Kill Velocity--part 2

Tris stalked down the hall. A man waited at the far end. If somebody so starched and proper could look pissed, he did—a rogue glitter in his pleasant brown eyes. Paul was a Stalling, but his chunky build would have looked right at home on a Barcalounger.

“Tris! I’ve been waiting—”

Or rather, Art had been waiting. Paul was Art’s creature. Technically the company go-fer and in reality the son Art wanted--his yes-man to the nth degree. Paul's softly obese body concealed a razor-sharp mind and the innate goodness of a boy scout, something that made him one of the most conflicted people Tris knew. He kept walking, out past Paul and his bodyguards, down the hall toward the elevator.

“Tris! Please, the situation is—pardon my french—shit. Merlin is closeted with Art. Percival just got back, and Intel is giving me Hell’s own headache. I need answers—”

“I’ll upload a summary.”

Paul ran to grab his shoulder. “Tristran!”

Tris spun and slammed Paul back against the wall—forearm pressed to his throat. “Don't touch me.”

Paul waved a frantic hand at security. “Get back! Jesus—” He shoved Tris off and dropped to his feet with a grunt. “Art wants to see you.”

“Yeah.” Tris knew his uncle could see him. He looked up at the cameras. “I know.”

***

The elaborately furnished pavilion high perched high on StallingCo’s tallest building. Merlin stood silhouetted against the night sky, one hand tangled in the billowing drapes. He was big and dark-haired, although in him size had translated into a kind of slender height. His suit was ice-green Prada and his earrings were emerald solitaires. “Hands-on leadership,” he drawled, turning to walk towards Tris. “How...colorful.”

The elevator opened on Val. He was a big man in a polo shirt and khakis, his Stalling-black hair cropped close to his head. Security surrounded Val, keeping him centered in their human wall with the ease of long practice.

“Out—” he said, pointing to Merlin.

Tris was vaguely aware of Paul in the background, but the other man had long since perfected the art of the quick fade. Despite being Merlin’s twin, he didn’t go up against the Triumvirate. Merlin in Ops, Tris in Intelligence and Percival—their nominal leader.

“I think not, cousin. You’re behind the curve again.”

Val brushed his hand down and security peeled away. “I’m sorry. Did I say it was optional?”

Tris waited until the elevator pinged before he said, “He won’t forget this.”

Val rubbed his chin. “He tried to usurp my authority. If I let him get away with it, he’ll try again.”

Art Stalling pushed out from behind his desk. He was a big man with graying hair dyed black. “Very nice, my boy.”

Val gave his father a cold stare. “I didn’t do it for you, father.”

Art shrugged and focused his full attention on Tris. “Watanabe?” he barked.

“Another week.”

“Not good enough. My daughter is getting married and nothing—do you hear me? Nothing is going to mess that up. You have four days, Tristran. I want results. I want that bastard right there—in that chair—trussed like a goddamned turkey, where I know he won’t hurt my girl.”

Tris turned to leave. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Lots of family coming in--your sister, Elaine. Her husband.”

That caught his attention and Art knew it.

“Ask me how I know,” Art called after him. “Tristan? Ask me how I know--"

***

Tris slammed the door behind him. The sprawling gardens that centered the StallingCo family compound hulked black in the waning moonlight.

Val followed Tris out and stopped to pick up a pair of garden shears. He glanced at his bodyguards and opened his hand. “Walk with me,” he said.

Security melted back, out of earshot.

Jasmine lined the wide gravel path. The flowers had belonged to Val’s mother, Eliza. She’d died the year Tris turned fourteen, tortured to death in a revenge killing. Val grew the bushes despite Art’s near constant attempts to destroy them. A long granite slab took them up a slight rise. Val lived in the only one of the family buildings to look inward. A long shoji-screened veranda ran the length of the ground floor, vaguely reminiscent of a Japanese castle done up Hawaiian-style.

Val sat on the bottom stair and dropped his shears on the lacquered wood beside him. “The closer it gets to Jen’s wedding, the worse he gets. My father is stressed and your pursuit of Lance adds to that. I want you to back off.”

“Is this payment for saving my ass?”

“A request—and a damned polite one, so dial it back, Tristan—I’m not looking for a fight.”

Tris turned to leave. “This conversation is over.”

Val got to his feet. “I’m telling you, man. Back off. Do I need dynamite and blasting caps to get through the rocks in your head? I won’t let you kill him—”

Tris stopped long enough to look over his shoulder. “Killing him isn’t enough. I want him to suffer. Don’t get in my way.”

***

Val slammed the gate on the cargo elevator up and stalked out into the room, not so stiff now that he was away from prying eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “God, this has been a fucking day—”

Tris slipped a knife under his makeshift bandage. “Can’t buy omnipotence, Val?”

