As the Moon Climbs

Calliope Cervantes: The Art of War begins with Know Thy Enemy, or you can see the full list of Calliope Cervantes stories.

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People tried to kill Calliope Cervantes all the time. It came with working for the Interstellar Revenue Service; being responsible for someone’s arrest and indenture tended to encourage negative feelings, especially if that someone got shipped off-planet for a few years to help terraform some grubby moon. Every once in a while she found that a skiver who’d been through the system came out the other side with a strong desire to make sure other skivers got to have the same memorable experience.

“Hello, Saunders?” Calliope said. “Cervantes here. Put together a missing person report for Citizen Fourth Class Diego Callejas. And get me Trigger on the com.”

She watched the diner’s robotic cleaners scoop up the glass that littered the floor around the booth where she’d been sitting. Yes, people tried to kill her all the time, but few of them felt the need to chat her up first. Titus Lynch was a real piece of work, smiling at her while pinpointing her location for his sniper outside. She could see the groove the bullet had left in the wall across from where she’d sat, and it made her skin cold.

An incoming call politely beeped in her ear, and she answered. “Lay it on me, Trigger. Orchid Pierce? Got it. Coordinates accepted.”

This was going to be fun.

* * * * *

The locals called the place Old Brooklyn for sentimental reasons, but it was officially designated Zone 112. Calliope stared up at the stony behemoth of a building that housed the aforementioned Orchid Pierce, all-around stellar citizen and known accomplice of Titus Lynch. Pierce was on the ninety-fifth floor, and while Calliope loved a good straight flight up the side of a high-rise, she also loved not getting shot by someone who might be tailing her. She ducked into the spartan lobby and sprinted for the nearest elevator, which was just closing its doors.

“Sorry,” she said to the woman inside. “You mind entering ninety-five?”

The woman tapped the number pad and Calliope leaned against the back wall. She noticed, as they jolted into motion, that there were no other floors on the list of stops, and gave her temporary companion a more careful look. Tall, lanky, Indo-Eurasian, short black hair…

“Of all the–” she said before a fist plowed into her stomach. Her flight suit was designed to redistribute impact force, but it still knocked the wind out of her. Meaning her new friend Orchid was wearing illegal Gauntlets.

Calliope dodged sideways as Orchid brought her other fist up, taking a nasty clip to the chin that would have been lights out if it had connected. Since she was already doubled over, she drove her shoulder into the taller woman’s chest, pushing her into the wall. Orchid kneed her in the diaphragm and drove a fist between her shoulder blades, knocking her to the floor.

Rolling onto her back, Calliope managed to dodge Orchid’s foot as it flew toward her head. Judging by the crunching sound the floor made, Calliope deduced that the woman’s shoes were augmented as well. Peachy.

Two could play at that game, she thought. Calliope aimed a vicious hook kick at Orchid’s leg, which buckled and sent the woman stumbling backward far enough for Calliope to bring her hoverboot forward for another kick–this time, to the knee. Orchid screamed and collapsed against the wall as Calliope scrambled to her feet, punching the downed woman twice in the face for good measure.

“Tough break,” she murmured, eying the mess her heavy boot had made of the woman’s leg.

The door to the elevator opened with a quiet ding.

“Come on, Citizen,” Calliope said. “Let’s have a quiet chat, you and I, while we wait for the medic.” She slipped restraining cuffs around Orchid’s hands and a belt around her waist, activating the antigrav so that the wounded woman floated gently in the air, occasional fat drops of blood splattering on the floor.

“Lynch is gonna kill you for this,” Orchid hissed, shivering in pain as Calliope towed her into the hallway.

“He’s going to kill me anyway,” Calliope retorted. “Or try, at least. And as soon as he finds out you’re with me, he’s definitely going to kill you.”

“What do you–”

“We’re going to bring you in for questioning, and maybe you’ll talk, and maybe you won’t, but we can’t detain you without evidence.”

