That’s my job, inspector: securing reasonable loans.”

“The land is prime real estate itself. Did you consider that?”

“You should stick to being a copper. I’m the appraiser here.”

The phone rang to interrupt her rebuttal. Clarke wasn’t surprised to see it was an older model, its cable probably plugged in somewhere under the desk.

“Excuse me. I have to take this. Might be a job.”

***

While the appraiser attended to his call, Clarke received one of her own from Blake, a text message containing the frontal and side shots of Lee Hayley taken when he had entered prison. Unlike some drivers’ IDs, the shots showed a clean-shaven, smiling man who probably could charm many women. Except for the eyes. They weren’t smiling. They were a cold blue. The eyes of a killer?

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After all the hype about Sapiens, much of it probably generated by questionable publicists and even more questionable critics, I looked forward to reading it but found it disappointing. The author has a rather myopic and distorted view of Homo sapiens, the human condition, and human history. There’s also a certain smugness in the many pages of this book that can grate on you and wear you down. But let’s start with the beginning, as the Queen of Hearts told Alice.

The author throws out questionable theories, little more than guesses, about how some different branches of hominins became extinct and modern man came to dominate, he incorrectly thinks that cultural norms are just figments of our imaginations, and proposes that anything beyond hunter-gather existence has had a negative influence on Earth’s biosphere and human beings’ existence within it. In the early parts of the book, he pretends to be an expert on archaeology, anthropology, and psychology. And there’s far too much opinion and too little science. And that’s just the beginning.

There are many questionable statements made in the book—a whole list of non sequitors, in fact. The proposed equivalence between ideology and religion is but one example that will grate on most readers. Both are collections of ideas, to be sure, and both might have names ending with ism, but he neglects the moral component of most religions, even the non-theistic ones. There’s no morality in capitalism or socialism, for example; they’re amoral, although some people might worship one or the other. Does worshipping make the two, or communism or Nazism, for that matter, into a religion? Maybe this is just semantical hand-waving on my part as well as his, but the author shouldn’t indulge in it for shock value as he seems wont to do.

A more concrete and scientific example is found in the claim that quantum mechanics is like actuarial statistics, i.e. classical probability. Far from it! Moreover, he believes probability isn’t important in physics outside of quantum mechanics, a complete non sequitur. The Second Law of Thermodynamics is a statistical law, whether it deals with quantum mechanical or classical mechanical systems. Indeed, all of thermodynamics, classical or otherwise, comes from statistical mechanics, where probability theory is used to deal with physical systems with so many components that one cannot follow them individually.

The author does make a few valid points. Our forefathers’ “all men are created equal…” certainly fails to separate government and religion (which is why we have a constitution), but he fails to mention that this claim of equality is seen more today as a call for giving all people equal opportunity to rise where their innate and learned skills will take them, and make a decent living while doing it. In any case, America’s revered documents are certainly not an “imagined” social glue—they establish the right to rebel against and/or control and censure oppressive rulers peacefully, if we can!

His prose only seems to be a medium for the author to contradict all preconceived notions one might have about human beings’ existence on this planet. That’s one positive, I suppose: It certainly got me thinking, but my thoughts all became focused on asking myself. how can a historian in the twenty-first century get things so wrong? I suspect that the bottom line is that he’s only proven that history is not a science—it reduces to collections of opinions published by historians, often with little data to back them up. We’ve all heard that the victor rewrites history. In this case, the author is no victor, but he still sets out to rewrite all of human history. Questioning that history might be okay; an anarchistic destruction, though, without offering a rebuild can be disconcerting.

As a final comment, there’s not too much history here, in fact, just a chaotic selection of cherry-picked events to analyze and throw into a questionable stew made from week-old leftovers, hardly a profound and fresh meal of insights. The book’s subtitle is completely incorrect as a consequence. Perhaps the author is trying to be humorous at times in his reflections about human history, but it doesn’t work. I sure won’t be reading any more of his books, and I can’t recommend this one, even if it were more reasonably priced. (I received a copy as a gift.) Caveat emptor.

***

Comments are always welcome.

