It didn't win, but I'm still very proud of it as a piece of writing, and that I took the time to ensure it had correct grammar, spelling and punctuation before I submitted it - in my opinion this stuff actually matters in writing. As for content, I tried hard to show, not tell; not to use cliche, and cut out anything that didn't absolutely need to be in there. To use poetic language, alliteration and assonance. To get meta. And to try and produce a piece of writing, not simply a story.
I hope you enjoy it.
I hope you enjoy it.
To Live In Colour
Cyber-Face raised his glass.
— May God meet you late, kid.
— If there is a God I never saw him here.
Bartender Droom di Volo had used the line countless times and said it in a flat grey tone. Old Cyber-Face laughed his boosting Asp laugh anyway and strode off towards the bar’s HoloScreen with his seventh drink. To find God or oblivion. Droom thought they might be more or less the same thing, and each about as much use as the other.
So this was progress. Untold trillions of souls losing themselves in SimReels like Attack of the Mega Thargoid and drugs such as Lavian Brandy and Onionhead. Or trying to find themselves, wage-slaving for navies great and small. Even the constant flood of infotainment about the Superpowers and their leaders, or rich fools like Salomé playing at rebellion, seemed only a soap opera to amuse the ordinary folks, the nobodies. Like me. I’m a bit-part in my own life, Droom realised. But what was to be done?
He’d saved up for four years, not so long back. His wages from the Pistol Star Bar were acceptable, but rent and food costs here at Hope Gateway station were exorbitant. Almost as many credits per month as his pay. It left him little for indulgences. And so for four interminable years he’d lived on SimGrub pills. Forcing those monochrome meals through gritted teeth three times a day. All to pay for a two-week Dolphin tour to the Heart and Soul nebulae. He’d shared his economy cabin with a large extended family, who spent the entire trip drinking, arguing and laughing at the Captain’s frequent ty jokes over the comms. Droom tried to let the astonishing beauty of the gas clouds outside overcome the clamour and cacophony, but found complete immersion elusive. Perhaps it was him. Perhaps he wasn’t capable. What did not escape him was the irony of the situation. That here at the Heart and Soul, he found that perhaps he didn’t have much of either.
Returning to the bar was a relief. At least there was laughter he felt able to add to and tales he could enjoy, even if they were other people’s. It’s not a bad life, Droom kept telling himself. Maybe if he heard enough traveller’s tales he’d feel like he’d been an explorer himself. Fulfilment by proxy. To live through the colourful exploits of others was, at least, SOME kind of living. And I think I know what happiness is, he thought. I’ve seen so many photographs of it.
But the days came and went like flies. Droom had given up expecting anything would happen one day, and every day his expectations were met. Briefly he considered signing up for whichever Power would have him. To fly, even for a short while. But bar talk of Thargoids unnerved him. It’s somebody else’s war, he thought. Let somebody else die for it. Besides, he’d made a promise.
His father had been killed twelve years ago while transporting rare goods around the core worlds. Some unknown assailant shot him down for ten measly tons of Pavonis Ear Grubs. Credits were tight, and he was flying without either escape pod or insurance. He left for work in an Adder and returned in a shoebox. After that, his mother had never spoken of his father directly. At home after the funeral she’d said I keep sitting in his chair so I don’t have to look at it, and that was all. However, she’d begged Droom over and over never to become a pilot. Of course, he agreed. How could he have done otherwise? But she’s been dead three years herself, now, he mused. She never knew she was begging me to stand in my own way.
The night he finally cracked was at first like any other. Loud conversation sporadically drowned by lusty singing of ancient war songs. SimTab vapour clinging to the pale striplights. Time unrolling slowly like a lie.
Old Cyber-Face had returned from one of his Quince trips and was hitting the Centuri Mega Gin as though his life didn’t depend on it. Propping up the bar and knocking back a dangerous number of shots, yet utterly failing to get drunk. And attempting to put the galaxy to rights, with a similar level of success.
— I tell you, everything’s gone mad. They’re giving away pilot’s licences FOR FREE, now. Crazy.
