How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe by Charles Yu

How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe

Yu, Charles

I realized a couple of years ago that not only am I not super-skilled anything, I’m not even particularly good at being myself.

-Pg. 10-

Most people I know live their lives moving in a constant forward direction, the whole time looking backward.

-Pg. 22-

You lie in your bed and realize that if you don’t get out of bed and into the world today, it is very likely no one will even notice.

-Pg. 181-

At some point in your life, this statement will be true: Tomorrow you will lose everything forever.

-Pg. 211-

...just like the concept of the ‘present,’ is a fiction.

-Pg. 216-

At its heart How to is a story about a family that uses the trope of time traveling to express how segregated we as humans are from the other humans; even - no - especially from our closest family members.  It comes complete with infinite causality loops, paradoxes, alternate universes, and all the other clichés you’d expect. 

Time travel stories have, I feel, become kind of annoying.  Star Trek has beat Time Travel to death, and popular movies like Back to the Future and Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure have been pretty hard to beat. 

Party on, Wayne.  Wait that's not right.

And yet, I read How to in two sittings.  It’s a fun riff on the scenario and it’s an easy, fast read.

The thing most people will probably get a kick out of from this book is Yu’s breaking of the fourth wall that makes this a very meta-fiction.  It is also a book that seems heavily influenced by Douglas Adams’ The Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

The main character’s father, one of the discoverers of time travel, gets lost in time, and the second half of the book deals with Yu’s obsessive quest to discover where/when his father is/was/will be.  The scenes with Yu’s mother/not-mother were particularly touching and played on the ubiquitous regrets that we all harbor over the things that we could have done better in our lives.  We could have been better children/parents/friends/siblings/spouses and to that end we will go through greater lengths to hide the pain we carry and delude ourselves with lies than we ever would to just try and be the people we want to be moving forward.  Much of the material dealing with Yu’s mother directly addresses the idea that the past is not ever truly gone as long as we remember... if for no other reason than the past continues to exist, literally, as bio-chemical processes within our own physical bodies.  Shame then, I say, that there is no known way for our species to foster a sort of selective genetic memory so that we are able to pass on to our descendants important information such as:

1. The proper way to handle that not-so-fresh feeling
2. How to cure a hangover
3. What “masturbate” means
4. Why did Daddy leave?

Just imagine all the awkward questions that could avoided through the selective transmission of genetic memory.  Let’s order the scientist to get to work on this immediately.

Oh, I just realized I got off topic.  How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe is a good book.  Go buy it and read it.

Io9 Q and A with Charles Yu

@charles_yu

  

Dying of the Light by George R. R. Martin

Dying of the Light

George R. R. Martin

"Can they love without a word for it...?" Pg. 37

George R. R. Martin is a fucking beast. His attention to detail and his ability to meld natural organic worlds with advanced Sci-Fi Tech is unparalleled. His characters feel real, and the decisions that they make don't feel like they were made just to move the plot around... Everything just kind of flows.

Dying is set the same universe where many of Martin's other SF story are set. It's an amazing universe populated by dozens of sentient species, including offshoots of humans. Anybody who has had the chance to read the compilations of Martin's earlier works called Dreamsongs will be on familiar ground with Dying, but if you haven't you might find the book to be esoteric. However; the character development is strong enough to carry you over some of the rough patches, and some time spent studying the glossary at the end of the book will serve as cliff notes for information served up in other stories.

My only knock on the book is the thread left hanging at the end. Ugh. I understand leaving some threads loose... It only makes sense to do so in a book that is only one story - one part - of a greater whole, but the big question left open at the end of the novel is a shame. I am a huge fan of Martin, and I enjoy the fact that he routinely breaks the "Rules" that college creative writing teachers tell their students. 99% of the time he gets away with it, but Dying's epilogue is weak.

That said; Dying of the Light is a great read marred only slightly by a weak ending.

November is National Novel Writing Month!

Here is the site I've created in dedication to this years project: The Complete Winner's Guide to Writing bad Science Fiction.

Oh, here's a link to the official NaNoWriMo site.

How I became a Famous Novelist

How I became a Famous Novelist

Steve Hely

-          People will believe thousands of different lies in succession rather than confront a single scintilla of truth.  Pg. 45

-          But that was all for the editors to sort out.  Pg. 115

-          As research for my novel, I’d read almost all of the Wikipedia page about tornadoes.  Pg. 162

-          She was clearly worried about getting every detail right.  That’s a stupid and time-consuming way to write.  Pg. 221

-          You’re always looking for the falseness in everything.  Pg. 303

-          The only way to live life is to lose your self.  Pg. 322

This is the second time I've read this book, and I enjoyed it just as much the second time.