The enormous room contained a futon, a chair and a card table. Val pulled out the chair and sat down. “I have it on back order. When you’re done, I need you to see something.”

***

There was a body in the morgue. Val slid the tray out and jerked the cover down. “Recognize him?”

Tris ghosted in closer. The corpse had been bagged in all its attendant crap and the stench of bloody shit hung over the corpse like a cloud. “Security?”

Val shook his head. “Perimeter guard. He was patrolling the access road. A patrol found him in the ravine up near the second checkpoint.”

Tris studied the distorted face. “Poison.”

Val pulled paperwork from his pocket. “Yeah.”

Tris glanced at the printouts and handed them back. “I’ll take care of it.”

“The second checkpoint is over a hundred yards into StallingCo territory,” said Val.

Which meant the killer had breached security. “Have we changed the codes?”

“No.” Val pulled the zipper up over the body and slid the drawer back into the wall. “It’s an ops problem. Not family security.”

“Kimo.”

Val met his eyes. “Yeah--I know.”

***

Amy let the voice-mail play twice. Hawaiian Electric wasn’t going to give Avatar another extension. If she couldn’t get Izumi to open his wallet, the only power equipment at Avatar would be candles.

She closed the phone and slipped it down in her pocket while her thoughts ran around in little circles. There had to be a way. She pushed out through the double doors into the parking lot. There was a picnic table on the grassy verge near the road. Amy sat down, hands locked around her knees. Every time she slammed up against a wall, it took longer for her to bounce back. She didn’t need an objective opinion to know she was in trouble.

Honolulu glittered across the dark expanse of Keehi Lagoon, a wash of light against the distant mountains.

A hand slipped over her mouth and pulled her head back. “Amy Wong?”

“Mphf!”

Pale blue eyes met hers, burning with suppressed rage. “Play nice. Tris sent me.”

She threw herself to the side and snapped at him, teeth bared. “Damn it! Let go—”

His lips drew back. “Don’t bite, baby. I bite back.”

***

If there was an award for scrawny, Amy Wong would win. She was light as a cat and just as skittish. Fallon had seen dozens like her on the streets in Beijing. The only difference was this girl looked like she shopped at Wal-Mart. Probably the accumulated effect of piss-poor and threadbare. What made her so special?

He jerked her to her feet, and she ripped away from him—halfway across the broken asphalt parking lot before he could introduce himself. Fallon followed her through a pair of cracked glass doors into a dilapidated old warehouse. A claustrophobic little room held a couple of chairs and a desk so old it looked like a WWII battleship. Everything that wasn’t falling down was patched up, and it stank like—oh, hell yeah—spaghetti.

Man, it creeped him out. There was nothing Fallon hated more than spaghetti. Some back-brain, gut-level, shit-I-ain’t-gonna-eat-that-crap-again.

A hallway behind the desk. Couple of openings. Staircase. T-junction farther on. Sound and light came from around the corner, nothing panicked. Up then. Heavy treads, thick metal, worn concrete. He hoped they weren’t going to break. Yeah, he could explain that--broke my leg falling through your girl’s staircase.

Caravaggio would shit himself laughing.

He still had problems with the idea of Caravaggio being a covert agent. They’d met in passing over the years, one hot spot or another. He never thought they’d end up working together.

The click stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Put your hands where I can see them.”

Light trickled up from behind him. Now that he was looking for it, he caught the vague outline of a door at the top of the stairs. Damned stupid mistake. Maybe he wanted to die.

“I’m from Tris,” he said, hoping like hell that wasn’t a shotgun.

It was, and deep down, it didn’t surprise him.

The barrel swung to cover him. “Why would Tris send someone?”

Fallon gave her the courtesy of an honest answer. “Don’t know.” The light was getting brighter or his eyes were adjusting.

Amy chewed at her lip. “Can you prove you’re legit?”

“I’m reaching for my phone,” he told her. “Don’t get twitchy.”

***

If eyes were windows to the soul, this man didn’t have one. Six foot four, black hair buzzed down close to his skull and prison pallor. He was scary with a capital S and he kept looking at her like she wasn’t what he expected. Which was all good, because she hadn’t expected him at all.

He put the phone down and backed away.

“Don’t move.” Amy inched down the stairs, holding the gun steady.

He put his hands back on his head, sat down on the bottom riser and stretched his long legs out across the worn metal grating. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

It rang twice and a voice she recognized said, “Yeah?”

“Tris?”

There was silence on the other end of the line. It went on too long before he finally said, “Amy.”

“There’s a man here who says you sent him.”

“Fallon.”

