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Excerpts from
LIFT-OFF by Fiona Lehn for Silver Daggers Blog Tour Dec1-Jan1, 2020
EXCERPT ONE – (681
words)
“Dammit!”
Zoom leafed through the tech modules hanging from his belt and cranked up the
compression ratio on Kembly’s handheld. “Kembly.” Zoom spoke into the
microphone that connected to her earcomm, “Kembly, if Mercury eats any more of
that mic, the audio will distort and Station Manager will reassign us to Cartoon Hour. Back him off!”
Up on the
News10 location stage, several yards from where Zoom stood with camera rolling,
Kembly inched her handheld away from Mercury. “Subtle,” Zoom said. “Nice work.”
Unfortunately,
Mercury’s mouth followed. “Others maintain that space is a pipe dream,
future music, abandonment of the home world, or a financial black hole.”
Zoom cursed
and re-adjusted the compressor settings. Though lacking in mic technique, the
guy sure knew how to work a crowd. Kandy Kembly, a veteran newscaster who could
command the undivided attention of a two-year-old for hours, had dwindled to
mere eye candy in this interview, while Mercury posed, poised like a superhero
on the News10 stage—hands on hips, chin raised, gaze sweeping the sky above
Semiahmoo Bay. His shoulder muscles rippled under the thin fabric of his
t-shirt—who wore a t-shirt in December in Canada? And it was at least two sizes
too small, probably on purpose. “All this guy needs is a cape,” Zoom muttered.
“I’ll be wiping blobs of charisma off Kembly’s handheld for days after this.”
“Cut to
aerial,” the station crew chief’s voice crackled in Zoom’s earcomm, “in three,
two, one.” The station crew cut from Zoom’s live feed to the News10 drone-cam
hovering above him, bird’s-eyeing the audience and the stage at the north end
of the pier, or what used to be a pier. Widened, reinforced, and extended, the
hundred-year-old promenade now served as the primary thoroughfare from the
mainland to the International Spaceport nearly three miles offshore.
The drone
skittered fifteen-hundred feet south along the old structure to the point where
the pier extension jutted southwest and the no-fly zone began. It then veered
to the western rim of the bay and lingered there, buffeted by the wind coming
off the Georgia Straight, vying for a clear distance shot of the spaceport’s
bulbous domes and flat launch pads, which never failed to remind Zoom of a
giant water hyacinth.
“Some see
romance in the stars,” Mercury said, as voice-over. “Some see a welcome release.”
When the
station crew cut back to Zoom’s live feed, he was capturing Mercury’s chiseled
cheekbones and sun-burnished visage in a tight close-up. Slowly, Zoom widened
the frame until it again included Kembly and a background of cerulean sky.
“I say venturing into space is the
greatest manifestation of the human spirit yet, and I can prove it.”
Mercury stamped his foot dramatically, and the portable stage shuddered. “I will
prove it—in three days, at midnight UTC, on New Year’s Eve!”
“We’re
about out of time,” said Kembly, regaining control of the handheld. “Could you
briefly tell us why you decided to launch that day?”
“Love to.”
Mercury smiled. “The New Year has long symbolized rebirth, a chance to start
again, to live a better life. My space cruise leads us into a new, enriched era
of unification, here on Earth and in our entire universe.”
Fans
cheered and pressed against the temporary fencing at the foot of the stage.
“Thank you
for your time today, Mr. Mercury,” Kembly said. “You must be incredibly busy,
preparing for the imminent launch of the Quicksilver.”
“Yes, I’m universally occupied, you could say, ha
ha!”
Kembly
newscaster-chuckled.
“Aces. Wrap it up.” Zoom directed via
her earcomm. “I’m panning away in ten.”
When Kembly reached out to shake, Mercury tugged her glove
off, bowed, and brushed a kiss across the back of her hand, all in one fluid
movement. He was some smooth operator.