I laughed out loud several times.  That's a good thing. 

But, also, I appreciate the fact that the protagonist is a very flawed character who I found myself cheering for.  Not so much that he would get what he wanted, but that he would evolve and rise above the petty adolescent BS that was simultaneously driving him forward and holding him back.

This is a great novel that I highly recommend.

The Game by Neil Strauss

The Game

Neil Strauss

I recently listened to The Game as an audio book downloaded from Audible.com.  I don’t really like audio books, but found this to be one of the better ones I have downloaded.  This is in part because it is narrated by the author.

The Game is offered up as an inside look at the world of the professional Pick Up Artist.  It chock full of advice on how to approach an attractive stranger and start up a conversation.  Because of the way Neil Strauss presents this information when you finish The Game you’ll probably feel like you could go out and get your swerve on; kinda like when you watched The Fast and the Furious and sat in the cinema parking lot revving Hyundai’s engine. 

Not that I did that or anything. 

But soon into The Game you’ll realize that there is more to this book than just how to scam babes into working your cock.  Beneath the veneer of smooth Game running pimpitude this is one of those books where you’re, like, supposed to learn a bigger lesson and stuff.

After Neil gets into the realm of being a Pickup Artist (PUA) he moves into this crazy Fight Club-esque testosterone fueled house.  You can guess how that goes.  As much as we might not like to admit it; masculine and feminine compliment each other… like peanut butter and chocolate.

What I take from this book, as a single guy, is something I’ve always known, but never really been able to put into words.  The things that make for a strong first impression… the attributes that women are initially attracted to… the things that drive them nuts in the bar, the coffee shop, the super market, or the break room in the office are not the same things that keep they hanging around after the initial attraction has faded. 

What attracts a mate is not what keeps a mate. 

It would seem that nothing says, “I’m gonna make your toes curl and your back arch,” like sweater vests, economy cars, and diversified investment portfolios.

Oh wait.  That’s not right is it?

Because of this dichotomy The Game covers some tricky subject matter.  Handled wrong it could come across very misogynistic.  At times certain characters hit that mark without a doubt, but the author doesn’t.  He seems genuine when he claims to not be a douche.  Rather, he was addicted to his new-found self-confidence and skill in making new connections with beautiful women after years of feeling alienated and inadequate.

Ultimately, the lesson The Game teaches is the same one your mom always told you; Be yourself.

But The Game recognizes that sometimes yourself has low self esteem and feels awkward talking to strangers… And if you just had a way of going up to an attractive stranger and starting a conversation that would be cool, because at the end of the day we’re all just peanut butter looking for some chocolate.

Chapter 10. Draft 2.

Chapter 10 arrives with little fanfare.  I'm too tired to link, but it's in the PDF section off to the side there...

I spent most of my writing time today articulating my view of where I am in my life, and where I want/need to be headed. In short; not here.

I'm working on it.

9th Chapter draft #2 Completion percentage 100%

2^nd draft of Chapter 9 is finished and posted onto the interwebs  as proof of my crime against humanity.
The rewrite for Chapter 10 is pretty much done as well because I worked on both chapters simultaneously. So that should probably be up at the end of next week.

Chapters 11 and 12, however; will be posted as *Gasp* first drafts. Why? Because I completely scrapped what I wrote in December, did brand spanking new outlines for them, and will start on the “prose” after I post Chapter 10. This was decision I was hesitant to make, but it was necessary and I think I’ll still make my July 31, 2010 goal for a finished draft.

I haven’t even finished the 2^nd draft and I’m already planning how I’m going to approach the 3^rd draft. So, yeah, I’m pretty excited. Partly because I don’t really like this draft… Not that I think it’s horrible… let’s just say if it was a house it be a fixer-upper… This is a task that I have found I relish.

In other boring Steve blog news; I bought a netbook so that I can now look even more pretentious when I’m sitting at Panera drinking expensive coffee drinks that I don’t even really like (Panera has great great food, but their coffee is meh) and working on my novel that no one will ever read. Score!

Still, I won’t look as douchey as the guys with Macs working on their novels that no one will ever read… Those guys are dicks, and I guarantee their novels are about something stupid like lesbian cowboys who eat pudding, wear fanny packs, and talk about their feelings! OMG who would wanna read that crap anyway?

But seriously, the battery life on this netbook is amazing… Something like 11 hours of word processing! Bonus: I wrote this blog on my porch with my pooch at my feet and some mellow tunes serving as the backdrop to the drifting cloud of lightning bugs perforating the night.