“You left so fast--I’m sorry about my father. Why is Fallon here?” Words tumbled over themselves trying to get out. “Is that man still after you? Wouldn’t you be safer—Tris? Damn it—”

“Man, I never thought I’d see the day.” Fallon got to his feet and slipped the phone back in his pocket. “You scared the shit out of him.”

“He hung up on me!”

“Damn straight. Got any food?”

Amy rubbed a hand over her face. “We might have some spaghetti...”

***

Tris stared out into the darkness. The only people who had ever cared about him were his mother and lately, his cousin Jen. Even his little sister had pretty much cut him out of her life. Amy’s concern felt...strange.

He twisted the top off a bottle of date wine and lifted the squat brown bottle to his lips. What was wrong with him? He flung the bottle away and rubbed at his eyes. Kimo had no reason to kill her.

Security was closing in. The former StallingCo operative had to know his time was limited. A divided target was no target at all. And a divided mind was death. Tris turned away. He had to get his focus back. With Jen’s wedding coming up, Intel was working double shifts. Something was going on. Like a cesspit, it’d deepened until he could almost see the undercurrents. Garbage spinning into a vortex. Stallings stripped of power and isolated. He’d told Val the Stallings at Hale Ohana should have been separated, not just from family, but from each other.

Wealth beyond imagination. Stress fractures deep enough to topple governments. If they ever stopped pulling apart long enough to work together, the world wouldn’t be big enough. Three Stallings were a conspiracy--and at Hale Ohana, there were fourteen.

He grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and eased it over his bandages. Amy was right, he had to let the ribs heal, but there wasn’t enough time. He limped over to the shower. By the time he got out and re-wrapped his bandages, it was midnight. A whisper of sound came from the floor beneath his.

DalCon was loud and obnoxious. Keegan had invited his whole damned team to what was shaping up to be the biggest party to hit StallingCo since Paul’s wedding. Over twenty distant relatives and various connections were due tomorrow. More later. Thirty-six children under the age of eighteen and Guinevere’s friends. Intel was still working through the background checks.

Much as he hated Art, there was logic behind his uncle’s bluster. If Kimo got in, he could wreck serious damage before being stopped. They were dangerously concentrated.

Tris padded over to his closet. There wasn’t much in his loft. More than anyone, he knew how security could be subverted. No hiding places or shadowed corners. Everything out in the open.

His phone rang as he was strapping into another gun harness. “Yeah,” he growled.

Raphael was uncommonly sober. “Brace yourself—”

Tris reached for the table and found himself on the floor with no idea how he’d fallen. The tamachaq word for zone was literally, to faint. He’d started the search for his father with no idea how to get past Val. His cousin understood the potential for violence within their family and as the self-appointed mediator, he went to extreme lengths to keep combatants’ apart.

“Where—?”

“Argentina. Deke is on the ground and says the info is good. I’ll need your okay to abort this mission.”

“Do it,” said Tris. “Low pro all the way. I want visuals.”

“And if it is your father?”

Tris cut the connection. “I’ll take care of it.”

***

Unless Kimo could walk through walls, he was going to have to come up through one of the stairwells. Fallon paced back and forth, quartering the common room. Too early for day, too late for night. What the hell? He wasn’t complaining. The Wongs treated him like a person, fed him and let him hang like they weren’t afraid he was going to knife their daughter.

Rachel had given him the hairy once over the minute Tris was brought into play. But after four months Fallon was used to it. The man was as popular as a new plague vector.

Fallon pulled up a chair and angled the rickety ladderback to where he could cover both doors. It was warm and he was full. He’d suffered worse. There was no way he was going back to StallingCo until the wedding. He could find something to do for six days.

“How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

He’d never heard her coming. If he turned, she’d see his face, and he’d be damned if he’d let Corlis see what she did to him. She’d always had the ability to fuck with his head. He laid his gun out across his thigh, letting her know he considered her a threat.

“Padraic,” she said, impatient now. Like she really gave a shit.

He looked up. There was nothing in her winter-pale eyes. Had he thought there would be? “In default mode, babe? Where’s your partner?”

“We need to talk.”

“Not interested.”

She hesitated. Strange for Corlis, who was almost as subtle as a falling refrigerator. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was afraid, but shit—when it came to her, his needs played hardball. There was nothing weak about her. She wanted something and this deliberate show of concern was just another way to jerk his chain.

She took a step closer. Fallon held his breath, eyes flicking up to her face. It had been way too long. When she traced the line of his mouth with her tongue, he thought he’d explode right then and there. It felt like a balloon was wedged up in his jeans. He couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t enough air.

She moved to kiss him again, but this time he held her off.