“You’re damn right you–”

“So we’ll have to let you go,” Calliope continued. “But the problem is, he won’t know whether you talked. He might even genuinely expect you to keep your mouth shut.” She leaned her face close to Orchid’s, staring into the woman’s wide black eyes. “But I get the sense that he’s not a gambling man. I think you’re going to wake up one morning on the sooty side of a launch pad a few seconds from liftoff.”

Orchid all but stopped breathing. “He wouldn’t.”

“Is that so?” Calliope crossed her arms over her chest. “Tell me, Citizen Pierce: are you a gambler? How lucky are you feeling right now?”

No response. Calliope smiled. “That’s what I thought. You have until the medics get here to decide whether you’re going to cooperate and disappear, or keep your mouth shut and walk out the front door of the nearest IRS office in broad daylight.” She chuckled. “Maybe he’ll be really nice and use that sniper of his. Quick and clean.”

Now Orchid was crying, tears sliding down her thin cheeks. “Who do you think you are?” she whispered. “What do you even think you can do against him?”

“The same thing I always do,” Calliope said. “First, I lay plans. Then…” A lazy smile touched her lips. “Then, I wage war.”

* * * * *

Next: The Use of Spies

When crafting a fantasy world, be it medieval or modern or a completely new creation, one of the first things we have to figure out is the system of magic. The two biggest issues that most people focus on are power level and access: is magic capable of really big booms or mostly minor mischief, and can anyone do it or only a select few who are born with the talent or trained in its use? But beyond those major questions lies the real fun of making up magic: how does it actually work?

The possibilities are virtually limitless. You can go with wands and oral spells, like in Harry Potter. You can use scrolls and scrips and songs, like in The Magicians of Caprona. You can have energy manipulation with command words and add more elaborate approaches ad hoc, like in the Dresden Files series. How do you decide what methods and materials to use in your system, in your world?

One thing that most magic systems seem to have in common is that they are relatively simple for the reader to grasp. Take Harry Potter as the example. Congratulations, you’re a wizard! Please collect your wand at the shop. To cast a spell, wave your wand and say the magic words. There are occasionally more steps involved, but that’s the basic gist. It doesn’t get much simpler or most straightforward than that.

But how satisfying is it to the magically jaded? Once you’ve read enough fantasy books, do you find that you crave something different? Something new and original? Or do you feel comforted when you can slip into a familiar system without questioning the technical aspects? Even Harry Potter eventually adds things like shapeshifting and non-verbal spells to spice up the story, but these merely supplement the relatively strict wands+words=spell formula.

Let’s take an analogue from science fiction. There’s hard sci-fi, which places more emphasis on using theoretically feasible and specifically detailed scientific ideas that are often carefully explained in the story. Then there’s soft sci-fi, which tends to focus on the characters and the story with more hand-waving with regards to the mechanical stuff. Neither one is inherently superior to the other, and each attracts a different set of readers.

Is there anything like this when it comes to fantasy? If not, why? Is it that readers of fantasy have more in common with readers of soft sci-fi? Does fantasy itself slant towards character-driven tales such that any technical jargon alienates readers who just want to know if the hero and the heroine defeat the bad guy and fall in love? Or is there something fundamentally mysterious about magic that defies explication, so that in explaining it you destroy the very thing that makes it, well, magical?

The novel I’m working on takes place in a magic college, with lots of courses and different majors that run the gamut not only in terms of purpose, but also methodology. Even a mere divination student has to learn astrology, cartomancy, oneiromancy, I Ching, tasseomancy, cheiromancy… And that’s just a single major! As the author, it’s hard to step away from the magic system building and focus on incorporating only those elements that are essential to the story, in the same way that a hard sci-fi writer must chomp at the bit to explain exactly how that deep sea geothermal energy plant works.

So, people… how do you make the magic happen?

Most of us have probably engaged in some light fortune-telling activity in our lives, be it through playing children’s games or scanning horoscopes or eating fortune cookies. You’ve also likely read about it in books, whether it was in your face or more subtle. The befuddled heroine seeks a palm reader to find her true love. The dashing hero has a mysterious dream that only becomes clear later in the story. The conflicted character is shown his flaws and virtues in blunt or vague terms. But how many of us have used prognostication in our fiction, and to what end?

