Chapter Five

The Gangly Dirigible had never flown so fast. Captain Schlocky kept the engineers working the boiler room long into the night. The steam rose through the cracks in the floor and filled the housing level with so much smoke it was difficult to breathe, much less sleep. Jude got up from his bunk and went out in the corridor. He was tired of inhaling steam and decided he would go upstairs to the main deck for some fresh air. Before he got very far, he spotted Roebuck squatting by one of the floorboards.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Tryin to see if I could jam something in these cracks to keep the smoke from comin up here,” Roebuck said. He stood up, but his head still only reached Jude’s waist. “Cap’n Schlocky is ridin us hard about these leaks. I figured I’d put a stop to his grumblin and just jam something into the cracks.”

“Why don’t you just fix the leaks?”

“It’s easier to fix the cracks,” Roebuck replied. He pulled a cigar out of his pocket and held it up to Jude, smiling. “I bought this back at Thunder’s Echo. The tobacco is from Cloud Nine, accordin to the guy that sold it to me.”

“I doubt they grow tobacco on Cloud Nine,” Jude said. He did his best to avoid sounding like a know-it-all. “The book I’ve been reading talks about all the skyports in Nimbus, and it doesn’t mention anything about tobacco growers on Cloud Nine. I think the merchant lied to you.”

“Ya think so?” Roebuck asked. He stuck the cigar into his mouth, took the switchblade out from his other pocket, and cut off the tip of the cigar in one quick slash. “I don’t reckon I really care. The tobacco is good either way.”

“You don’t mind the guy ripping you off?” Jude asked. He somehow doubted it—Roebuck wasn’t the forgiving type.

“Not right now,” Roebuck said. He jammed the switchblade into the wooden floorboards. “But I’ll make sure I stab the scumbag in the leg the next time we’re at Thunder’s Echo. I might even make him give me a refund. If he refuses, I might even cut off his—”

The ship suddenly lurched to one side, sending both Jude and Roebuck against the wall. The housing level broke into an uproar, as people ran out of their rooms cursing and screaming. Jude, who had been knocked to the floor, tried to stand up. It was hard to do, since the airship was still spiraling forward.

“Has Schlocky lost his bloody mind?” Roebuck grunted and grabbed for his cigar, which had rolled toward the stairwell. He stuck the cigar back between his teeth and glanced at Jude. “I better go down to the boiler room. I hope nothin’s wrong down there. I can’t ever get a break on this filthy ship…”

Before Roebuck could leave, a frightened-looking man walked into the corridor from the stairwell. The Second Mate of the Gangly Dirigible was the opposite of Calvin Reedy: not only was Vincent Miles about as intimidating as a silver spoon, he spoke in unconfident, short whispers.

“Hosers to your stations,” he said, his voice barely audible to Jude, who was standing right beside him. With the commotion all around, Jude doubted anyone else on the housing level could hear him.

“Where’s Reedy?” Roebuck asked.

“He’s busy,” Miles replied. He cocked his head back and yelled louder than Jude would have expected. “Hosers to your stations—now!”

Roebuck looked back at Jude with a cocky smile. “I guess we’ve arrived at the storm,” he said.

* * *

Jude ran back to his room and scrambled to put on his overcoat and cap. Thorne was complaining as usual, but Gwynn was apparently scared into silence. Jude didn’t bother hanging around to offer any comfort. Instead, he rushed out into the corridor and headed for the stairwell.

On his way, he noticed Roebuck had left the switchblade knife embedded in the floor. Jude pulled it out and pocketed it, thinking he’d give it to Roebuck when the Hosing was over.

He pushed his way past several irritable and drowsy Hosers and climbed up the stairs, all while trying to get his wind-goggles on correctly.

“What’s going on?” Fritz asked, meeting Jude near the entrance out onto the deck.

“I think we’ve reached the storm,” said Jude. Everyone fell forward as the airship lurched once again. Lightning flashed and Jude saw many anxious faces looking out onto the deck. He turned to Fritz. “Here we go.”

Jude and the others scurried out onto the main deck, some people looking more frightened than others. The airship was still above the clouds, but the streaks of lightning illuminated everything outside in quick flashes. A crack of thunder resounded beneath them and the airship seemed to shake in response. Vincent Miles went to the central kiosk were the hydro-hoses were on their racks and turned to face the Hosers.

“Let’s keep this safe,” the second mate said, reverting back to his usual whisper. “But make it fast, you lot.”