There were tears in her eyes. So fucking fake. She knew exactly what she was doing.

“You want to talk?” He put down his Glock and spread his legs. “C’mon, babe. On your knees. Show me how much—”

He hooked her ankles and she fell heavily, face down in his lap, shoulders hunched up around her ears. And shit—this wasn’t what he wanted. Not this—what the hell was wrong with him? They had to talk. Now, before—ah, Jesus. It was so fucking good, his head fell back, eyes rolling up in his head.

“Fallon?” she said, cool and disinterested, like her lips and tongue weren’t working away at him.

“Stop, Liss. We’ll...talk. Damn,” his voice dropped and cracked, his entire body shaking. “Oh, damn...Liss, please...”

She smiled at him.

Shit--! Fallon lurched back.

“It really does taste salty.” Corlis stood, kicked the chair out from under him, and shoved him over on his side. “Get up, asshole. It’s only a flesh wound.”

***

“Fallon? What—” Amy froze, hands away from her body. God, no sudden moves. She didn’t know the woman—pale hair and a face with eyes like chips of ice. There was blood on that tightly held mouth, and Amy had the horrible feeling she knew where it came from. “She bit you!”

Fallon didn’t look so dangerous now, the whites of his eyes showing all around his freaky pale irises. “Right. Let’s not go spreading that around and try to be a little quieter. Jesus—”

“Do you need a doctor?”

He rolled heavily. “It’s stopped bleeding.”

“How can you—” tell? There was blood everywhere.

“Are you worried?” The woman looked down at Amy with a total lack of expression. “I didn’t take it off.”

“Who are you?”

“What do you care?”

The stranger had to be five ten, five eleven. Beautiful in the same way a fer-de-lance was beautiful, with a cold economy of grace.

Amy inched in front of Fallon, giving him what little protection she could. “He’s mine.”

“Corlis.” The woman nodded abruptly. Information as promised. “Residual pain?”

“Fuck you—” Fallon staggered to his feet, hunched over and sweating.

The woman started for the door. “You don't have what it takes.”

***

Tris panted, trying to wake himself up. Fear—and blood. His mother, as she’d been in the last few days before her death. So damned thin. They both were. At twelve, Tris could have easily passed for nine. Elaine was the baby, the only one of them not all skin and bones.

Singapore glittered in the early dusk, a wash of fairy lights distorted by the familiar thickness of bullet-proof glass. StallingCo was a rarity in that it was held by a single family. Sixty floors up wasn’t enough to distance them from the people who wanted in.

Come on, come on--they had to leave. It was five. Lance would be back soon. Whatever Rainey had in mind had to be done now. Tris had seen the tickets in his father’s briefcase. StallingCo Petroleum was trying to deal with the Libyan government. They had no branches in North Africa. Singapore was the nerve center of StallingCo East.

He finally tugged at her. “We have to go—”

“I have to go—”

For a breathless second Tris felt gutted, all his breath blown out in a hemorrhage of fear. “No!”

Rainey didn’t make the mistake of trying to touch him. Bandages were the only things holding him up. Three of his ribs were cracked and he was badly bruised.

“Bebe, you saw it, too. I’m not a good mother. If I could take all your beatings on me I would, but I’m such a coward. I keep thinking, if I die...there’s no one to stand between that man and Lain. Oh, God—the way he looked at her—”

Tris hated his little boy, I’m-so-damned-helpless voice. And most of all he hated the way it cracked right there at the end. He turned away and felt her touch on his wrist. And then he was in her arms, and the pain didn’t matter, because he wasn’t going to leave her all alone to face the monster.

The door opened and Lain squealed with delight. Only a kid, after all. What did she know?

“Uncle Dart, Uncle Dart!”

Arthur Stalling swung her up into his arms, a big man with cold Stalling-black eyes.

“Is this my little Lainey?” he rumbled. “My, you’ve grown—”

Liar. Even on double rations, Lain wasn’t big. Tris swung out of his mother’s embrace and wiped his eyes on the back of his faded black shirt. Rainey stood silent. She’d obviously talked to Art. Equally obvious Art didn’t like her. But he liked Lain...a fact Tris could use to his advantage.

Rainey stuttered, fumbling for a handle when Tris already had the perfect lever. And in this instance, knowledge was power. He stepped in front of her, forcing Art to acknowledge him.

“He doesn’t care about us, Mom. He cares about StallingCo. And he doesn’t want a scandal, isn’t that right, Uncle?”

Art straightened to his full six feet four inches, Lain snuggled down in his arms. “Are you threatening me, boy?”

Tris threw his head back and looked at Art down the length of his nose. Arrogant like all the Stallings. “Yes,” he said, finding his voice at last. And it was a soft, cold voice indeed. “I am. You’ll protect Lain for us.”

