Exposition in Science Fiction. Yes, it’s an odd topic and it
rhymes, but try not to get scared off yet. It’s one of the things that cause SF
writers the most angst and anguish. SF, by definition, discusses things that
could be, that might be, possibilities, and probabilities. Stuff that hasn’t
happened yet or hasn’t been invented/discovered/fully theorized yet.
Master storytellers like Ray Bradbury were criticized for
not enough exposition, not enough science, leaving too much unsaid and to the
imagination, (heaven forefend!) SF geeks like their science. Kinda follows, eh?
But if you go to the other end of the spectrum, we have brilliant scientific
minds like Arthur C. Clark. Astounding, prophetic thinker, someone who
understood the universe better than perhaps the universe itself does. As a
storyteller? Often dry as dust. The reader needed constant rehydration just to
get through some of the chapters, long, never ending passages of nothing but
exposition.
So we walk a fine line writing SF. Don’t think about the
science enough, and you have fluff, worse than space opera. It becomes stripped
and empty of everything that makes it SF and you might as well make it into a
contemporary romance because the spaceships are just backdrop. Think about the
science too much? Lose the average reader. Fast.
So when I wrote Gravitational Attraction, it was with mixed
feelings that I cut out the detailed explanations of how the GEM
(gravito-electromagnetic) interstellar drive worked, as well as bits about how
lumanium was discovered and certain detailed aspects of life on T’tson.
Important to me in understanding the created universe? Yes. Important to the
story? *scuffs foot on the carpet* Probably not.
If you’re not a writer, creating universes in your head is
often called schizophrenia. So long as you keep up the appearance that you know
the inner universe is pretend, no one tries to have you committed. But, ye
gods, the more you build, the more real it becomes. Brave new universe, that
has such aliens in’t. Which, when you get down to it, is really the point of
any fiction. If writers don’t believe, what charlatans we become trying to
convince the reader they should.
Gravitational Attraction
M/M Science Fiction Novel – available 2/25/12 from Silver
Publishing
Blurb:
A mysterious distress call draws the crew of the Hermes to what appears to be an empty,
drifting ship. Empty that is, except for the blood and gore spattered corridors
and one lone survivor locked in a holding cell. Drawn to the handsome,
traumatized man, the crew’s comm officer, Isaac Ozawa, makes Turk his personal
responsibility, offering him the kindness and warmth he needs after the horror
he experienced. Turk longs for Isaac, a desperate, hopeless ache he knows he’ll
always carry with him.
But Turk harbors dangerous secrets, his brain a military
experiment gone wrong. When an amoral, power-hungry admiral kidnaps Isaac and
uses him to convince Turk to become the cataclysmic weapon he’s hungered for,
it will take Turk’s strength, the ingenuity of the Hermes crew, the help of the enigmatic Drak’tar, and Isaac’s own
stubborn will to save them.
Excerpt:
A terrible
jolt yanked him from the dark. Shchfteru.
Agonized screams. Rage coursing through every nerve. The white… blinding white…
imploding suns… the terrible silence…
He had no
wish to open his eyes again. There had been a face, a beautiful face, but he
must have dreamt it in his madness. The silence remained. If he opened his
eyes, he would see the cell again, the blood drenched walls, the gray horror of
his floating tomb. No. Better to keep his eyes closed and see again those dark
eyes set against flawless golden skin.
Wait. Sound.
The soft sound of even breaths drawn. Not
alone. Sweet spirits, I'm not alone.
His eyes flew
open to find a miracle staring at him from across the room, the same lovely
face from his vision. It must have been true. His body felt warmer and no
longer as if he might go mad from thirst. Rescue… perhaps. But he needed to be
cautious.
"Hey."
The beautiful, golden-skinned man spoke, his smile reaching his raindrop-shaped
eyes. "You recognize me?"
He could only
stare, hesitant to believe the evidence of his senses. They had lied to him
before in recent days.
"You
have a name?" The voice rivaled the face in beauty, soft and warm,
caressing his exhausted mind. "All right, we'll start with mine. I'm Isaac
Ozawa. And I guess I could just call you the Marduk Rescuee, or maybe Ishmael—"
"Ishmael?"
The word caught in his dry throat, barely a rasp.
"Yeah,
you know, the sole survivor? And I alone survived to tell the tale? Oh, never
mind. But it would be nicer to have a name."
He swallowed
against the rawness, trying for more of a voice. "Turk."
"That's
your name? Turk?"
He nodded and
watched in fascination as Isaac shook his head, dark hair fanning his cheeks.
"Of
course it is. No soft sibilants or lingual sounds for you. Oh, no. Nothing but
hard, strong sounds. You probably have a last name that would hurt to say."
Turk drew a
slow breath, trying to keep up with events. His head ached. "Always… talk
so much?"
"Only
when I'm nervous or pissed off."
"Which?"
"Which
is it now? Oh, nervous, definitely." Isaac shifted, head cocked to one
side. "Not that strange men usually make me this nervous."
"But… I
do." He forced his attention away from the captivating face. Isaac was in
uniform, burgundy with gold piping. He couldn't match the colors with any unit
he knew. Whose hands had he fallen into? "Water?"
"Oh,
shit." The beautiful smile fell. "Of course you want water. Damn.
Hang on."
Turk eased
his head back to the bed, waiting. Something pinned his hands and feet. In his
weakened condition, he had little hope of breaking a magnetic or even a
physical barrier. Isaac came back into view, water bottle in hand. A sharp,
electric jolt ran down Turk's spine when an elegant, golden hand slipped behind
his head to help him drink. He had no business thinking about those hands.
"Better?"
"Thank
you." Why did he have to be so kind? It would make what he had to do so
much harder. He closed his eyes on a sigh, gauging the remaining strength in
his wasted body. "Back hurts. Need to…"
"Stupid
restraints," Isaac muttered. "They should've at least left you one
hand free so you could shift a little."
He chewed on
a sensuously full lower lip, considering, as Turk watched in helpless
fascination. Isaac's jaw clenched as he seemed to come to a decision. He
reached over and pressed the pad to unlock Turk's left wrist.
The moment he
regained movement, Turk lunged. He seized Isaac by the throat, applying enough
pressure to constrict his airway.
"What
unit? What battle group? Whom do you serve?"
Isaac's
fingers scrabbled at his hand, his eyes wide and desperate. "Don't… please…"
"Who are
you?"
"Not… military,"
Isaac choked out, his coloring edging up from pink to crimson.
"Liar,"
Turk growled. "Implant. Fighter pilot. Behind your ear."
"Ex-Altairian…
fleet…" Isaac gasped, struggling to pull away. He was strong but not large
enough to break Turk's grip. "Bad… implant. Discharged… this is… commercial
ship… courier…"
His eyes rolled
back and his body went limp as if someone had stolen his bones. Turk let him
slide to the floor, his heart racing. With his free hand, he unlocked the rest
of his restraints and rolled to peer over the edge of his bed. Isaac lay
crumpled on the decking, the shadows of his thick, black lashes caressing his
cheeks.
No insignia, no rank designation, a courier
ship… what have I done?
Author:
Angel Martinez is the erotic fiction pen name of an author
of questionable sanity, er, strike that. Of several genres. She lives in
northern Delaware
Website: http://www.freewebs.com/angelwrites
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