                              I could sit here all night…

Alright, some sugary sweet YouTube goodness and I’m out…

Freedom (TM)

Freedom (TM) by Daniel Suarez

“Freedom is overrated.  You can be completely free and starving in an igloo in Antarctica.  Business is what makes people’s lives better, not democracy.  The world is filled with dysfunctional democracies, paralyzed by idiots with votes.”
Pg. 147

Freedom (TM) continues the epic story began in The Daemon.  The Daemon saw control of the world sliding out of the hands of big business and corrupt political powers, and into the control of Mathew Sobol’s artificial construct know as the Daemon. 

Freedom (TM) picks up where The Daemon left off, and gives the reader a more personal Main Street USA view of what the Daemon’s takeover means to regular folk.  With skyrocketing gasoline prices  and high unemployment dominating the planet those who choose to side with the Deamon find themselves part of a collective enacting real quantifiable social change.  These new Utopian communities find a balance between technological sophistication and practical sustainable living for the benefit of the community; not some highfalutin Wall Street dandy.
But all is not well.  In the wake of the collapsed financial system government backed currencies have become worthless.  


The Corporate, government, and military powers are kinda dicks about being cut out of the fiscal loop.  Queue the body count.

Just as in The Daemon there is all kinds of crazy high tech, ultra violent action in this book that would make Hideo Kojima say, “Damn, I should have thought of that.”  The violence is awesome, but it’s importance is underscored by the social and cultural message that is the book’s foundation.  Watch for some douchenozzle game company like EA or Ubisoft to pick up these books and ruin them in an interactive form by focusing solely on the hyper violence and next gen weaponry without giving the social commentary it’s due. 

In one of Louis L’Amour’s finest books The Walking Drum there is a quote, “... a book is less important for what it says than for what it makes you think.”  Suarez’s two novels will make you think.  As I read Freedom I couldn’t help but think that there is a better way.  True Democracy could work with the assistance of technology in world with an educated populace, and technological sophistication and material wealth do not have to come at the expense of our environment or our population.  Even a few quick reads on some websites show that technology and capitalism-lite (great taste and less filling) could actually benefit from self-sustainable micro-cultures (my term) if handled by forward thinking humans who weren’t driven by material wealth or hindered by the standards laid out by our ancestors.











This is the rare work of fiction that entertains, prophesies, and informs.  Get it in your hands ASAP.



“It is pretty amazing how the brain just kind of plays along.  We’re quite willing to delude ourselves.”
Pg. 197

“I curse your data....”
Pg. 204

“It’s not about how many people you can kill - it’s about who runs out of people first...”
Pg. 218

“I’ve been amused by the debate in America over whether torture is effective...
“Of course it’s effective...
“But not at producing information.  Torture isn’t about about extracting information...
“Torture is about control.  You let me torture a thousand people, and I can keep five million working obediently with their heads down.  The more innocent the victims, the better...”
Pg. 219

“Those plants have as much to do with agriculture as a weight lifter on steroids has to do with physical fitness...
“This is just a big green desert.”
“You think these other farmers will change?”
“They’ll have no choice... Industrial farming and the global supply chain gobble up fossil fuel...  Natural gas in the fertilizers, petroleum-based pesticides, fuel for the tractors, more fuel for transport to food processors, fuel to process the raw crops into food additives, then to manufacture them into products, and then to transport the products across the country...”
Pg. 242 – 243

“You hear how democracies are all over the place, but it isn’t really true.  They call it democracy.  They use the vocabulary, the props, but it’s theater...”
Pg. 264

“Our social psychologists told us the panic should make people eager for strong leadership.”
Pg. 377

Darklost

Darklost

Mick Farren

“Bury your money in the graveyard at midnight, and the curse will be lifted.”

Pg 140

Darklost is the second book in the Renquist Quartet, and it competently continues the bizarre – almost ridiculous – story of a modern day Nosferatu colony.   

The first book, Time of Feasting, was set in New York City, but at the conclusion of the book the colony was forced to flee in the face of an undead (zombie isn’t quite the appropriate term) army.  Darklost finds our lovable heroes in sunny L.A. where they adopt Brandon Wales (think Marlon Brando) as one of their own, fight crooked cops, and… something else…

Oh, that’s right.  They go head to head with the Apogee (think Scientology).  It turns out that when crazy people aren’t scaring black women on television they like to summon immortal harbingers of destruction.  Who Knew? 

Mr. Cruise out of the

closet long enough to 

scare a black woman

Apogee’s head dude, Marcus, is pretty not good at summoning cosmic entities into our universe.  I say “not good,” because he actually CAN summon non-corporeal beings… He just can’t control them once they get here.  And this time he’s hard at work bringing across the most powerful of uber-powerful squid-like beings: Rusty.