The Last Humans: A New Dawn. The post-apocalyptic adventures of Penny Castro continue. Her new and idyllic life on her SoCal citrus ranch is turned upside down when what remains of the US government kidnaps her kids to force her and her husband to participate in a revenge invasion of the country responsible for the apocalypse. In this sequel to The Last Humans, a thrilling roller coaster ride into a possible future awaits the reader. Available wherever quality ebooks are sold. (Note that Black Opal Books, the publisher of the first book, has taken it down from Amazon, so I give the link to Smashwords. The reader can hopefully still purchase the ebook and print versions from the publisher. The sequel is published by DraftDigital, so it’s available at Amazon and other retailers, but not at Smashwords.)

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

[Note from Steve: In the collection Sleuthing, British-Style, I introduce DI Clarke and DS Blake in three short stories as a homage to British-style mysteries. While this story didn’t make it to novel status (as the British coppers might have wanted, and I suggested might eventually happen one day), or the self-imposed editorial deadline for that collection (as a test case for Draft2Digital), you might find the short story equally entertaining. Chapters One and Two can be found on previous Friday posts.]

Mr. Gualchmai

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Three

Lee Hayley had served a jail term of six years. He was released a little over a year ago.

“Good work,” Clarke said at the next briefing session. “We need to find this Mr. Hayley. Keep pursuing that, Logan and James. I need a volunteer to accompany me. We have an appointment with a bank appraiser.” She looked at her watch. “Tomorrow morning first thing. We need a break. The rest of you should continue viewing security videos from the area around Charles Morton’s building and knocking on doors. It would help if either cameras or people spotted our arsonist. Again, tomorrow morning, first thing. We’ll hit everything fresh.”

Blake returned to his desk and texted Sally. How about some Chinese take-away?

Sounds good, she texted back. She sent an address. Pick me up in half an hour. XOXO.

Sally Gualchmai and Blake had become an item with some hesitation. He’d been a Londoner new to the Riversford area. She was Welsh but called the northlands home. She shared Patricia Clarke’s distrust of men, although Blake’s detective skills couldn’t yet determine why. The SOCO was still mostly a mystery to him, but their relationship was heating up. It was already beyond any Blake had ever had with another woman. And she even understood his love of music!

At that moment, Caine walked by and said, “Hot date? I saw you texting.”

“Szechuan,” Blake said.

“The girl or the food?” Blake frowned. “Sorry. Just me being a detective. I just wanted to say I enjoyed working with you today.”

Caine was new to Clarke’s group. Blake remembered that not long how hard it had been when he joined Riversford CID.

“Thanks. But you did most of the interview. And don’t worry. You’ll get into it soon enough.”

***

“Logan!”

Sally had gone ahead to open Blake’s flat while he unloaded what he figured was her overnight case and the take-away Chinese contained in several bags of cartons filled with assorted oriental delights. He saw a man approaching her. He put everything down, ran forward, and put himself between the threat and his girlfriend.

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Both positive and negative events in our modern everyday lives can be used to make our stories more relevant. A hassled and hurried commuter handing a McDonald’s breakfast meal (sandwich and coffee) to a homeless person; an unthinking neighbor letting their mongrel pee on garbage bags without thinking of the essential workers, the garbage collectors, who have to collect those bags; and so forth. These observations can make our prose come alive.

Of course, authors have to observe these events and record them in some way—either using an excellent memory or a napkin or scrap of paper. In short, authors must observe humanity and remember those observations to be able to write about it.

As I pointed out, an author doesn’t have to observe earthshaking events. Little things here and there can add spice to prose. Once, in a day-trip for my old day-job, I saw a thick winter coat get stuck in one of those sliding doors at the airport. There were several openings and closings because the door’s electronic eye detected something there and bounced open again. I imagined that heavy coat as a body. That observation turned into a scene in The Last Humans.

Seemingly mundane observations in your prose can carry readers right into your settings, whether they’re some place on Earth or on a faraway planet. Of course, observing much more drastic events can too. An author can include details that a reader might not know or could not imagine. That works for dialogue as well as narrative. The author needs to create a balanced mix of both and certainly doesn’t want to pad either with uninteresting verbosity, but snippets of details add spice and reality to make a drab meal in fiction into a gourmet treat.

More might be obtained by reacting to an observation. You might be tempted to do something similar for a homeless person and then striking up a conversation to understand their plight. Or you might give the owner of that peeing dog a piece of your mind to see how he reacts, standing up for those essential workers in the process. (I try to salute or wave to them.)