Whether it is done well or poorly, fortune telling is typically used for three major purposes: to foreshadow, to reveal information, or to develop character. Here are some examples of each:

Foreshadowing

I opened my fortune cookie expecting something like I’d gotten two days ago (“You have a tendency to focus too much on yourself.”) and to my surprise it was an imperative fortune: “Look beyond the surface or you will be deceived.” What was that supposed to mean?

This happens early on in the book I’m editing at present. It’s what those of us who have seen Kung Pow would call it the “Stars Above” approach: a vague tease of a line that will make sense later. This can either be narratively satisfying due to the later payoff, or it can be contrived and annoying to the reader because of that very anticipation of later payoff. It’s a question of whether it successfully creates suspense, or fails by drawing too much attention to the suspense it seeks to create.

At the same time, this is one of the most natural uses of prognostication because that’s pretty much the way such things work. It’s rare for an oracle or spooky dream or Tarot reading to give specific indications of what’s to come; if anything, specifics lend an element of incredulity to the whole process. If you called a psychic hotline and were actually given lottery numbers, how likely would you be to believe them? Not very. Such is the way of foreshadowing. If it weren’t vague, what would be the point in reading the rest of the book?

Revelation

And yet, sometimes, the hero does need some kind of guidance as to where he should go next, or needs to possess some vital information in order for the plot to move forward. In Virgil’s Aeneid, Aeneas and the surviving Trojans head to Delos to consult the oracle as to where they should go next. They get this handy instruction:

Undaunted youths, go, seek that mother earth
From which your ancestors derive their birth.
The soil that sent you forth, her ancient race
In her old bosom shall again embrace.

Aha, says Aeneas’ father, seek the home of our ancestors! This means we need to head for Crete! And so they do, and once there they begin to build a new home for themselves. Unfortunately, they got it wrong, and so a more straightforward oracle shows up to give more guidance:

But change thy seat; for not the Delian god,
Nor we, have giv’n thee Crete for our abode.
A land there is, Hesperia call’d of old,
(The soil is fruitful, and the natives bold-
Th’ Oenotrians held it once,) by later fame
Now call’d Italia, from the leader’s name.
lasius there and Dardanus were born;
From thence we came, and thither must return.
Rise, and thy sire with these glad tidings greet.
Search Italy; for Jove denies thee Crete.

Whoops, says Aeneas’ father. The thing about ancestors is that you have more than one, and he picked the wrong one. And so we have an example of how fortune telling can be used to reveal something that the character has to know to get going, thus providing guidance and moving the plot forward. It doesn’t always need to be this clear, but must be more specific and easier to interpret than the kind of fluff used for foreshadowing.

Character Illustration

It rained, though he didn’t remember consciously suggesting it. The water soaked through his cloak and his clothes to his skin, clammy and cold, but he wasn’t made uncomfortable. In the dream he was in Syria, walking along a river. A man was baptising people with water in the name of a god who would come. The water ran clean and clear and when he followed it on, Odin stood with Heimdall at a bridge. His father reached for him, clasped his hand, and welcomed him home. The river turned to stone as they crossed it, and he stared at the foundation of a hall larger than had ever been built in Asgard. He knew it was his own. The closer he drew to it, the more clear it became. Stones piled upon one another, and he felt the rock against his palms as if he had hewed them. When he reached it, it was complete, and he wandered the corridors until he lost count of the rooms inside, and slept.

Courtesy Amalia of Good To Begin Well, Better To End Well

Here we see the character of Thor, who at this point in the story is exiled from Asgard and wandering the earth as punishment. This dream sequence highlights how alone he feels, and how much he craves a home and the peace it brings. It is simultaneously prophetic because it shows something that will happen later, when Thor finally does build the hall in his dream. But mainly, this shows you what he is feeling at this point in the story, giving you insight into this character’s concerns and hopes.

Here’s a more up front example, again from the novel I’m editing. This bit may not make the final cut, but it works for this purpose:

“So,” Luke said, “What does the card mean?” He was grinning, and he had those perfect teeth you can only get from braces or magical dentistry.