“Or?”

“Think about it, Uncle. I promise you, I have—”

“Elaine only.”

Rainey went white. “No! Vous ne saves pas ca que vous dites—”

“Ll est trop tard pour moi.” Tris turned away. It’s too late for me. I’m already dead.

***

Fallon stared out the window, a muscle ticcing in his jaw. “It’s hot in here.”

Amy smiled. “I’d rather be hot than dead. What happens if I turn off the defroster and we run headlong into another car?”

“Jesus.”

“That was my space. I hate circling the block. Are you hurting? There’s aspirin in the glove box.”

“It’s a fucking flesh wound."

“It’s a wound. Let me emphasize that with a period. Wound. Bleeding, traumatized flesh. You are, excuse me...fucking hurt. Would you like an aspirin?”

“Girl, you ain’t my mama.”

Rain poured down, turning downtown Honolulu into a stew of dirty food wrappers. Amy slipped into a space and turned off the engine. She felt cold and drained. Mania slipped away leaving her empty. “I care about you, Fallon. And I’d like to be your friend.”

It was obvious from the vicious look Fallon turned on her that he didn’t want a friend. God, Amy. That was the wrong thing to say.

He snarled, “Friends fucking screw you.”

“That is so unfair. You don’t even know me. How would you know what kind of friend I’d be? Everyone needs a friend. Friends help you out when things go bad. Friends—”

“Fucking screw you. Right.”

“How remarkably cynical. Did you get that from Tris?”

“I’m not his parrot.”

It was obvious he was leaving off a few choice words. “You like me! I know you do. So...now that we’re talking, what’s your favorite color?”

Fallon dropped his head in his hands. “Black.”

“Mine is purple. Isn’t that so cool? Quick, do you like liver?” His blink of surprise made her smile. “I don’t like it either. We have something in common. Good, huh? Pocket change? For the meter.” She held out a crinkled green wad. “I only have a dollar.”

“Are you real?”

Amy tapped her chin. “When you close the lid, is the cat really in the box? I’ve never been able to figure that one out. I think I’m real.” She rolled the window down and stuck her head out. “Drop from the sky!”

Fallon leaned forward. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m supposed to visualize my goals, and every day I visualize a big bag of money falling from the sky.”

“The odds on that—”

“Are slim to none. They’re nonexistent if I don’t try. Everything about Avatar costs money. If I can’t get Izumi to fund me for the next six months, I’ll lose power and the health department will shut us down. It’s like dominoes. All the pieces touch.”

She got out of the car, hands over her face. Her makeup was running like a coward and she so didn’t want to do this. “When I have some spare cash, I’m going to buy an umbrella.”

Up close, Fallon was a lot bigger than she remembered. He looked down at her with his hot eyes, mouth twisted up in a sneer and spat out, “You sound like my mother. When I have some spare cash...She died ten years ago, poor as shit. Ain’t nothing falling from the sky, girl.”

“Rain falls from the sky. Planes. Why not money?” Amy tipped her head back and opened her mouth. She could never catch a raindrop. She stuck her tongue out. “I caught a raindrop!” She stuck her tongue out again and licked her lips. “It’s brackish.”

“Jesus, this is too fucking weird.” Fallon started after her, and abruptly caught her arm. “Thanks for what you did. I mean, me and Corlis...y’know, the other night...”

They stopped in the shelter of an overhang. “That woman was wrong, and I won’t let her hurt you again.”

“Hurt me?” Pale eyes met hers, startled into a kind of raw honesty. “Jesus Christ! Has anyone ever called you crazy?”

She grinned, inviting him into the joke. “All the time.” Her hand opened, palm up. “Pocket change?”

His gaze slipped away to something behind her. Amy turned. Tris stalked toward them, the wind slapping his long black coat against his boots. The storm gathered behind him, coming in off the water with the stench of sewage and low tide.

Fallon swore under his breath. “I’m outta here.”

“Honest to God, he’s not that scary.”

“If you’re not scared, baby, you ain’t looked into his eyes.” He took her keys, gunned the engine and ripped her car away from the curb.

Tris stopped, the expression on his face cold and opaque. His jeans were water darkened and his heavy black shirt was stenciled with something in french.

“He drives like somebody who’s never seen a white line before,” she said. “Was he in the military?”

“It’s almost ten.”

“That’s not an answer.” She gave him a smile, and tipped her head back. “How do you feel?”

It was painfully obvious he didn’t want to be here. A chill formed in her belly. Damn it! I don’t want to be your problem. She turned away, arms wrapped around herself.

“I have...bruised ribs...”