“My, you’re
gracious,” Kembly said. “It’s been a pleasure. Let’s
hear it for Mr. Herm Mercury, everyone—CEO and founder of Mercury Spaceliner
corp, and the genius behind what is going to be the first tourist space
cruise in history! Mercury Spaceliner corp—stellar
tours of the future, today.”
[END EXCERPT ONE]
____________________________________
EXCERPT TWO – (476
words)
“Hold
one minute, please, Launch Command,” Roche said, flipping off the cockpit comm
switch and disengaging her seat straps. “And please pardon me, Greene.” She
nodded to her co-pilot, strapped into the chair on Roche’s right. “I know you
understand.”
Greene
smiled in comisery.
Roche
unzipped her uniform jacket and checked her left side, where the throbbing was.
The skin was inflamed, rubbed raw, and hives—or blisters—were forming.
“This is
Launch Command. Do you read, Captain?”
Greene
snapped the comm on, and Roche said, “Loud and clear, Launch Command. I have a
matter here that requires my attention. One minute please.” She couldn’t keep
asking Launch Command to repeat instructions, and she couldn’t concentrate
until she solved this uniform problem.
The
inflexible fuchsia jacket fit like a corset, with side seams that more than
chafed, they tortured. She’d told Mr. Mercury that astronauts needed comfort
and unrestricted movement, not fashion.
He’d
dodged with, “Spacepilots need to present the right image to their
passengers—accessible yet in control, and easily recognizable as part of
Mercury Spaceliner corp.”
Arguing
with the head of the only current space-going project in the world was not in
her best interest, so Roche had left it at that. She needed the mission. She’d
wear a hot pink corset—heck, she’d wear tinsel alone if that’s what Mr. Mercury
required.
Roche
ripped the last three pages out of her Mercury Prototype Spaceliner One Manual,
folded them into quarters, and stuffed the padding into her jacket between
blisters and seams.
“Good
idea.” Greene winked.
The pain
lessened to almost bearable. “Thanks, Greene. I’ll definitely be stealing a
larger uniform jacket after this shift!” She strapped in and flipped the comm
switch on. “This is Captain Rochelle Shoke in Mercury Prototype Spaceliner One.
Thank you for your patience, Launch Command.” She nodded at Greene. “Spacepilot
Greene and I are systems go for launch, and we can’t wait to be weightless.
Initiating pre-launch protocol.” She switched off the comm and turned to
Greene. “Take it away.”
The
rookie completed her protocol like a seasoned veteran.
“You
make me proud, Spacepilot,” Roche said.
“Thank
you, Captain. Uh, do you smell that?” Greene asked, “like hot plastic?”
Roche inhaled
a snoutful of something acrid. “Good call.” She tapped the comm, “Launch
Command, we have a burning odor. Systems read normal. What do you—”
Boom!
A blast
flattened Roche against her seat. Flames erupted from every panel, filling the
cockpit with smoke and fire. The system computer blared, “VENTILATION SYSTEM
OFFLINE. VENTILATION SYSTEM OFFLINE.”
Eyes and
nose stinging, Roche disengaged her seat straps and hauled herself up to
standing. “Greene!” she shouted, “Evacuate!”
No
response. Roche clawed through the flames, but Greene was gone. She’d taken a
blow to the head. Her lifeless form, still strapped into the co-pilot seat, was
mere fodder for fire.
“Greene!”
[END EXCERPT]
____________________________________
EXCERPT THREE – (987
words)
Strumming
and singing brave extra long, Ginée
leaned forwards to offer the man a glimpse. In show business, some jiggling
cleavage never hurt, she’d learned, and sometimes it helped a whole lot.
She ended
the song to a smattering of applause. The man didn’t clap, but he was
approaching. Ginée smiled her winningest smile and thanked the few who flicked
coins at her feet.
“You made a
mash-up of The Star-Spangled Banner
and O Canada?” the man asked.
She wished
very different words had come out of his mouth. Those were the breaks.
