This
morning I got an email note from another blogger who asked me to check out his
blog because the latest post was inspired by events that took place in Artificial
Light.
I’ve
been writing for a while now and some of the most contentious on-line wars I’ve
ever seen have been over fan-fiction. I never entered any of those flame war conversations
because both sides make really good points which left me wandering someplace in
the middle.
I
always wondered how I would feel if I had ever been ‘fan-fictioned’ and now
that it’s happened I’m not gonna lie to you, I’m pretty stoked! It was written
by blogger Craig Whibley and you can read it here:
Now
don’t get me wrong, if I had found out about this via a multimillion dollar
budget movie trailer I might not be skipping around on cloud 9 but with so much
of my writing being inspired by others how would I look if lost my mind and
started acting like a dick, claiming ownership of an idea, and threatening
legal action over something as cool as this?
Hell
the foundation for my short The Lazarus Antidote is built entirely on someone
else’s work (used with permission of course, but still):
And
The End is Now would be completely different than it is now if not for the
inspiration and collaboration I got from for Lori Titus.
I’m
still stuck in the middle over the whole fan-fiction idea but I wish this guy
tons of success, because the 1st thing I wanted to do after I
stopped screaming in glee was write. I inspired him, and then he inspired me!
And so the cycle of creativity continues. And this is why I’m stuck in the
middle of this hot button issue because I do believe that the creation of art
should have some ownership but to suggest that anything created now is 100% original
and wasn’t inspired by anything that came before it is a bit asinine.
The
only we as writers are going to be successful and achieve acclaim is if we help
each other, encourage each other and be inspired by one another. And we have to
allow others, to a certain extent, to be inspired by the work we create.
This
industry isn’t every man, woman, and child for themselves. It just doesn’t work
that way. In Monopoly the game is over
once ONE person has EVERYTHING. We as artists and creators can’t let that happen
because the end game would be the end of books, the end of art, the end of
music. Do we really want that?
Well
because no post would be complete w/out shameless self-promotion here are two
chapters from Artificial Light that inspired the short story Quake. Have a good
one guys!
***
Book II Chptr 8
“Who’s
guarding the gates of Hell while you’re walking Lucifer’s dog?” Dr. Farley
questioned when he was within speaking distance. Ken and I both smiled at that.
He
looked over his shoulder, then up at the watchtower before addressing me again.
“And you are?”
“Dr.
Farley. I’m Artemisia, this is Dr. Kenneth Astor, and this,” I said while
nodding toward my dog, “is not Cerberus, but Sentinel.”
“We
belong to the Skyward Group. We’re the ones responsible for your release,
because we feel you’re too brilliant of a scientist to rot away behind bars.
”
Dr.
Farley crossed his arms and looked up again at the watchtower, which, like
before, he found empty. In the seven years he resided here, he had daydreamed
of escaping and had never once seen the tower unmanned. The mistrust that was
written all over his face now migrated to the rest of his body as he took on a
more combative and hostile posture.
The
large Rottweiler equalized the tension by matching Dr. Farley’s posture of
bellicosity. The doctor realized that he was no match for the 107-pound
guardian, whose ancient was breed was prized for their fearlessness, strength,
and power, and he instinctively took a step back.
I
shrugged my shoulders. “You can go back if you want.”
“And
what will my brilliance cost me this time?” he snapped. “I have been stripped
of my license, labeled a crook, a fraud and unreservedly ruined. I have lost
the appetite for flattery in the form of half-truths and whole lies.”
“You’ve
already secured a piece of real estate in Malebolge. Why don’t you just wait
until you get there to move in? I’m sure you’ll be more than comfortable with
the housing arrangements our group can provide while you’re still living, which
thanks to you, could be a very, very long time.”
“What
is it that you want from me?” the doctor demanded.
“Nothing,”
I answered while admiring the way my gold bracelets played in the light,
wondering if my earring danced in the sun the same way. Dr. Farley noted my
distracted vanity with an expression akin to that of one trying to swallow hot
sand.
“I
know you have reservations, Dr. Farley,” Ken noted. “However, we are nothing
like your former associate, Mr. Sheldon. One hundred percent of the funding for
the studies we conduct is legal, and so is twenty percent of our research.”
“Only
twenty percent?” Dr Farley questioned.
“Twenty
percent,” I repeated. “Publicly, I sit at the head of the Artemisia Luxury
Group, the core of which is jewelry. I am the owner of Periodic Element AU and
Atomic Weight 196, and my jewelry boutiques are scattered over every continent
on the planet.
“You
and your associate raised 93 million dollars over the course of six years,
which is admirable. However, the revenue generated through the Seattle, New
York, and London Periodic stores alone is twice that in just six months.