She smiled at him. “But you’re wrapped up now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you coming in?”

He waited for her to pass him. “Yes.”


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...and in case you're interested. One of my regencies that won't die--

lol--they told me it wouldn't work

Thirty years ago, I moved from Hawaii to the East Coast, and because it "was" such a long way, I gave everything to the library. Pretty stupid on my part, because personal libraries are accumulations, and at that point we were so broke we could barely buy groceries, much less books.

During this last move I said, "Never again." Nothing left behind. I didn't care if I'd read it recently, if I was iffy about it. I took it all with me. Over fifty plus 45 lb boxes shipped media mail. When we first moved in, I had no bed, no desk, not even a cooling stand for my laptop, but I had bookshelves.

My husband built my old shelves out of 2x4's and heavy plywood because he said there was no way I could put that kind of weight on normal shelves. He was right. When I went out and bought new ones from OfficeMax, they sure looked good, but I've noticed some have a distinct sag.

I don't think people use them for books, more like show. Like those people who collect literary hardbacks and pretend to read them.

I got my next bookcase from Pier 1. It might not be as "big" as my main bookcase, but it's heavy-duty solid wood and considering the kind of poundage on that thing (I keep my reference books there) it's holding up pretty well. I can't afford the custom stuff from that company out in Ballard. Not yet.

So--with all that space (okay, more like a free shelf or two) I started missing my trips to the Friends of the Library bookstore. Every library in King County has a sorta-bookstore, but they're old tattered up nasty things that nobody wants to buy and Oprah-books.

And sure--I might live near one of the world's biggest number of used and antiquarian bookstores, but they want a lot for their books, and I live out in the sticks so it's not worth the drive.

Garage sales don't cut it. People are pretty random. So I put an ad on Craigslist. Books wanted, I said.

lol--I don't know what the hell I was thinking. I was pretty clear--or I thought I was pretty clear.

Romances in the last fifteen years, no harlequin or Mills and Boon. Sci-fi/fantasy, no hard sci-fi, no high fantasy. I'm not into Tolkien-esque or Ben Bova. No role-playing series, no Eddings, Weis or Jordan. Non-fiction, paper or hardback. Military science, in particular Greenhill and books on military theory, not WW2 or 1. Philosophy, history, not WW2 or 1, prefer Napoleonic, regency, ancient and random stuff. Craft of writing, not writing inspiration. No magazines or cookbooks.

That's clear, right?

I got some damned weird replies.

"Would you like to buy my Navy books. I have boats and naval battles."

I said, "er...no. I'm not into Navy anything. Thanks for asking."

And I went back and edited to say, "NO Navy anything, I am not interested in naval warfare of any type." And I figured that'd be the end of it.

So the next four replies said, "Are you a "collector"? I have some stuff from the eighteen hundreds and signed copies and family bibles. I can sell you this particular thing for 800 dollars."

Of course, I--not having climate control or glass fronted cases, although I do have some stuff from the eighteen hundreds and it flakes/foxes/molds a little more every year--said, "Wow--thanks for asking. But I don't have climate control or glass fronted shelves. I'm a "reader". Not a collector."

And I went back in and edited again, "I DO NOT want your family bibles, rare/antiquarian books that cost over 500 dollars or signed anything because I'm not willing to pay for the author to have touched it"

By the time I got through adding in all the people who wanted me to buy their Oprah-books (NO Oprah-book club books, no DaVinci anything) Sweet Valley High (NO YA), children's (NO children's!!) Sidney Sheldon, Danielle Steel, and Stephen King, my ad looked like a giant NO!!!

I was getting ready to delete the damned thing when this woman said, "My dad asked me to list the books he wants to sell."

And proceeded to list twenty years of military theory. I wanted them all. I couldn't afford them all, but I sure wanted them. Supplying War: Logistics from Wallenstein to Patton, Special Operations in US Strategy. I was thrilled. I also filled two shelves with stuff I'd have taken years to find.

Guess it does work. If you're willing to sift through the crazies.

More on Organic Structure (part 3) or wow—I really “am” that murky…

Yesterday I took another look at my organic structure stuff. I’m not always clear and it’s good when people point that out. Over the course of many years, I’ve been trying to figure stuff out.

Whenever Jen tells people about me, she always says, “…her writer’s journey.” And I like to think that’s pretty much why I started this blog. The journey stops when I’m dead and I’m not dead yet. In the meanwhile I’m messing around in the hopes that something, somewhere will click and I’ll magically know the answer to why the hell I’m not writing to my full potential.

