One of my big efforts this year is getting all of my short stories online, available for purchase.  With the increasing popularity of the Kindle, and with Apple’s big foray into the world of electronic reading with the iPad,  I don’t think it’s a market that any writer can afford to ignore.  So here’s what I’m going to do.  The second Sunday of every month, I’m going to publish a reprint of one of my stories, which I’ll make available in both Kindle format and as a PDF over on Scribd for those of you who want to read them on your computer.  Every now and then I’ll even throw in a story for free.  Most will be available  for between $.99 and $1.99 depending on the length.

I’ll put the first few pages here on the blog.  If you’d like to read more, just click the links at the bottom.

First up, “The Liberators,” which originally appeared  in Analog Science Fiction and Fact in April 2004.   I’ve actually had this story up on Amazon for a while and it’s been my top selling story.

The Liberators

Scott William Carter

I heard the report of a cannon a half second before the boulder on the ridge above us exploded.

Pebbles pinged off my helmet. The ventilator fans whirred behind my ears, and a bead of sweat trickled down my cheek. The suits did a good job of filtering the air, but the inside of my helmet still smelled slightly metallic.

It was the dead of night, but my Visosuit enhanced the image, giving the rocky gully an amber tint. The Dulnari had lousy night vision, so we always fought after sunset. I quickly counted ten black, sleek-domed helmets in the gully. Each helmet was marked with a different number, and Rina’s number 22 was on the far end. We broke up two weeks earlier, but I still liked having her close during combat.

“Major Steed,” my brother’s voice crackled over the all-suit frequency, “report.”

Damon sounded calm as a man could be. I watched Rina for a reaction, but she didn’t move. I knew she had been spending her time lately with that egghead, Lieutenant Dyle, but I still wondered if she and Damon would hook up now that I was out of the picture.

“Got a group of two hundred Dulnari pinned in a mountain bunker, Colonel,” I said to him. “The rest of the target planet has been contained.”

I stopped thinking of the planets as having names long ago. After a while, they all blurred together.

“Good . . . We need to finish this planet up and move on to the next one. Get it done quickly.”

“Yes, sir.”

He cut the transmission.

I suddenly felt tired. There was always another target. Such was the way of life in the elite LS-37, a Liberation Squad who had liberated more planets from the tyrannical rule of the Dulnari than anyone else. We were legendary in the Unity Defense, our slogan whispered among lesser soldiers like a hallowed prayer. LS-37, Angels Protected by the Glory of Heaven.

I peered over the edge of the gully. The mountain sloped up gently until it reached the rectangular peak. An opening big enough for their cannons circled the peak; there were two or three cannons on each side. We could fly up there in under three seconds.

The problem was that we’d be easy targets. What we needed was a distraction.

Our suits were controlled by the electrical impulses in our brains. I thought the all-suit frequency on, and it was. “Lieutenant Dyle,” I said, “take Delta Group and do a flyby over the mountain, dropping flash grenades. The rest of us will storm the bunker. Hold for my command.”

There was a brief pause, and then his reply came back.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“All other teams, await my command,” I said.

Before I even finished the sentence, Rina was scooting in my direction. She was a small woman, but inside the bulky black Visosuit you would never know it.

Our suits were mini spacecraft in their own right. The slim packs on our backs were loaded with various bombs and missiles, and the fingers of our gloves were equipped with lasers. The metaplak material could withstand a direct hit from almost any handheld weapon.

Since the Defense had equipped us with the suits, our battles lately had been decisively won. We moved in fast, destroyed the Dulnari’s local military, and left just as quickly. A recovery team followed within a day, helping the planet rebuild.

When Rina was close, I could see through the tinted faceplate to her face — or not really her face, but a re-creation of her face on the external screen. She was Asian-Latino by heritage. She had narrow, slanted eyes, and her skin was the color of coffee with cream. The dust in the air made it hard to read her expression.

“Sir,” she said, and I could tell she was fighting to keep her voice calm. “Sir, could I suggest that we all attack as one? There’s no need to put Delta Group in danger.”

I wondered how close she and Dyle had truly become. “We need a distraction, Private,” I replied.

“But, sir, if we all attack–”

“End of discussion,” I said curtly.

She glared at me through the dust, then scooted back to the end of the line. The rest of the faceplates were turned toward me. I knew my history with Rina was no secret.

I switched to the all-suit frequency. “Delta Group, attack now!”

