Tailored Realities, page 24
“This is disturbing,” Sonn admitted.
“I know,” Jason said. Then he reached over and cut the connection. Sonn’s face fuzzed and disappeared.
Jason leaned back with a sigh, Sensing Lanna beside him. He’d known it was coming—he’d feared that he couldn’t keep humankind out of space. He just hadn’t expected heaven to fail him.
“I’m sorry,” Lanna whispered.
Jason shook his head. “You always warned me that I was too idealistic.”
“I wanted to believe you anyway,” Lanna said. She slowly trailed her hand along his cheek. “Do you think the one who attacked you was the only one?”
“Not a chance,” Jason said. “He was too confident.”
“Then…”
Jason took a deep breath. “Prepare a press release, Lanna. Tell them that the Phone Company has finally developed faster-than-light travel, and that we will release it to the public as soon as the United Governments approves our patent.”
Lanna nodded.
“Perhaps we can salvage something from paradise,” Jason whispered.
POSTSCRIPT
This is one of two of our “early Brandon” stories in this collection—and is the earliest story I’ve written that I would feel comfortable putting in a volume like this. (If you want to read one even earlier, from high school, it’s on my website, but brace yourself for a mediocre time.) I have my original website annotation for “Defending Elysium” below. I wrote that long ago now. In fact, the gap between writing that annotation and this one is much larger than the gap between the story and the initial annotation.
Looking back, I find I remember more of my reasons for writing “Defending Elysium” now than I did then—partially, I think, from going back to that well in order to work on the Skyward series. In the original annotation, I talk about that melancholy part of my life. But now I view it differently.
“Defending Elysium” marks what I consider the “start” of my professional career. There are a lot of places you could mark this. The writing of Elantris in 1998. The sale of that same book in 2003. Or even its publication in 2005. A marker I like, however, is the writing of this story, in 2001. (Metadata on the file says it was finished June 6, 2001.) Several things were happening at that time.
First, I was revising Elantris the last time before selling it. (Metadata on that one is kind of wonky, as I’ve swapped computers often, but I ended up submitting the sixth version to Moshe Feder at Tor in November 2001, and we have record of that.) Second, I was working on the world guide for the Stormlight Archive. Third, I decided to actually learn to write novellas, and this story was the result. It would go on to place in the Writers of the Future contest (as an honorable mention), then to sell to one of the big magazines during my early days after selling Elantris.
This might not be the first thing I wrote that got published (again, that’s Elantris). But I think it’s the first thing to hit publishable through revisions. Either that, or it’s a close tie among several pieces.
Regardless, this story came out of my love for a science fiction trope I first read from Anne McCaffrey: the idea of biological FTL. Meaning humans provide faster-than-light travel through some kind of futuristic powers. Dune, obviously, uses this same trope. (It’s a cousin trope to simple teleportation, but in this trope, people themselves become the way civilizations progress through the space age.)
That is a setting detail, but the actual story is in the title. A great number of SF stories posit dangerous aliens meeting up with humans and either destroying their world or attacking them with a vengeful imperative of destruction. Much less seen (I don’t think I’d seen it at all when I wrote this) is the idea that humans might be the vengeful destroyers. We have the history for it; maybe we are the Klingons.
I wrote this story with that theme, and that of when it’s right to play God and try to protect a universe that might not deserve it. The story stuck with me over the years and is one of my favorites I’ve ever written—to the point that when I was developing Skyward, I used this story as the backdrop for the entire setting that became the Cytoverse.
ORIGINAL ANNOTATION
This story was written on a beach near Monterey, California, and remains the only published piece of mine I did entirely in longhand before transcribing it to the computer. I’d never been to Monterey before, and a friend was able to trade something he did at work for a week’s stay in a little condo-style hotel. We had two rooms and a very nice view over the city down toward the water.
So I guess I was doing the whole bohemian thing. During these days, I hadn’t yet gotten published (this would have been late 2001 or early 2002). I had graduated from college, but had been rejected by all of the grad schools I’d applied for. I’d written about a dozen novels, and was annoyed with myself for not writing books that were true to what I wanted to be as a writer.
The call regarding the sale of Elantris would not come for another year or so. I was working a graveyard shift at the hotel, renting a room in a friend’s basement for $300 a month, and spending all the time I could practicing my craft. (In part to delay thinking about what I was going to do with my life since my writing wasn’t selling and grad schools didn’t want me.)
Over the next year, I would write a book called The Way of Kings, the best—yet most flawed—book I wrote during my unpublished years. A massive, beastly epic that was my symbolic discarding of any desire to chase the market or write anything that was not the type of writing I loved to read.
That was my mindset. I remember a couple of long afternoons sitting on the beach, listening to the waves and staring out over the ocean as I wrote. A good friend named Annie was there for most of it—you may know her as the woman that Sarene from Elantris was based on—writing in her journal. Micah (you may know him as Captain Demoux from the Mistborn books) was in and out. Mostly he was off taking photos.
I remember wanting to see if I could imbue a short story with the type of characterization and multiple plots that I liked in my epic fantasy. I had an idea for a character with a deep and interesting past, alongside a nice dissonant element (a secret agent working for the phone company). That, along with an interesting idea for an ending, grew into this story.