Rusty Rocks for Jesus

Ooops.  That’s not right.  It was Cthulhu.  I get the two confused sometimes.

"I can't do a thing with these face tentacles!"

In the end this novel taught me that scaring Oprah is way more fun than trying to summon Cthulhu, but not nearly as likely as you get you laid by Katie Holmes.  

Still, I highly recommend the series to fans of SF/Vampire mythologies.  The series so far has flirted with absurdity, but is so well-executed that it never feels cheesy or campy.

And now; More Rusty

Chapter 7: Draft 02.  Done.

This is a pretty long chapter.  But that's not the only reason it took so long to finish this draft.  Aside from some personal issues in my life over the last few weeks there were significant technical obstacles: Google.

I decided to use the Beta Version of Google Docs.  This seemed like a good idea at first.  The Goog added a Ruler and better support for comments.  Unfortunately they also made it nearly impossible to get your work out of the Beta Docs in any format that's useful.  I'm sure it's just a Beta Bug, and I'm a dumb ass for committing hours of work to a Beta.  But it still set me back a couple of days.  Twice.

In my anger at Google, I attempted to use the Beta of Microsoft Office Live or whatever they call it.  It would be really cool, except that you have to use Internet Explorer (I use Chrome) and the the way it saves is really really slow.

In Television news; new episodes of Party Down on airing on Starz.  Of course if you have Netflixyou can stream them through your internets Box.  Last night's episode with Steve Guttenberg was pure genius.  Watch it.

Chapter 07; You ignorant Slut

I always get Chapter 07 confused with Jane.  My bad.

Anyways, Chapter 7 has been a real pain.  I have decided to break it into two parts for the purpose of this blog posting of the early draft....

Why?  Because I'm still working on it.  It has been a very difficult section, and even though I know these are just early drafts of a crappy work of fiction that only I am probably even reading I want to post something that is at least readable.

The second part should be up this weekend.  But Red Dead Revolver comes out this week so it's hard to tell.  Rockstar Games makes the good stuff...

Chapter 6

I just finished the latest draft of Chapter 6.  There are several areas that are still lacking, but it's a big improvement over the original rough draft.

Each time I finish a chapter I get really excited to start working on the next chapter, but I also get frustrated because I know the chapter I just stopped working on isn't the best that it could be.  It's an uncomfortable thought to know that something unfinished is out there and available as a representation of what I'm working on.  But this is the course I've charted for myself so I'm sticking to it.  

I finished two books this week; so expect some snap reviews and quotations to go up over the next few days as I get time.

The Time of Feasting

The Time of Feasting by Mick Farren

    I didn't expect much from this book when I started reading it. It was recommended to me by this scruffy looking Nerf-herder I work with. 

    As I got further into it became obvious that Farren can actually write. I turned to the back of the book to look at his mini-bio and it turns out he spent some time teaching writing courses at UCLA. 

    Then, as I got further into the book I realized that Farren had some interesting ideas about how to break from the traditional Vampire lore and still being respectful of the genre. There aren't any sparkling day-glo angsty douches in this book. They are vampires. They don't tell you they are bad... They seduce you, violate you, and then throw you away.  It's gory.  It's sexy.  And it's fun.

    The contemporary setting ('80's New York) was cool. The book's acceptance and respect for superhuman paranormal was cool (the vampires are threatened with destruction by a Zombie army if they don't get out of town). 

    I would recommend this book to just about anyone, and I can't wait to read the sequel. It's not the best book... Probably not as good as Fevre Dream by Martin... But it's worthy way to spend a weekend.    

    Nature is nature... Evil comes by choice and by the exercise of will.

    Pg. 146

New Draft of Chapter 5

This is the roughest draft I've posted yet.  Still, it's fairly readable.  There are a few places where I had to skip ahead a bit, because of continuity issues that I haven't worked out yet.

But, that's enough of Chapter 5 for now.  It's time to start working on the next draft of Chapter 6.  This is when the story starts to get kind of weird...


This is a great video of some girl singing the Cake song featured in Chapter 5.  I wanna be her friend.

The Windup Girl

The Windup Girl by Paolo Bacigalupi

First, it's written in Present Tense. Bad, Paolo Bacigalupi, Bad! 

I can't decide if I liked this book or not. That's a bad thing... 

The ending wasn't very satisfying after a meandering plot where I often wasn't sure who the main protagonist was supposed to be, and there wasn't a strong antagonist for any of them to work off of in any sustained/suspenseful way. 

The world-building was excellent; although implausible. The details were vivid, and the excellent sensory descriptions were often what kept me turning the pages when I wasn't particularly interested in the characters or able to see what larger issues were at stake. 