My own suit had something my soldiers’ suits didn’t — a small monitor, mounted inside my helmet just below my faceplate, that allowed me to see what any of my soldiers saw. I thought the command Screen 40 and up came Lieutenant Dyle’s view.

Dyle was directly over the mountain. The enemy’s cannons fired, one after another in rapid succession, and the ground beneath us trembled.

I turned on the all-suit frequency. “All other groups, attack now!”

We took to the air just as white flashes began to spot the mountain. There were five teams, each with ten drop soldiers, so the sky was filled with fifty of us. I felt the antigrav thrusters trembling beneath my feet.

We descended on their bunker like a swarm of black hornets. All around us were flashes of white light. I followed my men through the opening, blasting the Dulnari standing there with my finger lasers.

We stepped over the bodies we just brought down. They were humanoid, much like us: similar height, two arms and two legs, breathing air and expelling carbon dioxide. One of the most amazing discoveries since contact was made with other species was that these facts held for most of us.

But the Dulnari had a more pronounced, wolf-like nose, and their sense of smell was keener. Their leathery skin was dark gray except for the skin around their yellow eyes, which was a luminescent blue. Their heads were smaller, and individually, they were not as smart. But they had more specialization in intelligence; when they acted in concert, their total intelligence exceeded ours.

The big difference, though, was that the Dulnari were ruthlessly ambitious in a way we never were. Every sentient species we encountered had the option of joining the Unity Worlds. The Dulnari took them all by force.

Until we decided to stop them.

A dimly-lit tunnel circled the bunker. We took out each cannon-room one at a time. It all seemed to be going well until Lieutenant Dyle shouted out over the radio.

“Hit! . . . Going down!”

Rina stared at me. Grimacing, I changed to Dyle’s screen, and saw the image of the ground rushing up at him. My screen went to static, then the image returned. Now he was looking at the sky.

“Must do this . . . ” he groaned.

Then the worst possible thing happened.

He removed his helmet.

I knew this because I was suddenly seeing his face, bloodied and bruised, on my screen. His blond hair was matted against his scalp. The helmet must have been down on the ground next to him.

“Lieutenant Dyle!” I cried.

It was no use. Without his helmet, communication was impossible. As every drop soldier knew, the one thing that you could not do–that you were strictly forbidden to do–was to remove your helmet. Even if a planet had a breathable atmosphere, the helmet gave a soldier full access to the Visosuit’s abilities, allowed him to remain in contact with other soldiers, and permitted his superiors to use his visuals for tactical decisions.

I was deciding what to do when my brother bellowed over the frequency.

“Just what the hell is going on down there, Major?”

“Sir,” I replied, “Lieutenant Dyle’s helmet–”

“I can see what happened. What I want to know is why.”

“I don’t know. Perhaps –”

“The Med will be there in less than two minutes,” he said. “Let it get him out of there. Subdue the bunker.”

“Sir, don’t you think we should provide cover for the Med?”

“No time. The Dulnari are fleeing the bunker as we speak. Concentrate your troops on stopping them.”

He clicked off. The rest of the troops had moved ahead, and it was just me and Rina lagging behind.

“Let’s go,” I said, stepping past her.

She didn’t move.

“Rina? You heard the orders.”

“Kaden needs us,” she said.

“The Med–”

“I’m going.”

She ran back into the last cannon-room. I followed, yelling her name, but she didn’t stop. She took to the air, rocketing through the opening.

——– continued ——–

Read the rest of the story:

[$1.99 Kindle]
[$1.99 Scribd]

I got one of those Social Security summary statements in the mail yesterday. You know the ones: They tell you your monthly benefits depending on which age you retire — 72, 65, or early retirement at 62.

I saw the 62 and a thought popped into my head: Hey, I’m nearly 37, that’s what . . . only 25 years and I could cash some of those checks.

It wasn’t the 25 years that set off warning bells in my mind. It was my use of the word only.

Only? Only 25 years? When did two and a half decades merit being described as only? While all the normal panicked thoughts raged through my mind — I haven’t done anything yet, what about my goals, I’m old and I’m still just treading water — I realized that the reason I can say only is because I can actually envision twenty-five years. Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to do that. It was just a number that didn’t mean anything. But now, I can look ahead and see those years passing.

So the moral of the story? Well, naturally I’ve decided to be more careful about opening the mail. You never know what you’ll read in there that’ll make you feel old.