Oddly, I was able to make this work in a short story the way I wanted, while writing shorter novels hadn’t worked for me. I chalk that one up to me starting to find the natural size for a story and writing it at that size. Ironically, the novels I’d written recently (Final Empire and Mistborn, the ideas for which would eventually be recycled into a single volume you know as Mistborn: The Final Empire) were ones that I’d tried intentionally to write “short.” And in doing that, I’d ended up filling each book with too few ideas for even their short length.
With “Defending Elysium,” I took a short story (well, novelette) and filled it with as many ideas as I could pack into the space. The result is a very dense story (in plot, history, and world terms) that ended up satisfying all of the epic storytelling buttons I like having pushed.
I ended up submitting this to The Leading Edge (the magazine I worked on) during one of my last months there. I did it under a pseudonym, a practice common for staff members, to get some feedback. (The Leading Edge gives feedback on all submissions. I didn’t intend to publish it there; I just wanted some honest opinions.) Turns out that one of my best friends read the story, then spent about an hour the following evening telling me about this great story he’d read out of the slush, and how he couldn’t believe that such an awesome story had ended up getting submitted to TLE just out of nowhere. (That gave me an inkling that the story might have some potential…)
That’s the background on the story. For those who like to dig deeper into the meaning and context of a story, perhaps that’s given you something to chew on. This was a melancholy time of my life—perhaps the time when I was most adrift—yet at the same time, it was one of the most artistically uninhibited times of my life. No contracts, no deadlines, no artificial rules imposed on myself. I had decided that the world could do whatever it wanted, and I would write what I loved even if it never got published.
While safe aboard his flagship, there were two ways for Dennison to watch the battle.
The obvious method relied on the expansive battle hologram that dominated the bridge. The hologram was on at the moment, and it displayed an array of triangular blue blips representing fighters flying about waist high. The much larger blue oval of Dennison’s command ship hung a moderate distance above and behind the fighters. The massive and powerful but far less agile leviathan probably wouldn’t see battle this day. The enemy’s ships were too weak to damage its hull, but they were also too fast for it to catch. This would be a battle between the smaller fighters.
And Dennison would lead them. He rose from his command chair and walked a few steps to the hologram’s edge, studying the enemy. Their red ships winked into existence as scanners located them amid the rolling boulders of the asteroid field. Rebels in name but pirates in action, the group had thrived unhindered for far too long. It had been five years since his brother Varion had reestablished His Majesty’s law in this sector, and the rebellious elements should have long since been crushed.
Dennison stepped into the hologram, walking until he stood directly behind his ships. There were about two dozen of them—not a large force, by Fleet standards, but bigger than he deserved. He glanced to the side. Noncommissioned aides and lesser officers had paused in their duties, eyes turned toward their youthful commander. Though they offered no obvious disrespect, Dennison could see their true feelings in their eyes. They did not expect him to win.
Well, Dennison thought, wouldn’t want to disappoint the good folks.
“Divide the squadrons,” Dennison commanded. His order was transmitted directly to the various captains, and his small fleet broke into four smaller groups. Ahead, the pirates began to form up as well—though they stayed within their asteroid cover.
Through the movement of their ships, Dennison could feel their battle strategy taking shape. At his disposal was all the formal military knowledge that came with a high-priced Academy education. Memories of lectures and textbooks mixed in his head, enhancing the practical experience he’d gained during a half dozen years commanding simulations and, eventually, real battles.
Yes, he could see it. He could see what the enemy commanders were doing; he could sense their strategies. And he almost knew how to counter them.
“My lord?” an aide said, stepping forward. She bore a battle visor in her hands. “Will you be needing this?”
The visor was the second way a commander could watch the battle. Each fighter bore a camera just inside its cockpit to relay a direct view. Varion always wore a battle visor. Dennison, however, was not his brother. He seemed to be the only one who realized that fact.
“No,” Dennison said, waving the aide away. The action caused a stir among the bridge team, and Dennison caught a glare from Brell, his XO.
“Send Squadron C to engage,” Dennison commanded, ignoring Brell.
A group of four fighters broke off from the main fleet, streaking toward the asteroids. Blue met red, and the battle began in earnest.
Dennison strode through the hologram, watching, giving commands, and analyzing—just as he had been taught. Dogfighting ships zipped around his head; fist-size asteroids shattered as he walked through their space, then re-formed after he had passed. He moved like some ancient god of lore, presiding over a battlefield of miniature mortals who couldn’t see him, but undeniably felt his almighty hand.
Except if Dennison was a god, his specialty certainly wasn’t war.
His education kept him from making any disastrous mistakes, but before long, the battle had progressed to the point where it was no longer winnable. His complete lack of pride let him order the expected retreat. The Fleet ships limped away, reduced by more than half. From the statistics glowing into hovering holographic existence before him, Dennison could see that his ships had managed to destroy barely a dozen enemy fighters.