Unless we’re in a rock concert (rare now) or protest march (a legitimate one hopefully, without violence or vandalism) or some other massive event, we usually don’t remember that many people outside our day-jobs and neighborhoods, but we shouldn’t pass up the chance to observe human nature. It’s wonderfully diverse and complex, and fiction that illustrates that is more interesting than fiction that doesn’t. Characterization benefits from observations. Without it, we are led to create two-dimensional characters, cardboard cutouts of humanity.

Plot ideas can also originate in observations. My whole novel Death on the Danube owes its existence to observations. It’s not a memoir of a journey, but I couldn’t have written it without making observations on that riverboat. Rembrandt’s Angel, the first novel in that same series, builds on observations made on trips to South America and Europe. Much of The Last Humans and its sequel, The Last Humans: A New Dawn, is filled with observations I made about my native California years ago—settings, people, and an economy so dependent on agriculture and the water necessary to sustain it.

Is it possible that what gurus call “writing you know” is a misdirect? Maybe they’re really talking about how necessary observations are. Clearly I can’t know what living on a planet in the 82 Eridani system is like (see Sing a Zamba Galactica in the Chaos Chronicles Trilogy Collection), but I can create pioneer-spirited characters from my observations of real human beings—my own parents, for example, were pioneers during the Depression in the sense that they packed all their belongings in a Model T and traveled from Kansas to California. By observing them, I could extrapolate to those bold star-faring pioneers!

Yes, observations are necessary for good storytelling. Go out and make some…and then use them!

***

Comments are always welcome.

Death on the Danube. Ex-Scotland Yard inspector and ex-MI6 agent Esther Brookstone begins her honeymoon voyage down history’s famous river with Interpol agent Bastiann van Coevorden when a murder occurs. Because the river is international waters, he takes over the murder investigation, with Esther helping him out. As they float along with the murder scene, they become embroiled in international intrigue. Available on Amazon in ebook and print versions and in ebook versions on Smashwords and all its affiliated retailers (iBooks, B&N, Kobo, etc.) and lending services (Scribd, Gardners, etc.). #3 in the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” Series.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

[Note from Steve: In the collection Sleuthing, British-Style, I introduce DI Clarke and DS Blake in three short stories as an homage to British-style mysteries. While this story didn’t make it to novel status (as the British coppers might have wanted, and I suggested might eventually happen one day), or the self-imposed editorial deadline for that collection (as a test case for Draft2Digital), you might find the short story that continues here equally entertaining.]

Mr. Gualchmai

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Two

Blake left his previous assignment to last. The new case was hot; he was motivated to give it a good launch.

He wasn’t the best hacker in the Riversford CID, but some competition had disappeared when DC Heath was promoted. If Blake worked at the main Oxford HQ, he probably wouldn’t have computer assignments, but it had been something new in his career to try at the smaller substation in Riversford. It turned out he didn’t have to try too hard this time.

Among the victim’s belongings was a wallet with an ATM card. That led to the man’s bank. He called to make an appointment with the manager.

Too many take-away dinners with Sally and lack of exercise beyond hot sex with the Welsh SOCO, justifying the time savings with the take-aways, had made him a bit lethargic lately, so he decided to walk from the substation to the bank.

Upon entering, he would have preferred a longer chin wag with the head teller, a tall redhead with sparkling blue eyes, who reminded him a bit of his piano teacher and attracted more clients than the others, but she told him where to find the manager. He sat in a tiny back office. When Blake entered, the man was shuffling papers.

After formal introductions complementing their earlier telephone conversation, the manager said, “I’ve been examining Chick’s accounts. Mr. Morton’s, that is.”

“I’d like a copy of those papers, please, but can you provide a summary. Anything unusual?”

“Yes. The denial of a loan I tried to initiate for him. I feel the bank’s appraiser greatly undervalued his building. Chick offered it as collateral. I just assumed it had been approved because I didn’t hear from Chick. It should have been more than enough considering property values here downtown. That’s the case throughout the entire Thames River Valley, of course, even in the small villages.”

“Perhaps I should talk to that appraiser.” Blake thought a moment. “You called Charles Morton Chick. Did you know him well?”