“After
taxes, payroll, and insurance, the Artemisia Luxury Group earns nearly half a
trillion dollars a year.”
Dr.
Farley’s mouth fell ajar. “Ken,” I continued, “is the head of the Astor
Corporation. You might have heard of them; with over 300 firms worldwide
conducting military weapons research, you’d be right to say that the Astor
Corporation is the world’s most powerful and influential defense contractor.”
“It
pains me to admit that the Astor Corporation earns more money than The
Artemisia Luxury Group.”
“There
are twenty-one founding members of the Skyward Group,” Dr. Astor explained.
“All of us own independent organizations that gross more than one hundred
million dollars a year, and we’ve all partnered with global organizations who
are researching and developing things such as wind and solar technology,
weapons, deep-sea exploration, crops that will grow in barren lands, cancer
research and the like. Our alliances with these firms and the multitudes of
fundraisers we host throughout the year make up the twenty percent of the
research that is conducted at the Skyward Group and provides our firm with the
first tier of funding.”
“Our
second tier of funding comes from covert U.S. military research,” I explained.
“But we also conduct experiments for militaries of other nations as well. Two
percent of the private earnings of our founding members are pooled together and
added to the funds we receive for these projects, which leaves more than enough
money to fund an organization such as ours.”
Dr.
Farley remained silent as he once again looked at the unmanned tower.
“The
biggest weapons project we’re working on is the Tesla Project. We’re studying
the effects of geophysical manipulation, but you will not be a part of that.”
“Geo
…” Dr. Farley stammered nervously, looking again at the empty watchtower. “You
people are trying to control the weather?”
“Dr. Farley.” I did the best that I
could to keep the irritation out of my voice. “There are more neural
connections in the human brain than there are stars in the sky that can be seen
with the naked eye, yet you have found a way to clone the human mind, so let me
be the first to welcome you to the ranks of ‘you people.’”
“Like you, Dr. Farley,” Ken
explained, “Nikola Tesla was a pioneer, and we are simply continuing the
research he started in the 1940s.”
“Everyone
tries to control the weather,” I said, answering Dr. Farley’s question. “From
the sacred ceremonial dances of ancient peoples to children signing ‘Rain,
Rain, Go Away,’ everyone tries to control the weather. But we’re not trying to
control the weather, Dr. Farley, we’ve weaponized it … and our experiment
surpassed all of our expectations.”
“The
Indian Ocean earthquake that caused the deadliest tsunami in recorded history
was man made. The quake was the second largest ever recorded, lasting almost
ten minutes. The entire earth shook as a result, because the initial earthquake
triggered other quakes as far away as Alaska.”
“Wha …?” Dr. Farley was beyond
astonishment. “But over 200,000 people were killed.” Dr. Farley’s eyes quickly
darted between mine and Ken’s as he took another step back. Beads of sweat
began to appear across his forehead as he glanced again at the unmanned tower
and the large iron gates of the prison, which had locked behind him.
“Yes. That was quite unfortunate.” I
explained, “The Skyward Group donated two point eight million dollars as a
result of the humanitarian plight that resulted. But of course, that wasn’t
good enough, because it took them less than a year to retaliate.”
“Them?”
William had been scared beyond description at the prospect of being thrown into
and then spending the rest of his life in prison. Now, as a free man, Dr.
Farley found himself paralyzed with terror with the company he now kept.
“Yes,”
Ken explained. “Ten months later, they counterattacked by creating Hurricane
Katrina. The scientists behind the assault, the ones who controlled and
directed the super storm, were caught and assassinated. In the three years
following Katrina, the United States has not been attacked by a hurricane, and
that is no accident.”
“But
there was Rita,” Dr. Farley recalled.
“Hurricane
Rita wasn’t a weapon. She was just your good old-fashioned natural disaster.
There’s nothing we can do about acts of God,” I explained. “But we’re working
on it.”
He
appeared stunned, and I was becoming exasperated by the contentious way Dr.
Farley was looking at us.
“You’re
working on it, with weatherized warfare? What is it that you want from me? I
don’t want to be involved with manipulating weather; there are limits to what
man can …”
“No
there aren’t, Dr. Farley,” I interrupted. “And like I said, you will not be a
part of that project. We’re here because of Project Six Thirty One.”
“What
the hell is …” I cut him off again.
“Dr.
Farley, I’m pleased to tell you that efficacy has been established with the
pre-clinical trails you were conducting before your imprisonment.”
The
expression on the doctor’s face was indescribable as he looked beyond me to
focus on something that wasn’t there. I handed Dr. Farley a thick confidential
folder labeled The Children of Project 631, which contained smaller folders
with information on six young subjects.