Dennison stepped from the hologram, leaving the red ships victorious and the blue ships despondent. The hologram disappeared, its images shattering and dribbling to the command center’s floor like shimmering dust, the pieces eventually burning away in the light. Crew members stood around the perimeter, their eyes showing the sickly shame of defeat.
Only Brell had the courage to speak what they were all thinking. “He really is an idiot,” he muttered under his breath.
Dennison paused by the doorway. He turned with a raised eyebrow, and found Brell staring back unrepentantly. Another High Officer probably would have sent him to the brig for insubordination. Of course, another commander wouldn’t have earned such disrespect in the first place. Dennison leaned back against the side of the doorway, arms folded in an unmilitaristic posture. “I should probably punish you, Brell. I am a High Officer, after all.”
This, at least, made the man look aside. Dennison lounged, letting Brell realize that—incompetent or not—Dennison had the power to destroy a man’s career with a mere comm call.
Dennison finally sighed, standing up and walking forward. “But, you know, I’ve never really believed in disciplining men for speaking the truth. Yes, Brell. I, Dennison Crestmar—brother of the great Varion Crestmar, cousin to kings and commander of fleets—am an idiot. Just like all of you have heard.”
Dennison paused right in front of Brell, then reached out and tapped the man’s chest in the center of his High Imperial Emblem. “But think of this,” Dennison continued with a light smile. “If I’m an idiot, then you must be pretty damn incompetent yourself; otherwise they would never have wasted you by sending you to serve under me.”
Brell’s face flared red at the insult, but he showed uncharacteristic restraint by holding his tongue. Dennison turned and strolled from the room. “Prepare my speeder for my return to the Point,” he commanded. “I’m due for dinner with my father tomorrow.”
* * *
He missed dinner. However, it wasn’t his fault, considering he had to travel half the length of the High Empire. Dennison’s father, High Duke Sennion Crestmar, was waiting for him in the spaceport when he arrived.
Sennion didn’t say a word as Dennison left the airlock and approached. The High Duke was a tall man—proud, broad shouldered, with a noble face. He was the epitome of what a High Officer should be. At least Dennison had inherited the height.
The High Duke turned. Dennison fell into step beside him, and the two strode down the Officer’s Walk—a pathway with a deep red carpet, trimmed with gold. It was reserved for High Officers, uncluttered by the civilians and lower ranks who bustled against each other on either side. There were no vehicles or moving walkways on the Officer’s Walk. High Officers carried themselves. There was strength in walking—or so Dennison’s father always said. The High Duke was rather fond of self-congratulatory mottoes.
“Well?” Sennion finally asked, eyes forward.
Dennison shrugged. “I really tried this time, if it makes any difference.”
“If you had ‘tried,’” Sennion said flatly, “you would have won. You had superior ships, superior men, and superior training.”
Dennison didn’t bother trying to argue with Sennion. He had given up on that particular waste of sanity years ago.
“The High Emperor assumed that you simply needed practical experience,” Sennion said, almost to himself. “He thought that simulations and school games weren’t realistic enough to engage you.”
“Even emperors can be wrong, Father,” Dennison said.
Sennion didn’t even favor him with a glare.
Here it comes, Dennison thought. He’s finally going to admit it. He’s finally going to let me go. Dennison wasn’t certain what he’d do once he was released from military command—but whatever he chose to do, he couldn’t possibly be any worse at it.
“I have arranged a new commission for you,” Sennion finally said.
Dennison started. Then he closed his eyes, barely suppressing a sigh. How many failures would the High Duke need to see before he gave up?
“It’s aboard the Stormwind.”
Dennison froze in place.
Sennion stopped, finally turning to regard his son. People streamed to either side on the lower walks, ignoring the two men in fine uniforms standing on the crimson carpet.
Dumbfounded, Dennison took a moment to begin to respond. “But…”
“It’s a fine ship—a good place to learn. You will serve as an adjutant and squadron commander for High Admiral Kern.”
“I know it’s a ‘fine ship,’” Dennison said through clenched teeth. “Father, that is a real command on an imperial flagship, not some idle playing in the Reaches. It’s bad enough when I lose a dozen men fighting pirates. Need I be responsible for the deaths of thousands in the Reunification War as well?”
“I know Admiral Kern,” Sennion said, ignoring his son’s objections. “He is an excellent tactician. Perhaps he will be able to help you with your … problems.”
“Problems?” Dennison demanded quietly. “Problems, Father? Has it never even occurred to you that I’m just not any good at this? It isn’t dishonorable for the son of a High Duke to seek another profession, once he’s proven himself unsuited to command. Goodness knows, I’ve certainly satisfied that particular requirement.”
Sennion stepped forward, grabbing Dennison by the shoulders. “You will not speak that way,” he commanded. “You are not like other officers. The High Empire expects more. The High Empire demands more!”
Dennison was taken aback by his father’s lack of formality, and some of the passersby stopped to regard the strange sight of a High Duke acting with such passion. Dennison stood within his father’s stiff grasp, reading the man’s eyes. It isn’t the High Emperor, is it, Father? Dennison thought. It’s you. One genius son isn’t enough. For you, one success and one failure simply cancel each other out.