“Everyone’s a critic,” she said, tuning down the high E string that kept going
sharp in the December air. “Check it out.” She pointed at the domes beyond the
pier. “That’s the International Spaceport—U.S. and Canada, get it?”
“It sounds
awful.”
His twangy
southern accent sounded awful, but Ginée didn’t say so. “Take it up with your
government,” she said. “You’re a bit late though—the spaceport is already
built. You could try joining the protest, for what it’s worth.” She jabbed a
thumb over her shoulder at the cluster of bundled-up locals steadfastly
protesting the spaceport’s environmental and social impact on their sleepy
beach town. The D string was sharp, too. Why couldn’t she have perfect pitch,
even perfect relative pitch? Ginée kicked on her pedal tuner and tweaked every
string.
“No, the
song,” he said. “It’s awful.”
“Believe
me, I wouldn’t’ve picked either of them as national anthems.” She clacked off
her tuner and strummed. “Again, take it up with your—”
“And then
there’s you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.
Someone’s got to talk to you straight.” He stepped closer and lowered his
voice. “How old are you
anyway?”
She gave
him the stock line. “Twenty-one.”
“Nice try.
More like seventeen, I’m guessing.” The guy knew something, at least. “What are
you doing here, vying for a world-class—no, a galactic-class gig?” he asked.
“Go back to Pipsqueak, Oklahoma, before someone unscrupulous gets ahold of
you.”
Another
naysayer. It was an epidemic. “Alberta.” She strummed, gazed into the weak
noontime sun, blew into her hands.
“What?” He
screwed up his face as if trying to remember who Alberta was.
“I’m from
Alberta, not Oklahoma, and I’m going. On the space cruise.” She pointed the
neck of her guitar in the general direction of the Quicksilver. Just because it wasn’t naked-eye visible from where
she stood didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
“To do
what? Dishes?” He put his hands on his hips. “Saph Diamond, rockstar of the
century, is headlining. What makes you reckon you belong on that stage?”
“I wrote a
song specifically for this occasion...and,
I had a band once. I know the ropes.” She flipped her hair. Unfortunately, it
was prairie brown, not blonde. Still, it was long and curly and flippable, and
flippability was what mattered, she’d learned. “Who are you to be so
opinionated about my work? You’re just an aging, misplaced southern gentleman
who—”
“I’m Zig
Powie,” he said, as if she should know the name. He scuffed the sole of one of
his blue JPK loafers on the sandy pavement. “I’m the Quicksilver Entertainment
Manager.”
“Manager! Really?” She did another supermodel hair
flip and jiggled like Annette Funnyjell-o did in those old-time beach movies.
“You’re here to hire me, aren’t you? Are we on camera? Is this a test? Where do
I sign?”
“Actually,
that’s why I’m here.” He shifted his weight and his pants hitched up enough
that she caught a glimpse of bare ankles. Loafers with no socks—this really was
the big time! “Can you read that sign behind you?” he asked. “No Busking. If you leave now, I won’t
call the White Rock sheriff, or deputy, or whatever they have in this country.”
“Come on,
give me a chance,” she said. “I wrote this one special for the launch.” She
fumbled along the fret board and strummed. “Jet engines are a go...” she sang.
“Go.” Zig
Powie rolled his eyes. “Go away.” He
flicked his wrist as if to brush her from the planet’s surface, headed towards
the pier and, with a flash of his ID badge, disappeared beyond the Mercury
security checkpoint.
“Prairie
Oysters!” Ginée said. She picked at her strings idly, wondering if she should
chase after Zig Powie or stand her ground. If he was her lucky break, he’d be back, right?
The scent
of sage suddenly filled the wind, overpowering the low-tide seaweed funk. “I’d
like to hear that song,” someone said from behind her. His voice was deep and
wild, like a growl. A coin arced overhead, spinning and glinting in the sun
before it landed with a heavy tink,
scattering the small pile of change in her guitar case. The coin was the size
of a toonie, but instead of lead and copper, it appeared to be made of pure
gold.