And to be careful with the world only. Obviously, it can be a dangerous word.

Washington — In a little noticed provision in the new budget released by the White House, President Obama has proposed eliminating Republicans from both houses of Congress.  Press secretary Robert Gibbs had this to say:

“The President believes that American families are tightening their belts, so the government should do the same.  Eliminating Republicans will save millions in payroll expenses, not to mention their generous health care and pension benefits.  It may not seem like much — and I’m sure Republicans will complain that it’s just a tiny fraction of the overall budget — but every lit bit does help.”

When pressed for details, Gibbs would only say that President Obama would be releasing a statement later in the day explaining his reasoning behind this decision.

Late Update: President Obama’s full statement is below.

-

Office of the Press Secretary

For Immediate Release  -  February 03, 2010

By now most of you have heard about a provision in the new budget which proposes to eliminate Republicans from both houses of Congress.  Since this has caused a little stir in our conflict-driven media, I wanted to set the record straight about what this provision will and won’t do.

It is true that this provision will eliminate all Republican persons in Congress, thereby saving American taxpayers millions in wasteful spending.  However, we are not proposing eliminating Republican votes – which would be a violation of the very Constitution I’ve sworn to protect.  We will be replacing Republicans with life-size cardboard cutouts that will be placed behind their desks in the Senate and the House, which to the casual viewer on CSPAN will look no different than the real flesh and blood Senator or Representative.

Since Republicans have consistently voted no on every piece of legislation since I took office — even those traditional areas of Republican concern like fiscal responsibility (GOP Senators voted 40-0 against reinstituting PAYGO procedures) — then it’s become apparent that we don’t need real Republicans to cast these votes.  Instead, Congress will be hereby instructed to assume that all Republicans in either chamber will be voting no on all bills going forward.

As I said recently, I’m not an ideologue.  I’m pragmatic.  This provision will not by itself turn around our economy, but it’s one in a series steps that we are taking to return to an era of fiscal responsibility.  When such a time occurs that we again see budget surpluses — last seen during the Clinton presidency — we will review this policy to see if the economy can sustain having physical GOP representatives again in Congress.

Sincerely,

President Barack Obama

P.S.  To oversee this effort, I’ve created The Political Reinvestment in Real Ideas Commission , or what is now be calling PRRIC for short.

Note to Self: When you haven’t played five-on-five basketball in, oh, at least ten years, it’s probably not a good idea to go a good two hours doing so in a misguided attempt to prove that you are still as fit as you never really were. You’ll realize the truth of this in the morning when you experience pain in muscles you never knew you had.

Note to Self #2: Actually exercising once in a while (and no, moving a computer mouse doesn’t count) in preparation for playing five-on-five basketball could lessen the pain you feel the next morning.

Note to Self #3: This will be repeated the next time you play basketball — and every time hereafter — unless you heed Note #2.

Note to self:  Dipping into the comments section in most political blogs is a good way to lose faith in humanity.  Worse, if you dip into the comments section of your local newspaper, you’ll not only lose faith in your fellow human beings, you’ll realize they live next door.

Somehow it’s easier when I can tell myself that all the crazies live somewhere else.  Albuquerque, maybe.

Although I certainly didn’t plan it this way, I’m going to have two short story collections published this year.  At this point, I’m not exactly sure which of the two will be available first, but one of them has a cover and is now available for preorder:

In these six provocative tales, Scott William Carter takes the reader on a journey to places where love and loss intersect. A limited edition from the very prestigious small press, PS Publishing. [Learn More] Pre-Order Today: (Less than 500 copies available!)

Looking over the galleys recently, I was really happy with these stories.  Not only do I think they’re some of my best work, but I think they hang together thematically very well.  The collection contains four new stories and two reprints, and the two reprints only appeared briefly online, which is one of the reasons I wanted to include them in the collection.   You can buy the signed, jacketed hardcover for $40, which when you consider that it’s limited to only 100 copies, is a pretty darn good deal.  Or you can buy the unsigned jacket-less hardcover (which still has Glen Chadbourne’s wonderful cover illustration) for $19.20.

The collection contains the following stories:

“A Web of Black Widows”   . . . A grieving tattoo artist makes a cross-country trip with a pregnant woman on the run from her disturbed husband.

“The Woman Coughed Up By the Sea” . . . A mysterious artist finds a woman washed up on the beach and feels compelled to paint her.