Deb Dixon—-(and if you don’t know who she is, you really need to read her excellent book, Goal, Motivation and Conflict) was kind enough to stop by the other day when I was struggling through organic structure. She clarified how GMC covers both internal, external motivation, and the importance of character--and y’know, I had to pull out my copy. That’s the trouble with the internet; it’s like a big game of telegraph. Things get messed up in translation.

I’ve spent so much time talking to people who whip her out like a baton, (or like she says, “a hammer”) I mistook the garbled message for what she’s actually about. Mea culpa.

I’m also a believer in helping people to find what they’re about, so my apologies (general and hopefully all-encompassing) if anyone feels I’m trying to tell them what to think. As people say at the beginning of RWA lectures (and I really should put in my header). Take what you can use and leave the rest.

I’m an INTJ and--God help me—can no more stop myself from spouting theories than prevent myself from eating chocolate. I wasn’t as clear as I should have been, and on a second look, think what I was trying to say was that linear plot doesn’t work for an organically written character-driven story because the logical progression in such a story doesn’t work on a conscious level.

Although the story has GMC, I don't think it can be seen from the inside during the process of writing this particular kind of rough draft. It can only be seen afterwards during revision/edits or layering.

It’s not really plotting or pantsing--it’s more like flux that flows outward from the characters, and at the point of contact with another character changes to create a story event. Like “a jump” from A to D, instead of the more commonplace A-B-C-D. “A” is a given, and so is “D”, but “B” and “C” are more like a leap of faith that it can’t “not” work if the characters are acting true to themselves and their creation. Sort of like directed fumbling in the dark, if that makes any sense?

Think of a skein of yarn where the “creation” of character is the beginning of the strand--now pull the skein out to where it’s sort of like a big moebius strip, lay it down and cut it on each side. You have a lot of strips that are of equal length.

Organic structure is like that.

A lot of ends that intersect at point “A”, travel in a mostly straight line “toward” point “D”, and then end when they “become” point “D”. BUT, at the same time remain a bunch of ends with the potential to become their own skein, and something totally different when another color or fiber/character gets added.

Multi-layered GMC strands? Or like Zan and Jayna (yes--I'm flying my geek-flag) from Super Friends, saying "shape of..." a cloud that looks like a cloud from the ground and mist when you’re in a plane. Intangible.

Organic Structure: Part 2

You told me what it was, but you didn't tell me how it works...

Let's talk about GMC, Motivation-Reaction Units and Turning Points. GMC is Goal, Motivation and Conflict, otherwise known as "Deb Dixon's book".

1) What do they want? 2) Why do they want it? 3) And why can't they have it?

Dwight Swain did something similar in Techniques of the Selling Writer, but called it motivation-reaction units.

1) What causes something to happen? 2) What happens in reaction to that stimulus?

Mckee, in his ground-breaking structural work, Story, talks about how turning points spin the story and increase momentum.

All valid ways to look at plot. In a plot-driven story, event B is always caused by event A. So GMC is pretty much A>B>C>A>B>C, Motivation-reaction units are A>B>A>B and Turning Points are A>B>C>XX>A>B>C>XX2.

Plots are linear and look a little like algebra.

In other words, if I want John back in school, I need a reason.

In organic structure, we start at point A, but how we get to point D is different. In a linear plot, you'd see John get a pink slip and walk past a Workers Retraining poster. In an organic, character-driven story, you'd see John in a crappy job, staring at the ceiling in bed, a stack of bills on the counter, his kids in a rundown second rate school and his fear that maybe that's all there is, maybe he can't get his kids out of poverty.

By the time John walks into the admission office, you know why he's there, but there's no one specific goal or motivation because his goals are as complex as his motivations.

Linear-John is easy to flesh out because his character only needs to be developed to the point of supporting the plot. I can easily give John gorgeous blond hair, dazzling blue eyes and an Armani suit, because for the purpose of the plot, he's a blank slate.

Organic-John is defined by his circumstances and character. He's got kids, he's got a crappy job--they live in a ghetto. That means he might wear a suit, but if he cares about his kids, it's the Sears clearance suit and his gorgeous blond hair is shaggy and unkempt, or military tight so it can go longer between cuts. Maybe he cuts it himself and messed up one side. Maybe he's too proud to ask for help, so he's always hungry.

The difference is depth.

It's not easy to write an organic story. The underlying structure is logical, but that logic is the result of many plot threads coming together that don't always appear logical on the outside--although they are true to your character's internal logic.

John might not get to school because of a pink slip--but he does get to school. In an impressionist painting kind of way.

Organic Structure: Part One

What is it, why should I care--in other words, gimme a definition.

You know...I've been thinking about this and googling it, and looking everywhere for a damned definition. But I can't find one. Every time I come up with something I "think" might be organic structure, it turns into some obscure, overly academic or mystical touchie-feelie riff on finding plot in what you "see" in your head or channeling your emotions.

