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Works in progress, 2/3 non-fic
Jan. 24th, 2015 09:07 amI wish I could do the "Share three passages from three WIPs" meme in the spirit in which it's probably intended, but it doesn't mention fanfic in particular, after all. So, have something from the fic I hope to finish someday, plus a bit from early in Not Time's Fool (which counts as in-progress because I still have plenty of editing to do) and the opening of Book Five.
1. "They got all this out of our heads?" he wondered. "I mean, it's not very Betan, all the water. But…"
"If it was the Barrayaran seaside the waves would be bigger and colder and there wouldn't be… pelicans? Albatrosses? Whatever those are."
"Exactly. Where in my subconscious or yours did those come from, I ask you."
"Simon, dear. Don't be more paranoid than you… obviously require yourself to be. It's a generic Earth fantasy, I expect. Collective ancestral memories." She smiled. "Adam and Eve. Aquatic and geriatric version thereof. I have to say," she added, looking down at herself, "it's pleasant to negate the effects of gravity somewhat."
2. ( cut for length )
3. The muffled oars whispered secrets to the river as the boat slipped downstream at dawn, returning Major John André to the safety of the Vulture.
Rinaldo’s back and arms ached. They’d already done the long pull to and from the British sloop once; yes, it had been hours earlier, and he’d killed some of the boring and uncomfortable wait with a nap while André and Benedict Arnold had their chat, but the shoulder muscles he’d strained fighting the current were screaming at him now. He tried imagining just how good it was going to feel when Pasha had him facedown and naked in their bed, kneading at every sore bit of him with enormous and clever hands, but it was a dream, another world, the imaginary future it should have been to the man rowing the boat. The muscle strain was pretty much real; the boat wasn’t, and neither was the Hudson, even though he could taste its spray on the wind and feel it splashing on board when George’s oar cut into the water at the wrong angle.
They must have put the chilly splashes into the program on purpose, along with the tedium and the uncooperative current, just to weed out those rookies who expected time travel to be a non-stop adventure, instead of painful, cold and mostly dull. No wonder the Colquhoun brothers, who’d done the first leg of this horrible trip in real history, had balked at repeating it; no wonder it had been so easy to talk them (or their computerized avatars) out of the honor of influencing the outcome of the American Revolution. And here, provided with the bona fides required to pass as slightly more enthusiastic but equally gullible patriots, were George Merrill and Rinaldo Dickinson in their places.
1. "They got all this out of our heads?" he wondered. "I mean, it's not very Betan, all the water. But…"
"If it was the Barrayaran seaside the waves would be bigger and colder and there wouldn't be… pelicans? Albatrosses? Whatever those are."
"Exactly. Where in my subconscious or yours did those come from, I ask you."
"Simon, dear. Don't be more paranoid than you… obviously require yourself to be. It's a generic Earth fantasy, I expect. Collective ancestral memories." She smiled. "Adam and Eve. Aquatic and geriatric version thereof. I have to say," she added, looking down at herself, "it's pleasant to negate the effects of gravity somewhat."
2. ( cut for length )
3. The muffled oars whispered secrets to the river as the boat slipped downstream at dawn, returning Major John André to the safety of the Vulture.
Rinaldo’s back and arms ached. They’d already done the long pull to and from the British sloop once; yes, it had been hours earlier, and he’d killed some of the boring and uncomfortable wait with a nap while André and Benedict Arnold had their chat, but the shoulder muscles he’d strained fighting the current were screaming at him now. He tried imagining just how good it was going to feel when Pasha had him facedown and naked in their bed, kneading at every sore bit of him with enormous and clever hands, but it was a dream, another world, the imaginary future it should have been to the man rowing the boat. The muscle strain was pretty much real; the boat wasn’t, and neither was the Hudson, even though he could taste its spray on the wind and feel it splashing on board when George’s oar cut into the water at the wrong angle.
They must have put the chilly splashes into the program on purpose, along with the tedium and the uncooperative current, just to weed out those rookies who expected time travel to be a non-stop adventure, instead of painful, cold and mostly dull. No wonder the Colquhoun brothers, who’d done the first leg of this horrible trip in real history, had balked at repeating it; no wonder it had been so easy to talk them (or their computerized avatars) out of the honor of influencing the outcome of the American Revolution. And here, provided with the bona fides required to pass as slightly more enthusiastic but equally gullible patriots, were George Merrill and Rinaldo Dickinson in their places.