“She’s Not All There” . . . A young man who made a disastrous choice in wife is forced to crash weddings with his ghostly bride so she can remain on Earth.

“Black Lace And Salt Water”  . . . A poet suffering from writer’s block  moves to the Oregon coast and finds inspiration from an unlikely source.

“Static in a Still House” . . . A lonely man who makes his living scouting thrift shops and estate sales finds a mysterious baby monitor that changes his life.

“Front Row Seats” . . . A widowed mathematician suffering from an unusual malady seeks relief in the movie theater — and finds more than he bargained for.

I can’t promise these will be uplifting stories, but I hope you’ll find them both moving and thought provoking.  Think of them as October Valentines.  Though my first novel will be published in a few months, this book actually marks the first time that my work has appeared all on its own, not in anthology or magazine surrounded by other writers.  And if you could show your support by buying a copy, I’d be much obliged.

You know, there’s days I wish I wrote on a manual typewriter.  Then when I’m frustrated with something I could, with a great flourish, rip the page out of the typewriter, crumple it into a ball and toss it in the fireplace.  Then my wife could dig it out of the fireplace and claim it’s the best thing I’ve ever written, forcing me to mail it to publishers who’d very quickly write me a check with lots of commas in it.  It would be read by millions and then I’d be on Oprah with a great story to tell about The Masterpiece That Very Nearly Met a Fiery Doom.  But computers?  It’s hard to hit the delete key with a flourish.  And of course, there’s also nothing for my wife to rescue from a Fiery Doom.  What is she supposed to do, use Norton Utilities?  What kind of story would that make?  “You see, Oprah, I deleted the file with a great flourish, and then my wife, fearing I might do such a rash thing, used her computer skills to rescue it from my Recycle Bin before I emptied it . . .”

So really, you can see how a computer might be holding me back from being a bestseller.  Technology does have its price, you know.

Our family dog, Mankato, passed away over the weekend.  It was simply his time, living to the grand old dog age of 15.  He was the best of dogs — tolerant and gentle, friendly and kind.  When I close my eyes, I can still see him sitting behind the counter of the bookstore I owned for a couple of years, rising to greet each customer.  And I can still feel, as the two of us drove somewhere, his wet nose pressing against my fingers as my hand rested on the gear shift — because, of course, he always assumed I meant to pet him on the head as he sat next to me and I simply didn’t aim well.  You’ll be missed, old friend.

One of the perks of being a writer is that your stories or novels occasionally get illustrated.  “The Bear Who Sang Opera,” which appeared in the July/August issue of Analog, had an illustration I loved so much that I emailed the artist to tell him so.  John Allemand — who said some nice things about my story in return — was kind enough to send me a high resolution image so I could print and put it up in my office (and with his permission, post online).  I think it really does capture the spirit of the story:

(Click picture for larger image)

All across the world, living in conditions that are scarcely imaginable, suffering emotional hardships that no human being should be asked to endure, are millions of writers who could use your help.  Act now: For less than a dollar a day, you could sponsor a struggling author through the HopeWriter Initiative. Think of it. For about the cost of a used paperback at a library rummage sale, you could offer a ray of hope to one of the millions of scribes living in wretched apartments with five roommates or down in the cold, dusty basements of their parents’ houses.

Your generous donation can provide them such things as:

• Printer paper
• Top Ramen
• Toner Cartridges
• Gift cards to Goodwill
• Subscriptions to Writer’s Digest
• Crisis intervention with distraught parents and/or marriage counseling
• Personal hygiene kits

As a HopeWriter sponsor, you are connected to one special writer who will know your name and be warmed by the thought that they have at least one dedicated reader in the world.

In return for your kindness, you will receive monthly, well-written emails from your sponsored writer, including snippets from their works in progress, as well as the occasional photo of them sitting at a computer.

You are also encouraged to correspond with your writer, and your letter, email, or Facebook post will offer these wordy souls a moment of hope in their daily struggle against a brutal, heartless regime that threatens to crush their spirits. In the end, your generosity might make the difference between a life of obscurity and bestsellerdom. You could be the answer to a writer’s prayers. Act now.

One of the many writers you could sponsor . . . 

Scott William Carter from Oregon

Gender: Still married male
Grade: Some post grad
Country: United States
Health: Very pale due to lack of sun exposure
Word Processor: Microsoft Word