A gust of wind blasted through the area, forcing the smokestacks to tremble and groan. Jude wondered what would happen if the smokestack pipes fell and ripped a hole in the gasbag above. Would the ship fall through the sky and crash? Could any of them survive?

Or would the fog eat them all alive long before the airship smashed into the ground?

Jude tried to turn his attention elsewhere, tried to think more pleasant thoughts, but the smokestacks continued to groan as the wind gusted across the deck.

Fritz grabbed his hydro-hose and looked over at Jude, frowning. Without a word, he marched off to the starboard side of the ship. Jude reached for his own hose, but Gwynn bumped into him before he could take it off the rack.

“I got a bad feeling about this,” Gwynn said, his voice cracking. It had been his mantra since leaving the Upturned Tortoise. “A real bad feeling.”

Jude gave him a half-sympathetic smile and took the hose off the rack. With Gwynn still mumbling behind him, Jude headed for his station. Unfortunately, Gwynn’s station was next to Jude’s, so he was only rid of the man’s incessant warnings for the short time it took for Gwynn to get his own hose off the rack and carry it to the port side of the ship.

Finally, Vincent Miles called “Drop the hoses!” and the Hosers obeyed.

Before Miles could continue, Cal Reedy came limping down the stairs from the pilot’s house. Jude guessed the first mate had been injured somehow during that first lurch: Reedy’s coat was flecked with blood and a rag was wrapped tightly around his injured leg. There was a brief pause in the Hosing as Reedy quickly dismissed Miles, and the second mate, looking half-ashamed yet relieved, started back towards the pilot’s house obediently.

“Begin the raking!” Reedy shouted. The thunder roared over his voice.

The wind and lightning made raking the cloud much harder than usual. Jude finally reached the right level, but it was hard work. His arms were already tired and the actual Hosing had yet to begin. He could feel his hands slipping from the hose because his palms were seeping with sweat.

Reedy’s next command was lost to the storm. Just as a powerful gust ripped across the main deck, a bolt of lightning struck the hull of the airship. The Gangly Dirigible dipped below the clouds. For a few brief moments, everyone out on the main deck was underwater. Sheets of rain poured down on the Hosers and Reedy, and Jude’s clothes were instantly drenched. The unfiltered rainwater smelled old and stale, and Jude suddenly feared the fog would get them before Schlocky could bring the airship back above the Skyline.

“Hold steady!” Reedy yelled over the rain.

A streak of lightning bolted out of one of the clouds and hit one of the smokestack pipes. A loud, metallic pang rang through Jude’s ears. The airship started going upward in jerky leaps, but another bolt of lightning hit the main deck and Jude heard someone scream. He didn’t turn around—he knew if he did, he might lose his hose or fall forward, and then it would all be over. The fog would get him.

“Nobody move,” Reedy said. “Everyone stay where you are.”

Trembling, the Gangly Dirigible rose back above the clouds and Jude felt as if he could breathe once again. The airship continued to shake as it circled back around the dark clouds, but Reedy didn’t seem to notice.

“Ready on three!” Reedy commanded. He turned the first lever over on the main kiosk. “One…”

“You can’t be serious!” Jude heard a Hoser yell. “This is too dangerous!”

“If we don’t hurry, we’ll all be dead,” Reedy replied. He turned the next lever. “Two…”

“This isn’t worth it,” another Hoser cried.

“Codswallop!” said the distinct voice of Robert Thorne. “That’s what this is! A bunch of codswallop!”

Reedy ignored their protests and turned the next lever. “Three,” he said, with a strange shrillness in his voice. “Begin the extraction!”

The hydro-hose was much harder to control in the storm, but Jude tried to keep his arms steady. Against the wind and the lightning, Jude and the others managed to Hose for half an hour without any problems. In that short time, they’d already extracted enough water to fill the next quota, and they were working on another when the airship’s hull was hit by another streak of lightning.

This time, the ship went far below the clouds—far enough that Jude was sure he could see the deathly fog swirling just underneath them. He heard cries from all around of “The fog! The fog!” and “We’re dead!” and “It’s over!” Gwynn dropped his hose and brought his arms over his head, falling to his knees. There were screams from every direction, but Schlocky fought hard against the wind and rain to get the Gangly Dirigible back above the Skyline.

They were nearly back above the clouds when a bolt of lightning seared through the air and someone let out a low, diluted scream. Jude could smell something burning, but he still didn’t dare turn around. Lightning flashed again and again; the wind came in mighty gusts and whipped hard, cold rain against the ship, but Jude tried to hold his hydro-hose steady, even though his whole body was shaking.