Droom wasn’t really listening. He was staring with a mixture of dreaminess and desperation at the girl of his dreams, as he had been ever since she swayed over to buy a bottle of Chateau de Aegaeon a couple of hours before. Admittedly, there was a new girl of his dreams each night, but unusually, this one had actually spoken to him. It might have been a ruse for a discount, or simply that she was a tease, but she’d leaned her two metre, silver-skinned frame halfway over the bar towards him.
— You have a kind face, honey. And you don’t get a kind face by accident.
The guy she was with didn’t have a kind face. He looked like he ate kind faces for breakfast. Literally. He‘d been telling her loudly all night of his exploits and scams, his epic jousts to the death. How his other ship was also a Cutter. An obvious pirate lord; a killer. Mean scars and a metallic red Ascendant flight suit. She was laughing at everything he said, and everything he didn’t. And she’d be leaving with him.
Suddenly the heart Droom wasn’t sure he had broke. Suddenly he wanted to be anywhere but on this station. He wanted it all. To choose his fate for himself, even if it killed him, like it had his father. To be an explorer, losing himself in the Black, or a pirate, winning fame, credits, and the attentions of towering silver-skinned angels. To find and fight a Thargoid. To buy for fifty and sell for seventy-five. To mine Low Temperature Diamonds in a High Tech system. To see, to BE. To fly.
— Hey. Hey! What was that about giving pilot’s licences away?
— Ha! You WERE listening. Yeah, the pious…I mean…Pilot’s Federation. Giving away licences, they are. Something fancy about opportunities for all.
— You’re joking.
— No, really. They’ll give you a free Sidewinder and a thousand credits to get started.
— Where?
— LHS 3447. Trev something. Trev…Trevelyan…no…Trevithick Dock.
— You’re sure.
— Yes! No kidding, kid. Hey – where are you going? Am I supposed to serve myself?
He’d already wasted too much time in this pallid place. Droom di Volo begged, sold, stole and stowed to Trevithick. He found the office, signed the forms and found the shipyard and his Sidewinder.
And from that moment his universe began to expand. Possibilities started to grow and glow in the dark like truth. Perhaps I’ll see God after all, he thought, as ‘Trailblazer’ launched into the living dark and the colours and the stars exploded into his eyes.
Or perhaps God will turn out to be me.
Cyber-Face raised his glass.
— May God meet you late, kid.
— If there is a God I never saw him here.
Bartender Droom di Volo had used the line countless times and said it in a flat grey tone. Old Cyber-Face laughed his boosting Asp laugh anyway and strode off towards the bar’s HoloScreen with his seventh drink. To find God or oblivion. Droom thought they might be more or less the same thing, and each about as much use as the other.
So this was progress. Untold trillions of souls losing themselves in SimReels like Attack of the Mega Thargoid and drugs such as Lavian Brandy and Onionhead. Or trying to find themselves, wage-slaving for navies great and small. Even the constant flood of infotainment about the Superpowers and their leaders, or rich fools like Salomé playing at rebellion, seemed only a soap opera to amuse the ordinary folks, the nobodies. Like me. I’m a bit-part in my own life, Droom realised. But what was to be done?
He’d saved up for four years, not so long back. His wages from the Pistol Star Bar were acceptable, but rent and food costs here at Hope Gateway station were exorbitant. Almost as many credits per month as his pay. It left him little for indulgences. And so for four interminable years he’d lived on SimGrub pills. Forcing those monochrome meals through gritted teeth three times a day. All to pay for a two-week Dolphin tour to the Heart and Soul nebulae. He’d shared his economy cabin with a large extended family, who spent the entire trip drinking, arguing and laughing at the Captain’s frequent ty jokes over the comms. Droom tried to let the astonishing beauty of the gas clouds outside overcome the clamour and cacophony, but found complete immersion elusive. Perhaps it was him. Perhaps he wasn’t capable. What did not escape him was the irony of the situation. That here at the Heart and Soul, he found that perhaps he didn’t have much of either.