The bank manager smiled. “Drinking buddies now, old school buddies earlier.”

“Was he an upbeat guy? I mean, did he have a positive outlook on life?”

“More so than most people, I suspect, despite some investments that turned sour. My wife and I often socialized with the Mortons. Some good times there.”

Blake nodded. The manager, like many men, was trying to hide his sense of loss and not quite succeeding.

“So he wouldn’t be the suicidal type?”

“Chick? No way! He could be a bit dark at times, especially with some of his causes, lamenting government inaction, but he was usually upbeat. Just went with the flow, you know.”

Blake stood and handed his card to the manager. “Let me know if you think of any more information. I thank you for your time.” He scooped up the papers. “And for these.”

As he walked out of the bank, he was thinking that sometimes an old-fashioned walk accomplished much more than pounding a computer keyboard.

***

“I’m afraid Mr. Benford doesn’t have time to see you right now, inspector.”

Barrister Benford’s PA had more tits than brains, Clarke decided, and probably would treat the VIP’s prospective clients far better than a lowly police inspector. The well-endowed woman was just doing her job, of course, so Clarke ignored her and went around the tiny desk.

“Police business, so I’m sure he’ll find the time.”

She walked down a hall and found a door with George Benford, Esq. on the door. She threw open the door and walked into the posh office, forcing a well-dressed man to put down the local paper’s late afternoon edition.

“Inspector Patricia Clarke, Riversford Substation,” she said, flashing her warrant card once again. She took a chair in front of the desk and stared him down. His expression changed from surprise and annoyance to a sly smile.

“It would have been a pleasure to meet you in court, inspector.” He reached across the desk to offer a hand, and she leaned forward to shake it. “George Benford. What can I do for you today?” He held up a finger from one hand and punched his old-fashioned intercom with the other. “Helen, please bring in some tea and biscuits. We have to treat our guest with decorum.”

“Thank you.” Clarke was wondering about the change in demeanor, but plowed on. “I’m SIO for an investigation regarding the death of Charles Morton. I believe he’s a client of yours?”

“You found that out soon enough. Impressive.” He tapped the paper. “I was just reading about Charles and his little family. What a shame. We have had a short-term professional relationship, creating his will. Nice fellow.”

“It’s customary in these investigations to determine who might benefit from the victim’s death. I understand you drew up the will about five months ago?”

“That’s when it was registered. We’d been discussing details for a few months prior to that.”

“It could save us a lot of time if we could obtain a copy of that will to determine who his heirs are.”

“That might be the case, but I can’t. Attorney-client privilege and no official death certificate as yet make that impossible. I’m duty-bound to protect the heirs, you see.”

“Your client was murdered.” Benford blanched. “I’ll ask you to keep that quiet for now. We can formally request a copy of the will because of those circumstances. Any judge will sign that warrant.”

“Indeed. But, as you said, those official steps, required by law, I might add, will take time. You’re a law officer. I’m a barrister. We both have to follow the law, inspector.”

Clarke now realized Benford’s smile was probably a permanent feature when dealing with the public. Yes, I would like to meet you in court! She was choosing her next words when tea arrived. Before she could react, he became mother, plopped two cubes in her cup, and handed the steaming beverage to her.

“I generally do only one lump.”

He shrugged. “Believe me, inspector, you need the two. Are we finished with your business now so we can enjoy our teatime together? I’d much rather chat about the barney in Commons yesterday. The politicians are going to ruin this country!”

Clarke controlled her anger, shoved the cup back towards the barrister, and stood.

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The NY Times article (1/1/2021) about Robert Jones Jr.’s debut novel The Prophets described this self-motivation for the author’s writing. I’ve been doing just that for years! I’ve always shared that mantra for my own writing even before I published my first novel, Full Medical (2006). I’m an avid reader, but I’d found a lot of the fiction I was reading lacking in its treatment of important themes and universal truths about the human condition—the good, bad, and ugly of human existence, if you will. I appreciate fiction that weaves such themes in and around the plots. That’s why genres like space opera, fantasy, and romance aren’t high on my reading priorities. Because modern fiction, especially that from traditional publishers, emphasizes fluff, especially those genres I indicated, which are the epitome of escapism, I decided to create my own alternative, writing what I like to read.

