I haven’t thought of myself primarily as a writer in a long time. I’ve never really stopped writing, because I certainly created a lot of content for Fallen Earth, wrote poses, descriptions and dialogue for OtherSpace, but all that work has been in service to something else: Game design.

The last time I felt something akin to what occurred Tuesday night was probably more than twenty years ago, back when I sat in that comfortable circle of chairs with the staff of the Valencian magazine at Valencia Community College. This group I met with was the subset that’s specifically interested in science fiction and fantasy. Every couple of weeks, they meet to share what they’re working on and to get feedback from others.

Back at Valencia, where I met two of my best friends, Jeff and Liz, our work was rendered anonymous, photocopied, handed out, and then scored with critiques. Ironically, after a few sessions, the anonymity sort of went out the window because people could spot our writing styles. But there’s no anonymity in this new group, which sits around a table in the bookstore and reads selections aloud before getting feedback.

I didn’t submit anything to read for the first meeting. I just wanted to get a feel for how things worked, study the group a little, and get a sense of the personalities at work. But I didn’t just sit there and listen. When people read, I gave feedback that I certainly hope was helpful. I don’t think I savaged anyone, I just pointed out when things felt too passive or when I wanted a better feeling of urgency and immersion.

As things wrapped up, our group leader took volunteers for reading at the next meeting. I wasn’t going to do it at first, but a few thoughts occurred to me:

* I’ve joined this writers group. So, time to get back to writing. Really writing. This would motivate me to get the ball rolling almost immediately.
* I’m not good at fence-sitting. I want to be in the mix. That means diving right on in. Best way for me to get the most out of the group.
* It’s only fair. Several people read their work Tuesday night and got my feedback, good and bad. They ought to have the chance to return that favor.

So, up went my hand.

I’m now on the hook to write something new to share with the group. It’s exciting. They’re a bunch of good people, sharp and funny, and all interested in improving their work and helping others to do the same. I’m glad that I’ve connected with them.

Now, to write.

It was hard for him to argue. The Nall hadn’t left much standing on this block when they pulled out of the Llivori capital on Kamsho. Their home, on the third floor of the Jarmol Building, had two fully collapsed walls. Most of the furniture that hadn’t been blown out onto the street below had been ruined by fire, smoke, or extinguishing chemicals.

“We can start over,” he said.

That got a smile from her, but it wasn’t a happy one. “Again?”

Merrick didn’t care much for the idea himself. They’d lost their entire home universe, it seemed, to the whims of the Kamir and their usual abuses of unspeakable power. Three years ago, they’d been with the refugees aboard Hancock Station during the voyage from Nocturn to Hiverspace. They lived in a shanty in an enclave aboard Comorro for about a year after that. Then they moved to Kamsho; got themselves a small apartment in the city of Vor. He thought they were done moving for a while. Maybe for good. He enjoyed the city. They welcomed Outversers here. Gave him a decent job working on their communications infrastructure. His wife, Carly, worked as a nurse in the main metropolitan hospital.

For a few moments, he just listened to the wind howling through the wreckage of the building. Then he said, “Yeah, again.” He shrugged. “What else are we going to do? Quit?”

She rested a palm against her forehead. “I’m tired of change.”

“It can be exhausting,” Merrick agreed. “But I doubt it’ll go away. Change is life’s only constant.”

Carly rolled her eyes, but at least that angry smile softened. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he concurred.

“I love an idiot,” she said.

Merrick smirked. He threw an arm around her waist, drawing her close to his side. “No accounting for taste.”

“I want to go home,” Carly whispered.

Her husband frowned, tilting his head in thought. “Carly…Earth’s probably gone.”

“Probably isn’t definitely,” she argued.

He couldn’t differ with that. “I’ll find a way,” he said. “For you.”

Heavy shadows danced along the pebbled flesh of the warrior’s snout as he cradled the plasma rifle, coils burning hot and ready to open fire. Several of his comrades lay trampled on the stone floor of the planetoid cavern.

The Light Singer never said anything about a horse.

Ralkkavir hadn’t seen one in the flesh before. This would’ve been the last place he would ever expect to do so, on some forgotten pirate outpost in the wilds of Hiverspace. Yet here it was, carrying a human rider and stomping his comrades to death.

And he would be next, if he failed to act. More Nall warriors scrambled down the ramp from the transport behind him. Ralk wouldn’t suffer this beast to survive long enough to hurt any more of his comrades.