Subject
one, female, 11 years old
Professor
Mary Stemple PhD, 64, transitioned to Amy Rebecca Winsten.
Subject
two, female, 10 years old
April
Tanner, 42, transitioned to Stephanie Johnsten.
Subject
three, female, 10 years old
Elizabeth
Whitley, 64, transitioned to Elisabeth Tiffany Gunnell
Subject
four, male, 9 years old
Samuel
Whitley, 63, transitioned to Jeffery Samuel Winthrow.
Subject
five, male, 9 years old
Army
First Sergeant James Earl Lake III, 68, transitioned to Allen Kenneth Morgan.
Subject
six, female, 7 years old
Annette
Smith, 72, transitioned to Olympia Dawn Michaels.
“We have taken the liberty of securing all the
data that were compiled while you were under the umbrella of the Lotus
Foundation. Dr. Farley, we are here to invite you to continue your research
under the protection and with the unlimited funding that a group such as ours
can provide. However, sir, if you wish to return to prison, that can be
arranged, as we can continue this research without you.”
Dr.
Farley was no longer uncomfortable in our company or distracted by the unmanned
tower. The accomplished geneticist pulled his glasses from his shirt pocket and
quickly scanned the patient files that were handed to him. He was back in his
element for less than a minute before all the files were quickly flipped
through and scanned.
“Invite me, what an interesting choice of
words. Where are the others?”
“The others?” Ken and I asked in
unison.
“Yes,” he answered irritably. “There
are only six patient files here. Eight transitioned, so I ask you again: Where
are the others?”
We said nothing, as we looked at
each other in stunned silence.
“Arrogance breeds incompetence.” Dr.
Farley actually turned his head and spat before he glared down at me from over
the top of his glasses, clearly no longer bothered by our research or by
Sentinel, who issued a growl of warning.
“Complete
this research without me … maybe. If you paid as much attention to the data as
you do to the idol god that you’re wearing around your wrist.”
I
was furious. “Let me remind you that I’m not the one who spent the last seven
years in prison, Dr. Farley.”
“And
I need not remind you that I’m not the only one who’s placed a deposit to dwell
in the fourth Bolgia! Let me ask you something, Artemisia, what is it that you
need me for?”
“I
do not need you for anything.”
Dr.
Farley barked out a harsh laugh. “Of course you don’t. I assume I have a
workspace in all of this.”
“State
of the art,” I snapped.
Dr.
Farley brushed past me and got in the car. “Then take me to it.”
Ken
offered to drive.
Book II Chptr 23
The
density of the woods started to recede, and slivers of shimmering skyline began
to expose themselves between the branches like a flirtatious burlesque performer,
but we were still an hour away from our destination. Dr. Farley had his window
down, and cold air was gushing in. I turned on the heater, and Ken slowed down
and then stopped.
“Do
you feel that?”
After
a few moments, I did. “An earthquake.” It was strong enough to bounce loose
rocks and pebbles on the asphalt.
“Is
this one of yours?” Dr. Farley sarcastically asked from the back seat.
“No,”
we both answered at once. When the rumbling stopped, Ken and I both reached for
our phones and placed calls to different departments within the Facility. I
brought Dr. Farley up to speed once I got off the phone.
“The
calls were placed in accordance with the Skyward Group’s emergency management
procedures, which mandate that all of the founding members and our most senior
staff call in to report locations and receive assessment reports on any outside
environmental threats, ground or structural damages, and quarantine conditions
and, if necessary, obtain any rerouting instructions for the safest and
quickest way to the Facility.”
I
reached into the center console and handed Dr. Farley a company cell phone,
gave him the number, and brought him up to speed with regard to his status
reports.
“When
speaking to anyone within the Skyward Group, clients of the Skyward Group, or
anyone working for our supporting organizations, you need to do so on the phone
I’ve just assigned to you.”
“Because
cell phones and base stations use low-power transmitters, we’ve purchased our
own cell phone company to ensure that information traveling through our
channels and frequencies does not collide with any other providers and, of
course, to prevent any verbal communication from being intercepted and/or
recorded.”
“We
also own our own networking and Internet infrastructures, tons of domain names
and IP addresses. Anything you can dream of that will allow us to control and
monitor the traffic of communication and information, we’ve thought of it
first, and we’ve already implemented it.”
Dr.
Farley placed the phone on the seat next to him and commented sarcastically,
“Big brother is always watching.”
“Of
course, you can acquire your own personal cell phone,” Ken offered, “but we
will tap into and monitor all communications through that phone as well.”
Dr.
Farley took a deep, slow breath, checked out mentally for a moment while he
thought something over, then turned his head toward the window to allow the
cool air to wash over his face.
Two low-flying Army gunships
screamed past us, racing toward the city ahead. I turned to regard Ken with a
questioning look.