“Um,” I replied. I didn’t want to tell him what I was thinking, because no matter how euphemistically I tried to word it, none of it seemed very flattering.

“Relax, Evie, I’m not going to get mad,” he said.

“Um,” I said again. “Well. The card is The Fool, and it shows a guy about to walk off a cliff.”

“And?”

“He’s smiling,” I continued, “So he probably isn’t too worried about life. He’s just kind of, um, ignoring the world around him.” I frowned. “But he can’t do that forever. At some point, he’ll walk off that cliff and fall to his death, which is pretty scary. He needs to look where he’s going. Stop laughing at everything and start getting serious, you know?” At this point, my mouth dried up and I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Luke shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, what can I say… I get that all the time from my dad, so I guess I had it coming.”

This is where the reader learns a little something about Luke, who he is and where he comes from. The failure of something like this is that you usually want to discover character through their actions and dialog, and this can come across as a infodump. However, when done well, it can give insight into the inner workings of a character, even illuminating areas that the character himself was burying or refusing to acknowledge, which then helps that character to grow and change. Having a perfect stranger tell you your faults can be an eye-opening experience, and fortune telling can be a great vehicle for that.

So, ladies and gentlemen, have you ever used some form of fortune telling in your writing? Prophetic dreams? Palm readings? Casting of bones? For what purpose did you use this technique, and how satisfied are you with the result?

Part 5 of the serial Broommates. Start from the beginning or read the previous episode or click the “Broommates” link at the top of the page to see the full list.

* * * *
“So that’s it, then,” Anthony said. Miranda nodded. They surveyed the house, which was covered in a thin layer of dust because of the shaking it had endured from the dragon’s attacks.

“I suppose I’ll get the broom,” he said finally, and turned to leave.

“I know we weren’t entirely… forthcoming with you,” she said.

He stopped and shrugged. “We weren’t either.”

“But now that this is all out in the open,” she continued, “let’s lay some additional cards on the table, shall we?”

Anthony stared out the window at Kitty, who appeared to be conversing with the increasingly tame dragon outside. “What kind of cards?”

“The kind where you tell me all about you, and your compatriots, and this house, and–”

“No deal,” Anthony said quietly. His jaw was squared, his expression stony, and it gave Miranda pause. She folded her arms across her chest and treated him to her best impression of a schoolmarm waiting for an explanation as to why Timmy was run up the flagpole again.

“Everyone has secrets,” he said. His eyes met hers, a caramel brown that had hardened like amber. “Some secrets protect and preserve.”

“And others are dangerous,” Miranda countered. “Why should we trust you to know the difference?”

“Why should we trust you, period?”

“We just saved your lives!”

Anthony looked away. “We probably could have made do without you,” he muttered. “We’ve done before.”

“And you can do again if we leave, I suppose?” Silence was his answer.

They watched as Kitty curtsied to the dragon, then reached out a hand with her finger pointed, jabbing it forward as if popping a bubble. The dragon shook itself like a dog after a bath, stretched its wings, and in one vigorous leap took to the air.

“Kitty!” Miranda shrieked, racing to the door. Anthony was right behind her. They sprang outside, Miranda clutching an iron rod and Anthony hefting a longsword. By the time they reached Kitty’s side, the dragon was a rapidly shrinking speck in the sky.

“Why would you–” Miranda said, then stopped when she saw Anthony. “Where on earth did you get that sword?”

“Me?” he yelped. “It’s over a hundred degrees all of a sudden, how much cold did you suck of out the air with that…” He waved the sword in the general direction of her rod.

“Come on, you know that’s elementary magical transference, I have to get the cold from somewhere and there wasn’t time to–hey now, don’t be evasive, you didn’t have that sword a minute ago!”

Kitty left them arguing and went back into the house to tend to Parker, who was still passed out on the floor. A sad smile played at the corners of her lips. They would all have to talk about the dragon sooner or later, and it wouldn’t be very nice, especially since she was pretty sure she knew who had sent it. And he was a nasty sort, indeed. But that was a story for another time.