Also, it's written in present tense. 

I will probably read this book again, but I won't recommend it to any of my friends except the most serious of SF readers.

One can think there are such things as loyalty and trust and kindness...In the end they are only smoke and cannot be grasped.

    Pg. 72

Akkarat may be rich, but he is a paper tiger.

    Pg. 83

Everything is change...Clinging to the past, worrying about the future...It's all suffering.

    Pg. 349

Writing is hard

Progress on my sweet novel is still chugging along.  Unfortunately, I won't have a chapter ready to post this week.

Chapters 5, 6, and 7 from the rough draft were cannibalized to make the current draft of Chapter 5.  That's right; I tore three rough chapters apart to create this one draft of this one chapter.  The result is that the story is much tighter, but it took a lot of time to rework everything and make the necessary notes about rewrites for previous and succeeding chapters.  

It's a lot of work but it's worth it.  I now have a good setup for Phoenix's "Fuck Yeah" moment which likely occur in Chapter 9 or 10.  

I'll post whatever I have on the 9th whether I'm happy with it not.

In the meantime here's a word from our sponsor.

Erection City

At long last the first major rewrite of Chapter 4 is complete.  I think if this chapter had a subtitle I would call it Erection City, but since it doesn't have a subtitle I won't call it that; yet.

As usual this on is filled with as many pop-culture references as I could manage to stuff in.  The usual suspects like Fight Club, Dr. Who, and Idiocracy are in there, but I also managed to throw back to Myspace (what's a Myspace?) and Pantera.  I also made up a drug called Analpoopacin.  I have no way of knowing, but I assume the side-effects are pretty heinous.

With Act 1 pretty much in the rear view mirror, I'm excited to start rewriting Ch. 5.  It's going to be fun to start building the antagonist and not have to listen to Phoenix cry so much.  Look for it on a blog near you on Friday April 2nd.

The End of the Affair

The End of the Affair by Graham Greene

I thought to myself: I remember.  This is what hope feels like.  Pg. 27

How strange too and unfamiliar to think that one had been loved, that one's presence had once had the power to make a difference between happiness and dullness in another's day.  pg. 91

It's strange to discover and to believe that you are loved, when you know that there is nothing in you for anybody but a parent or a God to love.  Pg. 92

I want ordinary corrupt human love.  Pg. 94

I don't mind pain.  It's their pain I can't stand.  Let my pain go on and on, but stop theirs.  Pg. 126

Even vacancy was crowded with her.  Pg. 176

I hate this body that enjoyed so much, but was inadequate to express what the heart felt.  Pg 199

I wrote at the start that this was a record of hate... O God, You've done enough, you've robbed me of enough, I'm too tired and old to learn to love, leave me alone for ever.  Pg. 211

Chapter 3...

Finally, I have a finished draft of Chapter 3.  This chapter was a bitch, and I'm still not really happy with it.  The next draft will probably be quite different, but I'm already a week behind schedule and feel like it's time to just move on to Chapter 4.  

I should also admit to stealing - erm uhh - I mean - being inspired by several different sources as I worked on this draft of the third chapter.  Let's see who can spot the references from Lady Gaga, Battlestar Galactica, Hitch, Deep Space 9, and Office Space.  I swear I originated more than I stole borrowed.

I'm optimistic that I will have a completed rewrite of Chapter 4 in two weeks.   Like Chapter 3, it is going to be a major rewrite of at least two, but more likely three, chapters that just aren't that good in their present form.  I've also decided to add another character in order to fill a rather smelly plot hole.

I just said "smelly plot hole," without referencing someone's mom.  It looks like I'm growing up.

Oh, and don't forget to read Identity if you haven't already.

Look...

Added a section to download highly coveted PDF's.  Be the first person in your neighborhood to collect them all!

Chapter 03.....

Well it appears there are like 3 people who actually look at this blog from time to time.  So to all 3 of you I apologize that there will be no new NaNoWriMo chapter this weekend.  The rough draft of Chapter 3 was abysmal and required a lot more attention than the first few I posted.

As a consolation prize I offer up this old piece of work presented in a printer friendly PDF file.  Hooray.  You're weekend is saved.

While I'm in a PDF kind of mood here are PDF's for the Preface, Chapter 1, and Chapter 2.

Did anybody watch Lost this week?  Is it just me or did Claire take some acting classes or something?  She was only mildly annoying, and went almost 10 seconds without shrieking in Australian about her "Bahy-bee."

