Children of a Dead Earth fanfic idea thread
Nov 6, 2016 14:09:38 GMT
SevenOfCarina, 123nick, and 3 more like this
Post by nerd1000 on Nov 6, 2016 14:09:38 GMT
I've got nothing better to do, so I went one step further and wrote up a little over 400 words to 'test the waters'. Premise is that in the aftermath of the campaign there's a bunch of ships running around tidying up orbiting debris and salvaging valuables from the ships Admiral PC wrecked. Our protagonist (Alexy) is a USTA citizen who took a job on a RFP salvager (RSF Bose, named for the famous physicist), desperate for some cash and a safe place to sleep (as you can imagine, the situation in the former USTA is not great).
It might be fun to arrange one of those round-robin writing exercises where each person gets control of the story for so many words before passing it on to the next.
The inside of a EVA pod is quiet.
Not silent, mind. There's still the hum of air-con, the hiss of escaping gas as you fire your thrusters, your own breathing... but it's still a kind of quiet you rarely experience on a station packed with people. Sometimes I find it soothing, being away from the noise and bustle of a horde of people flying through space in a titanium can. Other times it reminds me how alone we really are out here, so far from the cradle we so foolishly destroyed.
“EVA Seven. Correct course zero point three radial.”
Not that I ever get any real peace and quiet for long. I pull the microphone boom towards my mouth, simultaneously tapping the control panel to program in the desired burn. The pod's attitude thrusters are already nudging me onto my new course as I press the transmit button on my control stick.
“Copy... burn complete.”
Almost as soon as I let go of the button another voice needles its way into my headphones.
“Nice job pressing the button on the console, spaceman.”
There's always one. I check the transmit log, confirming my suspicions, and press the transmit button.
“Shut up Mohammed.”
“Don't get mad, uster. An angry spacer's a dead spacer. You should know, seeing how the Admiral taught your girl Overkill that lesson the hard way.”
The mission controller's voice crackles over the comms again.
“EVA four and seven, keep this channel clear for mission critical traffic.”
“Just keeping the newbie safe, boss.”
Mission control briefly drops her professional veneer.
“Shut up Mohammed. And as for you Alexy, stop responding to his bullshit. It just encourages him.”
I smile in spite of the scolding. Today's mission controller is Chandra, a diminutive thirty five year old from Mars and the only person on board the Bose who really makes me feel welcome. Somehow it's impossible to dislike her, in spite of everything her people have done to mine.
“EVA seven, your target should be three hundred metres away. Bearing 030, elevation fifteen degrees.”
I haven't been in this business for long, but there are some things you have to learn quickly. My eyes jump to the spot, searching for the derelict I'm supposed to be salvaging. The high resolution displays that substitute for windows in the pod helpfully provide an enlarged image, shifting from visual to infra-red for easier identification. I recognize the long, pointed shape right away. It's a Devastator missile. The same kind that rained devastation on my world.
It might be fun to arrange one of those round-robin writing exercises where each person gets control of the story for so many words before passing it on to the next.