A clawed finger tugged on the trigger. Surprisingly little recoil to the Atasuin Sundagger plasma rifle, especially after seeing so much use on Kamsho without access to a lot of spare parts for maintenance.

With an agonized squeal, the horse toppled over, nearly crushing the rider.

Ralk felt grim satisfaction as he watched the beast die. That soon faded, though, as the human drew his blades and rose in a fury to storm toward him. The softskin’s outrage impressed.

He almost didn’t feel the end when it came.

Billy Lucas carried that black plastic tool with him like a sacred scepter, a holy relic from a lost age, but he liked to think that he wielded it with the finesse of a sharp-eyed gunslinger.

He’d been using it that afternoon in 1985, high above the streets of Manhattan, to clean the windows of the Chrysler Building. Then came the eruption of luminescence, God’s own blue-light special or the hand of fate. Whatever. It snatched him out of the realm of Reaganomics and into a 27th Century universe full of aliens and humans who got around the galaxy in faster-than-light starships.

Pretty damned cool.

But he didn’t know how to fly a fancy spaceship. He couldn’t speak many Earth languages besides English, let alone all the weird tongues heard in the vaulted cavities inside Comorro Station. He wasn’t a techy. He didn’t know how to hunt.

He could clean a window, though. Knew how to make it shine. Everyone wanted clean windows, no matter what century, right?

So, Billy bartered his grandfather’s silver pocket watch, hitched a shuttle to Pyracan, settled in among other human refugees, and found work as a freelancer. He’d been here for about a year.

It wasn’t hero work, but it kept a roof over his head. A few more gigs like this, Billy figured he could afford a ring for Meghan.

He dipped the squeegee in the water bucket, shaking it about, getting it soaked again for the next pane. Then he felt the suspended platform rattle. Earthquake? Not unheard of in Eiru, but rare. Billy looked up to make sure the ropes and pulleys weren’t tearing loose. So far, they looked fine. He looked down toward the street. Flashes of blue light – a bunch of them – rips in space and time, he thought, just like the one that grabbed him from the 20th Century.

He didn’t recognize the sinuous little bipedal reptiloids that came out of them, armed with really big rifles. The absurdity of the sight would’ve made him laugh under other circumstances. The thing is, they almost immediately started gunning people down in the street. Sooner or later, they might look up and shoot him. Or Meghan might be down there. Nothing funny about that.

Billy fumbled for the commlink in his pocket. He wanted to call Meghan and warn her. But then the rifts snapped shut with a thunderous consequence. Billy was staring at his own reflection in that perfectly cleaned window pane, link in one hand and dripping squeegee in the other, when it exploded.

He hated the coffee, though. Didn’t stop him from drinking it.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Raleigh?” asked Garrett Underhill, chief therapist for the San Angeles Police Department. He glanced at his PDA display. “Six and a half months?”

Raleigh Devrees didn’t care much for the therapy, either. Didn’t stop him from coming. When he needed it. “Seen the news? I’ve been busy.”

“Interim chief, yes, saw that,” Garrett said with a faint smile. “Congratulations, I suppose?”

“Good days and bad,” Raleigh answered.

“You’re here now, so…bad day?”

“Not great,” the chief agreed.

“They find that missing Wildfire player yet? What was his name? Bodette?”

“Bodean,” Raleigh said. “Still missing, as far as I know. The CIS spooks aren’t exactly forthcoming with information about their ongoing investigation.”

Garrett chuckled. “I’d ask how that makes you feel, but we both know that answer, don’t we?”

“Oh, I was fucking pissed the night this all went down,” the chief said. “Fit to be tied. Spitting Nall fangs. Now, though, I’m just…worried, I guess.”

“About?” the therapist prodded.

“Volstov and his thugs swooped in to grab that crime scene too fast for my liking. Y’know, like they expected it? Knew it was coming.”

Garrett raised his eyebrows. “Do you remember what happened the last time you were convinced a conspiracy was in the offing?”

Devrees frowned. “Just because I couldn’t prove it doesn’t mean I was wrong. Pettinjay was dirty. He was on the Vaxian clan’s payroll. They just tied up the loose end before I could get to him.”

“Still.”

The cop nodded, sighing. “I know how it sounds. I know what people will say. That’s why I’m keeping my mouth shut for now. I need to be certain. I want proof. That means getting close to the investigation.”

Garrett tilted his head. “How do you expect to do that?”

Raleigh gave a smirk and said, “Charm.”