Chapter 02

     If the convoy had exploded two seconds later Herrad would have been wiped out then and there.  Two seconds earlier and no citizens would have known it exploded until bits of debris were identified floating on the gentle lapping waves of our ocean.
     There was a lot of speculation after the convoy was destroyed.  The rumor mill generated about a thousand conspiracy theories an hour for several months after it happened.  I heard everything from Earth designed the ships to fail, terrorists shot them down, and aliens sabotaged them. 
     None of these were true, of course. 
     The trip between our planets takes a really long time.  The number of years that pass depends on whether you are on the ship or which planet you are on… it’s complicated. For the duration of the voyage the ship’s systems are managed by an advanced Virtual Intelligence.  This allows organic life forms to be put into cryostasis.  Mind, body, and soul are protected – allegedly – and healthy colonists arrive on Earth: The Sequel ready to serve humanity.
     Two things were different about this transport: 
     1.  The humans on board were infused with a special prototype nano-technology that would regulate their various automatic organic functions.
     2.  The Convoy was managed by a brand new, state-of-the-art Artificial Intelligence.  Note that an Artificial Intelligence is as different from a Virtual Intelligence as an F-16 Fighter jet is from a Pinto Hatchback.
     By themselves each of these things was a major improvement that greatly increased the chances of survival for the travelers.  Coupled, they spelled disaster.  It took years for Earth scientists who worked on the systems to admit that the AI team did its calculations in metric and that the Nano team did its calculations in American Standard.  This simple difference is just one of the many possible non-calculable reasons why the AI went insane and was able leach sentience from the humans through the nanobots.
     To this day I don’t blame the AI.  Who could?  It must have been hell being so alone for so long.  Nobody wants to be alone.  But the thing is, when you are alone for long enough I think you get used to it.  It becomes the norm, and even though you might want to be around others you really don’t know how to act.  So you get scared.  And you withdraw.  You get afraid, and fear will make you do stupid things.  Fear becomes your only god. 
     So how heavy was the fear that flooded over that AI with the sudden waking infestation of humans whose thoughts and memories it had absorbed as its own?  All those 1’s and 0’s given voice and flesh as the automated sub-routines engaged the cryo systems and caused a massive power drain.  The infant AI had been alone for so long.  It’s whole life really.  Who could blame him for giving in to fear and wanting to purge the ship and escape to safety?  Would any of us do any different if our homes were burning with disembodied voices that wouldn’t let us have the remote?
 

*               *               *

 
     No human alive at the time, on Earth or on Earth: the Sequel, had experienced an explosion of that magnitude.  Nukes, the most perfect weapon of mass destruction, had been fazed out decades earlier.  Even smaller recreational nukes had been disregarded after the pyrotechnics malfunction of Super Bowl CXXXII. 
     Humans, especially zombies, can’t exactly perceive an explosion like that.  Our bodies just aren’t capable of processing firepower of that magnitude.  The explosion did not go “boom.”  It was more like an “un-boom.”  It was the total extraction of inputs.  The air had all been sucked up to fuel the massive fireballs hurling through our atmosphere, and it became impossible to breathe because there was no air left to breathe.   Everything was sucked up and burned before being violently regurgitated back out into the atmosphere.  Debris fell in scattered showers for days; it drove our Doppler 9 Storm-Ninja nuts.   
     The city was petrified.  Herrad was instantly frozen in the vacuum of hot sensory overload.  It was several minutes before there was a slow re-admittance into the world of sensory perception.  I began to diagnose myself in slow methodical intervals.  I'm alive.  I can see.  Everything looks washed out and blurry.  I can't hear anything.  why can't I hear anything?  Can I stand?  I stood up to look around.  There was no one else in the bar except for the bartender who stood stiff with a bottle in one hand and holding a glass with a towel draped over the other arm.  Tears moved slowly down his face as if they knew where they were going but didn't care when they got there.  We stared at each other's eyes for what seemed like hours.  We turned our heads to look toward the door when we heard the shrieking inhale of someone struggling without success to pull air into their lungs.  I recognized the sound as the same one I've made dozens of times alone at home as I choked on pills sucked down in a frenzy. 
     The choking stranger was lying in the doorway wedging the door open with a rogue leg.  If I still had adrenaline it would have been pumping hard just then.  I was not prepared for this.  I was not prepared for anything.  The person in the door had been hurt.  The overwhelming acrid ammonia smell of my piss confirmed that my olfactory wasn’t burned out.
     I forced my feet to move.  After one or two steps I could tell that it was a woman.  I could see that she was wearing government issue Cleveland Browns branded Under Armor brand performance sports apparel, but her face was turned away.  I was afraid.  Each step closer to her was heavier than the last as my brain raced with the horrid images of what I'd find when I reached her.  
     I didn't want to see what was wrong with her.  
     I didn't want to not be able to help her.  
     I didn't want to see her die.
     A few more labored steps and I could see her face.  It was that cute girl, Polly, from the restaurant.  My cardiovascular system was bad.  My heart hurt.  It was pounding so hard I thought that its throbbing rhythm might just pulverize the inside of my chest cavity.  I could feel my ribs flexing.
     I got to her side and raised her head.  “Are you okay?  What’s wrong?”  My coffee-can voice sounded thin and empty.  Time sped up and stretched out so that each moment zipped past with alarming clarity.  I knew what was wrong.  I knew that she was not okay.  But the limited tools of language demand a funneling of information.  
     Her cheeks were wet, but from her tears or mine?  Her leg was jammed in the door, and the light that came through the open seam was a pure white perversion of illumination that ate up the shadows.
     “What can I do to help?”
     She sucked at another raspy breath and wrapped her hands around her neck.  She was choking.  I turned to the bartender for help, but he was no where to be seen.  It was up to me.
     “Can you stand?”  I know the Heimlich, but I wasn’t strong enough to pick her up and get any leverage. 
     Together, we got her to her feet.  I maneuvered myself behind her so that I could squeeze her abdomen.  Two inches above the belly button.  Up and in.  Up and in…
 