Three triangles in a row over a fulcrum, exploring your inner voice...? C'mon--anything with exercises is a turn-off. I don't want to light candles or get out a sketchpad.

My definition of Organic Structure:

Writing from inside your characters.

Pretty simple.

In genre fiction it's another way to say character-driven. Definitely the one-eighty of plot-driven.

Plot is what happens "to" characters. High concept. Elevator pitch. If you can explain it in ten seconds, you've got plot.

In other words, characters are interchangeable. Archetypes work well in plot-driven stories because they're a listing of character traits that tend to go together, sort of like saying, "I'm a Leo" rather than, "I'm a slightly chubby middle-aged birdwatcher with a fixation on crows and Trader Joe's chocolate-covered orange sticks."

General versus specific. Organic writing is specific to your characters. Plot in organic structure can't be taken out and used somewhere else because "those" characters produce "this" plot.

If I take John (from my posts on Emotional Structure) out of his story, there's no way I can replace him with another guy, because if I do the story changes. A well-thought out, multi-dimensional character in an organic story can't be removed without serious damage to the story structure.

In a plot-driven story, the story events drive the characters--so if I remove John and insert Rob, a twenty year old with acne and a brand new truck, his "Rob-ness" doesn't really matter, what does matter is the "weight" of the story.

To carry Rob, the plot would have to override personal details.

ie.

First Blood.

In the first Rambo movie, Rambo is a drifter. Everything that happens builds on both his backstory and who he is because of that backstory. When he heads up into the mountains and does his whole poncho-survivalist thing, it's understandable because--yeah, well--he was Special Forces. It's concentric and circular.

All actions are based on who he is, what he did, what he became, and what's happening to him because of that. Because he was Special Forces he did "this", which produced this reaction, which is triggered by "that". Circles inside circles, unlike the more linear structure of a plot.

Organic structure is a bulls eye of concentric rings, each spreading out like ripples from a central character. An organic plot happens when the rings of one character hit the rings of another character.

The later "Rambo" movies are plot-driven. Although Rambo is still at the center of each movie, he can easily be replaced by Chuck Norris or Steven Seagal.

David Morrell, the writer of First Blood, and an excellent author, gave an interview about the last movie:

This is the first time that the tone of my novel FIRST BLOOD has been used in any of the movies. It's spot-on in terms of how I imagined the character—angry, burned-out, and filled with self-disgust because Rambo hates what he is and yet knows it's the only thing he does well.

He doesn't mention plot, because it's all about character.

Free!!! YAY, running around and skipping....

I am officially--as of an hour ago--free for the next two weeks. No more exams or surprise tests. No more--thank God, citation entries, formatting issues, footnotes or research on things I have absolutely no interest in. I spent most of last night (until the library kicked me out at 10pm) working on my payroll project because--right, I bought an e-textbook, and the payroll software is part of the print bundle. On one hand it saved me eighty dollars, on the other, I could have done much better if I'd installed it on my laptop. I'm hoping it averages out.

Maybe it was just a bad quarter. Summer is shaping up to be good. My textbooks (none of which come in e-format) are "only" four hundred dollars, which is a far cry from the seven I dropped during spring. Nationals is in a few weeks, and I have two luxurious weeks of almost free time to spend working on my projects.

I have noticed I disappear during the last two weeks of school. Between life, school, work and my kids, it's been nothing but intense. My youngest son got sick and had to go to emergency. I thought I'd bring my homework, but I really didn't feel like it. Then it got really hot (for Seattle) and I finally broke down and turned on the a/c. The thing about the South--when it's hot, everyone's got their a/c. You go from a/c work to a/c car, to a/c in your house. Here, when it's hot, it's just hot, and since the houses are designed to hold heat (for those long periods of 60 degrees)it gets nasty.

On the plus side, I've developed a deep and passionate love for my reader. It works so well, the other day I was cruising through Fictionwise (hoping something multi-formatted would be there) and I found this new author. Nothing I would have read if they hadn't mis-classified her in sci-fi, because except for Jen, I'm not a fan of Whiskey Creek Torrid. But the blurb was good (and didn't instantly turn me off, I'm so damned picky) and when I clicked on the excerpt I couldn't stop reading. Wow, just wow. A little too much sex, but not in an "ugh" way, but more like if Michelle Crean had put a consummation scene in Dancer of the Sixth. It'd totally freak me out if this woman "was" Michelle Crean under a different name. She disappeared after her first book, and I'd always wanted to read the sequel.

*sigh* I might read another book as a treat. I have two weeks. Free time, it's better than chocolate.