* * * *

Part 6: The Seventh Son

I watched the small guy with the big gun creep from shadow to shadow in the abandoned warehouse, shipping containers towering over him. He would have looked like a little kid playing in his dad’s clothes but his face was all soft and wrinkly like one of those sharpei dogs. “Get out here, you stupid bitch!” he yelled. I decided to call him Spanky. He looked like a Spanky.

“Where is she?” asked the other guy. His name was Maurice, and he was a lot bigger than Spanky. Or me, for that matter. I pressed against the side of a container, waiting for him to pass so I could kick him in the head.

He was not being cooperative. He stayed alert, checking around corners, moving slowly and carefully. I gave up and turned my attention to Spanky, who shook like a Polaroid and kept spinning around to look behind him, his arms sticking straight out. He had to hold the gun with both hands, it was so big. He was good and lost in the maze of giant boxes, coming up on a dead end just around the corner.

You’d be surprised how close you can get to someone if you move really slowly just beyond the range of their peripheral vision. You can get close enough to grab their gun and bring their elbow down to meet your knee coming up fast in the opposite direction. After that there’s a lot of screaming and cursing but the important thing is that the gun is now in your hand. If it’s a semi-automatic, you can push the magazine release with one hand and kick the offending clip into the shadows. I was watching from the rafters by the time Maurice got to that crybaby Spanky.

“Where did she go?” Maurice asked.

“I don’t know,” Spanky whimpered. “She broke my fuckin’ arm.”

I discharged the bullet that was still in the gun and tossed it as far away as I could. It clanked loudly as it bounced on the concrete floor. Maurice went to investigate.

Swinging from one jutting metal tress to the next, I kept an eye on him as he tiptoed and sidestepped his way to the source of the noise. Then he did something nobody ever thinks to do: he looked up. I hung upside-down, staring back, glad that my mask hid the dopey expression I was making.

The secret to dodging bullets is that you are not dodging the bullets. You are paying careful attention to where the gun is pointing and then making sure you are not in the way. It helps to duck behind something large like a shipping container. Unfortunately, that meant I could no longer see Maurice. He had only fired at me twice so he had more than enough ammo left to make me regret my career choice.

If someone had told thirteen-year-old me that I would be doing this in five years, I would have thought they were crazy. Back then it was all glitter and pony tails and sequin-covered leotards. Now, I was sneaking around in the dark wearing skin-tight urban camo, trying to catch a couple of thugs who had killed two cops. Time flies. Me, I just jump good.

Silently, I leaped to the top of the container and crawled to the edge. No sign of Maurice. I jumped to the top of the adjacent container and peeked again. Still nothing. I got that creepy feeling that someone was behind me and glanced over my shoulder. It was just a creepy feeling. Where had he gone?

That’s when I heard the sound of a door opening and closing, followed by the far-off but increasingly loud wail of police sirens. The place would be totally up to its nostrils in cops any minute now. They probably wouldn’t be eager to hear my side of the story. I climbed out through a ventilation window, skulking around on the rooftops of the other warehouses crowded together in the industrial neighborhood, slowly putting distance between me and all the Officer Friendly types.

I wish I could say I was the kind of hero who never let a bad guy get away, but like my dad always said, sometimes you have to know when to fold ‘em. Maybe Batman would have nailed one of the goons with some kind of tracking device, but I wasn’t the damn Batman. I was a real person. I was Soliton.

The moon was hiding behind a mess of clouds, so no one saw me jumping around from roof to roof. Once I was far enough away that I could barely hear the sirens, I checked my cell for missed calls. One, from my mom. I sat down on a big metal air conditioner and listened to the message.

“Hey Gracie, your dad and I wanted to wish you a happy birthday,” she said. I hated when she called me Gracie. “Call us back when you get a chance. Love you!”

Lying back, I stared up at what few stars I could see. I’d call them in the morning. They’d ask what I did to celebrate. I would lie. Then I’d go to class and pretend to be normal.

Stop being such a baby, Grace, said the voice in the back of my head that always sounded like my old gymnastics coach. It was not a voice you argued with. So I didn’t. I got up, dusted off my dirty ass, and headed home.