Returning to the bar was a relief. At least there was laughter he felt able to add to and tales he could enjoy, even if they were other people’s. It’s not a bad life, Droom kept telling himself. Maybe if he heard enough traveller’s tales he’d feel like he’d been an explorer himself. Fulfilment by proxy. To live through the colourful exploits of others was, at least, SOME kind of living. And I think I know what happiness is, he thought. I’ve seen so many photographs of it.
But the days came and went like flies. Droom had given up expecting anything would happen one day, and every day his expectations were met. Briefly he considered signing up for whichever Power would have him. To fly, even for a short while. But bar talk of Thargoids unnerved him. It’s somebody else’s war, he thought. Let somebody else die for it. Besides, he’d made a promise.
His father had been killed twelve years ago while transporting rare goods around the core worlds. Some unknown assailant shot him down for ten measly tons of Pavonis Ear Grubs. Credits were tight, and he was flying without either escape pod or insurance. He left for work in an Adder and returned in a shoebox. After that, his mother had never spoken of his father directly. At home after the funeral she’d said I keep sitting in his chair so I don’t have to look at it, and that was all. However, she’d begged Droom over and over never to become a pilot. Of course, he agreed. How could he have done otherwise? But she’s been dead three years herself, now, he mused. She never knew she was begging me to stand in my own way.
The night he finally cracked was at first like any other. Loud conversation sporadically drowned by lusty singing of ancient war songs. SimTab vapour clinging to the pale striplights. Time unrolling slowly like a lie.
Old Cyber-Face had returned from one of his Quince trips and was hitting the Centuri Mega Gin as though his life didn’t depend on it. Propping up the bar and knocking back a dangerous number of shots, yet utterly failing to get drunk. And attempting to put the galaxy to rights, with a similar level of success.
— I tell you, everything’s gone mad. They’re giving away pilot’s licences FOR FREE, now. Crazy.
Droom wasn’t really listening. He was staring with a mixture of dreaminess and desperation at the girl of his dreams, as he had been ever since she swayed over to buy a bottle of Chateau de Aegaeon a couple of hours before. Admittedly, there was a new girl of his dreams each night, but unusually, this one had actually spoken to him. It might have been a ruse for a discount, or simply that she was a tease, but she’d leaned her two metre, silver-skinned frame halfway over the bar towards him.
— You have a kind face, honey. And you don’t get a kind face by accident.
The guy she was with didn’t have a kind face. He looked like he ate kind faces for breakfast. Literally. He‘d been telling her loudly all night of his exploits and scams, his epic jousts to the death. How his other ship was also a Cutter. An obvious pirate lord; a killer. Mean scars and a metallic red Ascendant flight suit. She was laughing at everything he said, and everything he didn’t. And she’d be leaving with him.
Suddenly the heart Droom wasn’t sure he had broke. Suddenly he wanted to be anywhere but on this station. He wanted it all. To choose his fate for himself, even if it killed him, like it had his father. To be an explorer, losing himself in the Black, or a pirate, winning fame, credits, and the attentions of towering silver-skinned angels. To find and fight a Thargoid. To buy for fifty and sell for seventy-five. To mine Low Temperature Diamonds in a High Tech system. To see, to BE. To fly.
— Hey. Hey! What was that about giving pilot’s licences away?
— Ha! You WERE listening. Yeah, the pious…I mean…Pilot’s Federation. Giving away licences, they are. Something fancy about opportunities for all.
— You’re joking.
— No, really. They’ll give you a free Sidewinder and a thousand credits to get started.
— Where?
— LHS 3447. Trev something. Trev…Trevelyan…no…Trevithick Dock.
— You’re sure.
— Yes! No kidding, kid. Hey – where are you going? Am I supposed to serve myself?
He’d already wasted too much time in this pallid place. Droom di Volo begged, sold, stole and stowed to Trevithick. He found the office, signed the forms and found the shipyard and his Sidewinder.
And from that moment his universe began to expand. Possibilities started to grow and glow in the dark like truth. Perhaps I’ll see God after all, he thought, as ‘Trailblazer’ launched into the living dark and the colours and the stars exploded into his eyes.
Or perhaps God will turn out to be me.
