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valarltdNovember is lurking on the other side of sleep, daring me to face it in mortal combat once more.
For fourteen years, we have waged this contest, this dominance struggle of time vs. words.
I have triumphed five times in fourteen years. But I win every year, because I come out with more words at the end of the month than the beginning.
So, this year...
I'm blank on anything new. I'm thinking of finishing up David, one of the side books in the Eight Thrones cycle. He's been pestering me.
Background: Spotter's Field Guide to the Common David Muse
I'm already 10532 words into it and would just need to take it back up.
Opening Segment:
David Inman had always thought of his body as one more tool, useful but only a carrying case for his mind. He had first used it to reward a loyal minion when he was twelve–the same year he’d first killed—only to discover that sex for its own sake meant little. He was well aware, however, that there were many men who coveted his slim fairness.
Men like the one recently seated across from him. Handsome and predatory, in his mid thirties and Middle Eastern looking. David sat in the interrogation room, smoking and staring at him, watching every move of his long elegant fingers, his full, cruelly sensual mouth and his subtle black eyes.
“Smart enough to graduate Harvard at fourteen. Smart enough to hack every major banking network by sixteen. Still dumb enough to smoke. Maybe you aren’t what I’m looking for after all.”
David blew a perfect smoke ring in his direction. “Every genius should have one vice. And they’ve engineered out all the carcinogens, anyway.”
“And you have a multitude. From the brandy you are not old enough to drink to blackmailing the men who enjoyed you before today.” He laid a thick file on the table and set a stack of papers beside it. “The file contains all I know of you. I assure you it’s much more than the police have. And they are already speaking of four hundred years in prison.”
David lit another cigarette from the butt of the first. “Morons,” he said, tossing his head. Shoulder-length blond waves caught the light in a very deliberate way. “As if it could hold me. I’m a minor.”
The predator flashed the date of his watch. “Happy birthday, David. Eighteen as of now. And the paperwork will all have today’s date.” He smirked. “Data piracy, computer theft, information trespassing, and grand larceny.”
David laughed without humor. “Are you my intake officer to tell me all I already know?”
“My name is James Ligatos. I run a specialized rehabilitation program for promising young criminals such as yourself.”
David removed and polished his round wire-framed glasses. “Criminal is such an ugly word. I prefer homo superior. So what, precisely can you rehabilitate,” his voice turned bitter and mocking as he resettled his glasses, “a thieving little four-eyed faggot into?”
A small, secretive smile turned up the corners of Ligatos’s mouth without reaching his eyes. “More than you can imagine. The best mind in a century is meant for far better things than petty thievery and being sold for four cartons of cigarettes or half a bottle of whiskey.” He reached over and stroked the backs of his fingers along David’s cheek “You’re very pretty, very young and already gay. You’ll bring a good price on the inside, for a while. Until you are no longer so pretty.”
“Petty? Seven billion dollars is petty?” David looked him over appraisingly. “I have plundered the monkeymass, putting them to work for me as is my prerogative.”
Ligatos laughed in his face. “Seldom does one meet an elitist so blatant about it.”
David shrugged. “Humility is a method of control created by churchmen and enforced by lesser minds. It does not apply.”
“In twelve hours, you will be expounding your Heinleinian-Nietschzean philosophy to Bruno “the Mangler” Franzetti before he begins pounding on your ass. If you take my training, you will have three years of intensive, doctoral-level study and afterward, you will be well sought after.”
David never opened the folder, but read over the papers. This man was pure temptation. After being turned down by four major schools who didn’t want a fourteen year old prodigy, he wasn’t about to let anyone know how badly he wanted more education. He wanted to be free to enjoy his rather substantial fortune. He swept Ligatos with another glance, this one smouldering with promises.
Ligatos met it, his own eyes blazing. He gave a half-smirk back and watched as the fair skin flushed faintly. “I only make my offer to the best. So far you are the seventh. Two died in training. I have every confidence you will not. You say you are elite. Have you heard then of the Eight?”
David snorted. The Eight were supposed to be a secret cabal that ruled the world under the direction of a figure alternately called the Spider and the Harlot of Rome. It was the sort of garbage that half-bright hackers liked to spread among themselves. “Conspiracy theories. The raving of half-insane net-heads.”
Ligatos gave a small smile and shook his head. “Very real. I am one. You could become one in time as well.”
His blue-grey eyes glowed with excitement, but David merely shrugged again, lit another cigarette, and began signing the papers. This man couldn’t possibly be one of the Eight. One of the Eight would be less open about it. But he had money enough to consider seven billion dollars as petty change and power enough to get him out. That was all that mattered. David finished the papers and lit another cigarette.