“Sure
thing, mister,” she said, glancing at the generous tipper. “Thank you for your
patronage—jeepers!”
The
enormous grin of Saph Diamond, rockstar of the century, was grinning at her,
and it was attached to the body of Saph Diamond, rockstar of the century, of
course. A body skinnier than in his pictures, although his mouth was as big as
the celebrity rags swore—wider than Julia Roberts, wider even than Animal the
Muppet. He wore a coonskin cap, tight black leather pants, a midnight blue silk
kimono, and his trademark bare feet, even on the frosty pier planks. Sapphires
sparkled where his toenails should have been. Three bodyguards in spangly suits
postured behind him like Vegas casino towers. A delicious warmth infused
Ginée’s body, probably sexual heat from the collision of two stars.
“I’m always
hunting for new material, and new talent,” Saph Diamond said. No question, he
was sizing her up. “I would love to try you on, darlin.”
Ginée
flipped her hair, offered him her winningest smile, and played the intro.
[END EXCERPT]
If
you knew you'd die tomorrow, how would you spend your last day?
In awareness, with sunshine on my skin, while savouring a Fernie
Beanpod chocolate bar.
Who
is your hero and why?
I have lots of
writing heroes...Octavia Butler, a truly visionary writer who wrote one of my
fave novels, Parable of the Sower. Zoë
Fairbairns, who wrote Benefits, an
exploration of women’s lives in a dystopic future Britain. Benefits illustrates the harsh realities that women face as
second-class citizens. It also serves as a call to action. Though vastly
underappreciated, Fairbairns’ novel deserves the acclaim that Atwood’s The Handmaid’s
Tale has received, and then some.
Other heroes
include Connie Willis, James T. Tiptree, Ursula K. LeGuin, Sherri Tepper, Liz
Hand, Doris Lessing, and Joanna Russ--amazing and inspiring speculative writers
all.
What
kind of world ruler would you be?
I’m a creative
artist, with lots of creative ideas, so I’m guessing I’d be a ruler with great
vision. I would also be a rather detached ruler. I have such limited energy, I
wouldn’t be able to do much ruling directly myself, so my powers would be
delegated.
I’d also be an
egalitarian ruler--no more of this higher pay, better jobs, and education for
people with penises, you know? Women, men, whatever gender or race people
are--the gender-defining and systemic sexism and racism that we currently live
under would be obsolete. Everyone would get the same job opportunities, education
opportunities, housing opportunities, and all other opportunities--in all
aspects of life--and would be paid using the same pay scale for the same work,
regardless of the worker’s skin color or anatomy.
What
literary pilgrimages have you gone on?
Only one, and it
was thrilling. After reading Pushkin’s poem The
Bronze Horseman, I became fascinated by the Neva River and felt compelled
to go see it. Off I went to St. Petersburg. For hours I sat on the bank of the
Neva and at the feet of Peter the Great, and I thought of Pushkin’s tale,
re-imagining the visions he’d created--ah,
so humbling and very magical!
As
a writer, what would you choose as your mascot/avatar/spirit animal?
A calico cat:
playful yet fierce, creative and relentless in pursuit of her goals.
If
you had to do it all over again, would you change anything in your latest book?
I would change nothing
about Lift-Off. I love this story.
It's a bunch of fun, romance, and human spirit all rolled into a fast-moving
episodic tale. It speaks to adults of all ages, reminds readers of their
childhood dreams, and inspires adults to continue dreaming.
Did
you learn anything during the writing of your recent book?
Yep, I learned a
lot about methane production and its use as a fuel, space launches, and space
colonies, in particular.
What
is your favorite part of this book and why?
As a
reader, one of my favourite scenes in the book is the one in which the
legendary rockstar Saph Diamond rehearses a new song with his band. Saph
Diamond is a 60-something-year-old gay man who has had enormous music career
success for decades. He has all the aches and pains of a person his age who has
lived a hard rock and roll lifestyle, as well as the aches and pains of a
person who grew up gay in a het-dominant culture to boot. Yet when he starts to
play, he feels none of that pain, he loses himself in the music, in the wild
rhythmic sensations of dramatic, emotional rock music, and the reader loses
herself/himself in the music too.