“This is intriguing.” Ken placed
another call. “Put a squint team together, find out what just happened, and get
General Addison on the phone.” Ken ended the call before whoever he was just
talking to had a chance to respond.
“All
of your staff has been accounted for, and they are at the Facility,” I
continued. “Your personal assistant reported that all of the glass in your
apartment building has been shattered, so you won’t be able to sleep there
tonight. It will be too cold; it’s on the eighteenth floor. We have housing at
the Facility, but if you wish to stay in a hotel or at a nearby resort, your
assistant can arrange that.”
"My apartment?” He asked the question slowly and in a slight state of confusion, as if he were just coming to after being knocked unconscious.
"My apartment?” He asked the question slowly and in a slight state of confusion, as if he were just coming to after being knocked unconscious.
“Well
yes.” Ken glanced into the rearview as he spoke, throwing quick glances at the
road. “The apartment is spacious. The view from the library overlooks the park
while the living room and bedroom offer views of the city’s skyline.”
“It’s
a little over a thousand square feet – not too big, but much bigger than where
you slept last night, and graciously furnished. The property belongs to the
Skyward Group, so we’ll have all the glass replaced in a few days, but if you
wish to live somewhere else or buy your own property, by all means do so.”
“I
am a convicted felon with no money, and you’re talking to me about purchasing
real estate? And another thing: I am no longer a doctor, so please just call me
William.”
I turned to look at Dr. Farley,
ignoring the antagonism in his voice and the lines of irritation across his
forehead.
“You’re
right. Dr. William Arthur Farley was a convicted felon, but tragically,
he died this morning in prison. You’re still a doctor, and you’re still William
Farley, but now you’re Dr. William Ryan Farley.” I removed an envelope
from my bag and handed it to him.
“Here
are your new driver’s license, Visa and MasterCard, passport, social security
card, information on your banking accounts, and your company identity card.”
“Be
sure not to lose your badge,” Ken cautioned. “You’ll need it to activate the
biometrics security system that will allow you to move about the Facility
according to your security level. That badge will allow access to any of our
research facilities worldwide that you have clearance for. You’ll have your
thumb and eyes scanned when you go through orientation with the security team.”
William
was surprised to see that the picture on his passport was the same one he had taken
when he renewed it eleven years ago. His chest tightened. He no longer
remembered the man in that photograph. He sifted through the various photo
identifications, reached for the cell phone, and put everything into his
pocket.
“So
I guess this is a good time to negotiate my wages and benefit packages.” Ken
was shaking his head, not at the ruins of the city through which he was trying
to navigate, but at William’s question.
“No.
As a senior staff member, you have a base salary of twelve million a year, and
it is non-negotiable.”
The
sound that William made was startling. I had been receiving and responding to
emails on my handheld, but hearing that sound made me quickly turn to look at
Dr. Farley to ensure that he was OK.
Sentinel,
who had been lying in the back seat and keeping a relaxed watch over Dr.
Farley, immediately snapped into full, taut attention. Ken was looking at him
through the rearview mirror and had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting an
emergency responder who was directing traffic.
With
the car at a full stop, and as we ignored the scathing curses from the man we’d
almost run down, all eyes were on Dr. Farley. He held up his hands and shook
his head as if trying to clear it.
“Gimme
a minute. You cannot imagine the day I’m having. The most frightening, amazing
day. Being broken out of prison, told my experiments are successful – that my
patients actually transitioned, that they’ve made it.” He took his phone and ID
out of his pocket and shook his head again.
“To
be given a new hold on life and to learn you have twelve million in your bank
account, to find out you even have a bank account.”
“Actually,”
I interrupted, “you only have just over six. It’s the standard signing bonus,
but you go on payroll as soon as you start working.”
William quickly did the math. “So that’s
roughly eighty-three thousand dollars a month?” We both nodded in agreement.
“Plus
benefits and bonuses,” Ken reminded him. William was again shaking his head as
if to clear it.
Ken
was waved on, and once again we weaved our way around roadblocks and passed
herds of people huddled together in wide-eyed fear and relief.
Falling
bricks crushed cars parked below, and the number of killed and injured changed
every few minutes.
One
sky rise had shifted on its foundation and was now leaning on another for
support. When the occasional concrete slab, broken rebar or other building
material fell to the earth, the crowd watching from a distance would scream.
The
concentrated area of destruction along with the earlier sightings of the
helicopters led Ken and me to suspect that the devastation was caused by a
bombing and not the forces of nature.
It
took nearly an hour to snake our way to the Facility. When we finally arrived,
Dr. William Ryan Farley was asleep, and neither one of us wanted to wake him
up. He was right; we could not imagine the day he must be having.