For fourteen years, we have waged this contest, this dominance struggle of time vs. words.
I have triumphed five times in fourteen years. But I win every year, because I come out with more words at the end of the month than the beginning.
So, this year...
I'm blank on anything new. I'm thinking of finishing up David, one of the side books in the Eight Thrones cycle. He's been pestering me.
Background: Spotter's Field Guide to the Common David Muse
I'm already 10532 words into it and would just need to take it back up.
Opening Segment:
David Inman had always thought of his body as one more tool, useful but only a carrying case for his mind. He had first used it to reward a loyal minion when he was twelve–the same year he’d first killed—only to discover that sex for its own sake meant little. He was well aware, however, that there were many men who coveted his slim fairness.
Men like the one recently seated across from him. Handsome and predatory, in his mid thirties and Middle Eastern looking. David sat in the interrogation room, smoking and staring at him, watching every move of his long elegant fingers, his full, cruelly sensual mouth and his subtle black eyes.
“Smart enough to graduate Harvard at fourteen. Smart enough to hack every major banking network by sixteen. Still dumb enough to smoke. Maybe you aren’t what I’m looking for after all.”
David blew a perfect smoke ring in his direction. “Every genius should have one vice. And they’ve engineered out all the carcinogens, anyway.”
“And you have a multitude. From the brandy you are not old enough to drink to blackmailing the men who enjoyed you before today.” He laid a thick file on the table and set a stack of papers beside it. “The file contains all I know of you. I assure you it’s much more than the police have. And they are already speaking of four hundred years in prison.”
David lit another cigarette from the butt of the first. “Morons,” he said, tossing his head. Shoulder-length blond waves caught the light in a very deliberate way. “As if it could hold me. I’m a minor.”
The predator flashed the date of his watch. “Happy birthday, David. Eighteen as of now. And the paperwork will all have today’s date.” He smirked. “Data piracy, computer theft, information trespassing, and grand larceny.”
David laughed without humor. “Are you my intake officer to tell me all I already know?”
“My name is James Ligatos. I run a specialized rehabilitation program for promising young criminals such as yourself.”
David removed and polished his round wire-framed glasses. “Criminal is such an ugly word. I prefer homo superior. So what, precisely can you rehabilitate,” his voice turned bitter and mocking as he resettled his glasses, “a thieving little four-eyed faggot into?”
A small, secretive smile turned up the corners of Ligatos’s mouth without reaching his eyes. “More than you can imagine. The best mind in a century is meant for far better things than petty thievery and being sold for four cartons of cigarettes or half a bottle of whiskey.” He reached over and stroked the backs of his fingers along David’s cheek “You’re very pretty, very young and already gay. You’ll bring a good price on the inside, for a while. Until you are no longer so pretty.”
“Petty? Seven billion dollars is petty?” David looked him over appraisingly. “I have plundered the monkeymass, putting them to work for me as is my prerogative.”
Ligatos laughed in his face. “Seldom does one meet an elitist so blatant about it.”
David shrugged. “Humility is a method of control created by churchmen and enforced by lesser minds. It does not apply.”
“In twelve hours, you will be expounding your Heinleinian-Nietschzean philosophy to Bruno “the Mangler” Franzetti before he begins pounding on your ass. If you take my training, you will have three years of intensive, doctoral-level study and afterward, you will be well sought after.”
David never opened the folder, but read over the papers. This man was pure temptation. After being turned down by four major schools who didn’t want a fourteen year old prodigy, he wasn’t about to let anyone know how badly he wanted more education. He wanted to be free to enjoy his rather substantial fortune. He swept Ligatos with another glance, this one smouldering with promises.
Ligatos met it, his own eyes blazing. He gave a half-smirk back and watched as the fair skin flushed faintly. “I only make my offer to the best. So far you are the seventh. Two died in training. I have every confidence you will not. You say you are elite. Have you heard then of the Eight?”
David snorted. The Eight were supposed to be a secret cabal that ruled the world under the direction of a figure alternately called the Spider and the Harlot of Rome. It was the sort of garbage that half-bright hackers liked to spread among themselves. “Conspiracy theories. The raving of half-insane net-heads.”
Ligatos gave a small smile and shook his head. “Very real. I am one. You could become one in time as well.”
His blue-grey eyes glowed with excitement, but David merely shrugged again, lit another cigarette, and began signing the papers. This man couldn’t possibly be one of the Eight. One of the Eight would be less open about it. But he had money enough to consider seven billion dollars as petty change and power enough to get him out. That was all that mattered. David finished the papers and lit another cigarette.