If
you could spend time with a character from your book who would it be? And what
would you do during that day?
I'd
like to spend time with Roche, the captain of the spaceliner Quicksilver. She
is a trained astronaut, and I would LOVE to meet her (or any seasoned
astronaut, really), and hang out with her all day, try out her anti-gravity
training modules, view some of her personal photos taken while on the
International Space Station, and just talk about her experiences in space. That
would be a most wonderful and memorable day!
Do
your characters seem to hijack the story or do you feel like you have the
reigns of the story?
When I'm
writing, really writing a character, I don't have control. It may sound a bit woo-woo, but writing well is kind of
like what I imagine channeling a spirit to be. I start to think like the
character and the words, actions, and thoughts of that character just flow onto
the page. When I re-read something and think it's perfect, yet I don't remember
writing it, then I know I'm writing well, without control.
Convince
us why you feel your book is a must-read.
This book is a
must-read for anyone who loves rom-coms because it’s romantic and
heart-warming, fun and inspiring--like rom-coms.
It’s also a
must-read for anyone inspired by the idea of space travel, space colonies,
and/or space tourism, because it dreams right along with the reader.
And for anyone
who feels unloved, isolated, or trapped, this book is a balm for you.
Lift-Off
reminds us what it is to dream, no matter our age. It reminds us that we are
not alone and we have options.
I should also
mention that Lift-Off is for readers
aged 12 and up. Characters range in age from ten to seventy-something, so
everyone can identify with these characters and their foibles.
Have
you written any other books that are not published?
Yes, LOTS. Since
getting M.E., I’ve been dusting them off, one at a time, and tinkering with
them whenever possible, and eventually they become ready for publication. It’s
a painstakingly slow process, but it’s working.
If
your book had a candle, what scent would it be?
It would be Amber, because
it's heart-warming, a little sexy, musky, rich, and spiritual. Amber is also
used for healing, and my book is a balm for anyone who is feeling down, under
the weather, unloved, or isolated.
What
did you edit out of
Lift-Off?
I edited a full storyline
out of the book. It was about someone who is extremely debilitated by M.E. and
has a very low quality of life, and she wants to go on the space cruise but
doesn't have the money. (I won't give away any spoilers, just in case this
winds up in a sequel or something.) I ended up cutting it because the book was
complete, and I felt I couldn't do this last storyline justice while keeping
the book at novella length.
Pen
or typewriter or computer?
Fountain pen.
What
are common traps for aspiring writers?
I think each
writer is susceptible to her/his own peculiar potholes and pitfalls, which
makes it hard for me to offer advice. I’ll share some of mine in hopes they may
be helpful. Whenever I get an idea that doesn’t fascinate me but which I think
will sell well, that’s usually a trap, and I wind up bored and frustrated until
I abandon the project. Whenever I try to mold my writing to fit into a specific
market, that’s a trap too. I have to be fascinated by the idea, and I have to
write the story how I think it should be told, regardless of marketing.
Persistence is
also key. Keep sending stories out--nevermind how many rejections pile up. A
lack of persistence is definitely a trap.
What
is your writing Kryptonite?
My health. I
don’t have writer’s block, I don’t have paralyzing fear that my writing is
terrible, but I do have severe cognitive and physical limitations that affect
my energy, cause chronic pain, and interfere with my language skills. This
restricts my ability to write well, to write a lot, and to read. My health
slows me down a lot--like Kryptonite, it’s the only thing that can deprive me
of my super writing powers!
If
you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?
You’re a great
writer with a unique voice. BELIEVE IT, BABY. Now, go forth and publish!
Thank you for hosting me as part of the blog tour for my novella Lift-Off! All the best--Fiona Lehn
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