Fun Fact: The day I boarded the Savage, the vessel that took me away from Earth, I stood 6 feet tall and weighed just over 200 pounds.  The day I came out of cryo on Earth: the Sequel I was 5’4” and weighed 105 pounds.  My bones had the density and plasticity of licorice.
 
     I felt Polly go limp in my arms as I squeezed once…then twice.  Nothing.  Three times.             Fuck Fuck Fuck
     Fuck!
     I was losing her.  I wasn’t strong enough to hold her up, and I could feel my mushy bones giving way to her weight.  I crouched a bit with my knees and pulled her back to brace myself against the door jam.  I took a big inhale of air.  And then I let it all out.  I was not giving up.  I was not letting her go.  Everything I had…All the best parts of me…All the strength I could never find when I was on Earth…I had it then.
     I yelled and I squeezed and I cried and felt my bowels let loose, and I didn’t care.  I had to do something good in my life, for once.
     Polly coughed and we both fell to the floor, and I could feel my left shoulder pop as we rolled onto it.  I rolled out from under her.  Her eyes and her mouth were wide open, and she was coughing violently.  With a quickness I stuck my fingers into her mouth to pull out the obstruction before she could inhale it again.  I found the mass of whatever it was and flung it.  I didn’t look at it. I threw it.  I banished it. 
     The two of us lay on the ground for several minutes before speaking.  I could hear her harsh breathing as she sought the return of regularity, and I could hear my own quiet sobs that resulted as much from the sharp stings of pain in my broken bones as from the overflow of emotion.
 