I often stop reading when I realize there’s too much fluff. I had no preconceived notions about Brit-style mysteries—most of them are fluff, but they helped me maintain my sanity during the COVID pandemic. I stopped reading Connelly long ago because, while his books are interesting police procedurals like those Brit-style mysteries, they’re basically escapist literature too without serious themes. It’s easy to make a list of the fluff masters: Baldacci, Child, Grafton, King, Patterson, and so forth write fluff in the sense considered here. Their books can be entertaining, a notch above video games and streaming videos, but I lose interest in them quickly.

Agents and editors, especially those indentured servants of the big publishing houses, encourage authors to write “marketable books.” (Of course, these people can’t really define what this means until after the fact—i.e., only by looking at sales figures—and are completely unable to predict which books might gain the attention of readers because very few books they publish become bestsellers.) Here’s a translation that corresponds to their rejection practices: They mean fluff that avoids all controversial themes. That’s their necessary condition (they have no sufficient conditions—nobody has). We live in a world of controversy, though, so Clancy’s dictum—“The difference between fiction and reality? Fiction has to make sense.”—has an obvious corollary: “…and that’s the way readers can understand reality.”

Perhaps such “controversial books,” i.e. those that aren’t fluff, don’t sell well, so the troglodytes of traditional publishing have a point if literature is only about getting rich off readers. Their exorbitant prices certainly indicate that’s part of their business model. The people who have controlled what’s published for so many years don’t want to lose control of that process or authors. They’d be the first to tar and feather Tina Fey for saying, “Do your own thing and don’t care if they like it.” And they’ve been successful making sure authors accept those creative chains for years. Maybe authors like me are butting our heads against the crumbling walls of the establishment by not volunteering to put on those chains, but I have to write the kinds of books I like to read. That means none of the fluff the troglodytes love because they’re so damn afraid some readers will be upset.

I’ve always been encouraged by a Heinlein quote (basically Fey’s idea expressed in language even troglodytes might understand): “…maybe I should study the market and try like hell to tailor something which fits current styles. But…if I am to turn out work of fairly permanent value, my own taste…is what I must follow.” There are two important concepts here. First, there’s the idea of literary independence: Authors should write the kind of books they love to read and break the traditional publishing establishment’s chains. Second, there’s the possibility that doing so will allow an authors’ literary output to have permanent value, while fluff can never do that.

Both Clancy and Heinlein support Heinlein’s advice. Both wrote in an era when traditional publishing was king. Clancy’s Hunt for Red October almost wasn’t published (the troglodytes almost succeeded); a small, coffee-table book publisher accepted it, and the rest is history. Heinlein, an astronomer, became the second most famous sci-fi writer (Asimov is the most famous, but some of his fame is due to his popular science works), and his books, like Clancy’s, will live on too.

I think I write quality fiction, but my hubris doesn’t take me so far that I believe my works will have “fairly permanent value” like Clancy’s or Heinlein’s, but there’s another corollary to all this discussion: By writing stories with important themes, I can enjoy my writing life free from those artificial chains created by those who worry about a book’s market value. I’m only a slave to my desire to write books like those I love to read, old-fashioned and meaningful stories from an old Irish storyteller.

***

Comments are always welcome.

When fluff isn’t enough….the “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco” Series. Seven novels with important themes woven around mystery, thriller, and police-procedural plots as current as the day I wrote them: The Midas Bomb treats foreign terrorism in NYC. Angels Need Not Apply considers cartels, domestic and foreign terrorism, and right-wing militias. Teeter-Totter between Lust and Murder finds the detectives fighting the illegal arms trade and domestic terrorism. In Aristocrats and Assassins, Castilblanco’s vacation in Europe is interrupted by a terrorist group out to supply themselves with nukes. The Collector considers art theft, human trafficking, and child porn. Family Affairs primarily depicts a battle against domestic terrorism. And Gaia and the Goliaths studies the extent that international energy conglomerates might go to as they battle environmental activists. In this series, the detectives often start locally in NYC but move beyond to national and international action. Lots of interesting and entertaining reading here for you to binge on, folks! Available wherever quality ebooks are sold. Note: Subscribers to my email newsletter have a January and February sale for these novels, but the books’ retail prices are also reasonable.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!