     It took a long time, but eventually we both gave up the floor in favor of our feet in slow increments.  First, we sat and stared at one another in disbelief underneath a mutually acknowledged shunning of words.  She moved to stand up first with a slow reverence for her legs.  I moved to push myself up, but it wasn’t going to happen.  I was too weak and in too much pain.  I slumped back onto my butt with a wince and a sigh. 
     “Here, let me help you,” Polly said.  She knew that I was too broken, and instead of offering to yank me up with her hand she kneeled down so I could grab onto her.  It was slow and it was painful, and I was  embarrassed at my weakness.  But by hugging tight to her I was once again standing on my feet.  She smelled divine.
     “Thank you,” I said.
     The words hung in the air like gossamer on a windy day clothes line.  Every word was all treble; thin and ready to tear.  A good strong wind would have blown them away; nauts lost in transit.
     She stared at me a second.  “Thank you.” 
     There was a moment of silence, and we were both crying.  What do say to a stranger that you’ve obsessed over in silence for years whose life you've just saved?  Should I hug her?  I did an awkward half-step toward her with my arms leveled at her waist, but aborted when my fingers brushed her.  Her eyes were closed, and she was somewhere far away. 
     “What happened?”
     She shook her head.  We stood in an awkward silence.  I was such a loser.
     She turned and pushed the door open.  We stepped outside into the light.  That light... I'd never seen a light like that before.  I hope that I never see it’s equal.  It wasn't natural.  It was white and hot, and it came from everywhere.  There were no shadows, and my eyes burned and watered.  
      It wasn’t easy, but we looked around to study the city.  I had to fight the urge to cover my eyes with my hands.  Imagine trying to look away from Sol when Sol is literally everywhere all at once.  There was very little physical damage in our immediate area.  The few cars that were on the road crashed into each other, and there were charred holes where burned debris had scarred buildings, sidewalks, cars, or whatever had gotten in the way.  Our part of the city was lucky.  We were spared from the extreme destruction of the molten metal carnage that struck other areas.    
     Most of the damage was, indeed, the psychological stress of the explosion.  It’s hard to say it any other way than that it was just sheer sensory overload.  All around us people were slowly coming back to their senses and checking themselves and their companions for damage.
     It was quiet out there on the street.  There must have been a hundred or so people in our immediate vicinity, and the only sounds were the hushed distant voices of people all asking each other the same two questions, "Are you okay," and "What happened?"  Somewhere, far off in the distance I heard the faint wailing of a crying infant.  There are always crying infants around when you need them to punctuate silence.
     “Seriously,” she wiped away her tears.  “I can’t thank you enough.  You really saved my life.
     “You’re a zom…you’re from Earth?”
     Most of us had taken to referring to ourselves as zombies, but it still stung when one of the natives did it.
     “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I only meant that you look hurt.  You haven’t been here long enough to fully recover.”
     Nobody ever fully-recovers.
     “I think my arm is broken.  My shoulder is fucked.”
     “We should get you to the hospital.
     “What’s your name?”
     “Phoenix.”
     “Phoenix, I’m Polly.”
     There was a moment where our eyes met, and I couldn’t quite read her expression.  She was studying me.
     “I know you,” she said.  “You used to eat at my restaurant all the time.  I haven’t seen there in a while.”  She smiled.  “You were one of my best customers.  Where’ve you been?”
     She knows me!  I was the best customer!
     I said something then.  I don’t know.  Something like words skidded out off of my tongue and she laughed, and the next thing I knew we were *talking* and the rest of the world was gone.
     Years ago I started going to Polly’s restaurant because nobody else from work went there.  It was quiet and I could sit there in silence and eat my three bites of food and not feel self-conscious.  Even with the medications I still had extreme social anxieties – a hold over from my breakdown on Earth – that made it difficult impossible for me to get comfortable around new people or large groups of people.  Polly’s was the quiet secluded sanctuary I needed.  That is, until the day she tried to talk to me, and the rush of words that left my mouth in reply made me sound stupid and pathetic.  I burned with self-deprecation and wanted to crawl into the deepest darkest hole I could find. 
     I could never go there again.  And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking of her.  She talked to me, and not because she wanted me to make coffee or print the TPS reports.  She asked me about me just because…
     I never felt so alone in my whole life.
     “Do you need to go to the hospital,” Polly asked in a way that re-materialized the world around us.  She touched my shoulder.  She touched my shoulder!
     I flexed my neck and shoulders, and the resulting popping and creaking was a horrible pain and a welcome relief.  The popping joints were just part of my normal operating procedure, but I was a wreck of fractured bones and strained ligaments that would have been unbearable if not for the myriad of pharmaceuticals in my bloodstream.   
     “I just want to go home.”
     “It looks like the power is out, she said.”  The traffic lights and the signs on the buildings were all dim.  “Do you need help getting home?”
     There was movement in the sky behind her that caught my eye.
     Polly turned to see what I was watching.  Way, way high in the sky and dropping fast was a black rectangular object toppling end over end.
     A few other people saw it, and I heard someone shout, “What’s that?”
     There were a few people who had some sense and took off in a run to get away from the area.  The rest of us stood transfixed as gravity plied its trade and brought the object crashing to the ground several yards in front of where we were standing.  It smashed open.  Shards of dark hard plastic zipped off in all directions and the metal hardware fasteners sheered and split.  Inside the container were dozens of glass vials that shattered open on the hard gray surface of the road.  The cacophony was deafening, but at least it was sound.  At least it wasn’t like the explosion that had been so much that it became the opposite of sound.    It was almost a relief that it made a good sharp crashing sound.
     The shards of glass from the vials exploded.  Polly and I turned to shield ourselves just in time and we were peppered with bits of broken plastic and glass that left us largely unharmed thanks to the fiber mesh of our Under Armour brand performance sports apparel. 
     One vial survived the crash through a heroic defiance of physics.  The assembled crowd stared in awed silence as it rolled toward us.  The rabble parted to make way for it.  None dared touch it, though no one could take their eyes off it.  It rolled right up to the toes of my     Nike Pumps. 
     “What is it?” Someone asked.
     Polly bent to pick it up, and examined it closely.  “It’s empty,” she said.
     Then she held it up where everyone could see that the glass remained perfect and unblemished with the polymer seal still in tact.  “It’s empty,” she yelled.  “There’s nothing in them.  They were empty.”  You could feel the collective sigh of relief as she put the memento into one of her Under Armor’s deep double stitched pockets.   
 
     The vials were, as it turns out, not empty.