“No!” Jude heard Fritz shout. “Get him away from me! Get him away!”

Jude turned around and saw his friend leaning against the railing. Fritz fell to his knees and started to vomit. Next to him, there was a smoking pile of what appeared to be rags and seared meat. It was hard to see through the rain, but Jude thought he knew what the smoking pile really was: the remains of another Hoser. Jude surveyed the deck as best he could and suddenly realized that it was Thorne—lightning must have struck him.

“Calm down,” Reedy said. He started for Fritz and yelled up at the pilot’s house. “Miles, get down here! Pronto, dammit!”

A powerful squall tore through the area and there were more screams. Sheets of rain distorted Jude’s vision, but he saw a rogue hose hurtling toward him and ducked just in time. The nozzle, however, nicked him against the shoulder and pain jolted through his body. The airship rocked, and the Hosers on the port side with Jude all tried their best to keep from falling overboard. As Jude attempted to get back on his feet, he saw that Gwynn was gone. He glanced around at all the pandemonium, but couldn’t find his fellow Hoser anywhere on the main deck.

Carefully, Jude moved to the edge and peered over. Gwynn’s arm was wrapped around his hose, but both man and hose were dangling down into the abyss, incredibly close to the fog floating hungrily beneath them. Jude tried to pull Gwynn up with the hose, but his injured shoulder kept him from using that arm, and it was an impossible task to perform one-handed.

“Help!” Jude called. “Man overboard! I need help!”

Someone ran over to him and a second pair of hands helped Jude hoist Gwynn up. The rain made the hose slippery, and it was extremely difficult to get a good grip, but they heaved and pulled until, finally, Gwynn was safely back on deck. Jude turned to thank whoever had helped and was surprised to see the second mate standing there.

“Thanks,” Jude said, panting.

Miles nodded curtly. “Take that man to the infirmary. His arm is probably broken.”

Jude leaned down to help Gwynn to his feet, but another gust of wind sent everyone spiraling backwards. The hydro-hose was now wrapped so tightly around Gwynn’s arm that it was impossible to get him free. The skin on Gwynn’s arm was cracked and bloodied, and his hand was turning a sick shade of purple.

“Hang on,” Jude said, remembering he had Roebuck’s knife. He took out the switchblade and started hacking away at the hose. The hose was thick and callous, but Roebuck’s knife was extremely sharp. “I’ve almost got it.”

“Heaven save me!” Gwynn said. His eyes were huge and his whole body started shaking. “Oh, heaven save me…”

Jude turned around to see why Gwynn had panicked. The airship was nearly above the Skyline, but a swirl of dark smoke had started forming from the nearby clouds. Powerful blasts of wind and huge bits of hail started assaulting the Gangly Dirigible now, as a monstrous cyclone started forming. Loose bits of debris flew from the ship as the tornado sucked in everything it could.

“Everyone below deck,” Reedy shouted. “Below deck! Below deck!”

Jude ducked as a wooden crate missed him by inches and smashed into one of the smokestacks. He was so close to having Gwynn’s arm freed, and he couldn’t just leave the man out in the storm. Why was it taking Schlocky so long to bring the ship back above the Skyline? Everyone else rushed to meet Reedy’s latest order and take shelter, but Jude was so close…

“Let’s go,” Miles said, grabbing Jude by the elbow. “You heard Reedy.”

“We can’t leave him,” Jude said, trying to hack away at Gwynn’s hose. “I’m almost finished.”

Miles tried to drag Jude away as Gwynn begged for them not to leave him behind. Miles’ grasp was tight, but Jude managed to shake free, even if the pain in his shoulder caused his ears to ring and his head to swim. Another crate flew through the air and hit Miles in the chest. Both Miles and the crate went hurtling through the air. Jude tried to stop it from happening, but it was too late. Miles’ cries were extinguished as the tornado sucked him in, indifferent to the man’s death.

“Please—please don’t leave me,” Gwynn begged.

As the airship finally jutted back above the Skyline, Jude managed to cut Gwynn free. Both men clamored to get below deck, but most of the dangers seemed beneath them and the clouds. The ship continued gaining altitude, slowly getting further and further away from the storm, but Jude knew he wouldn’t feel safe until the sound of thunder no longer reached his ears.

When they entered the stairwell, a dozen or so hands grabbed at them, pulling the two men to safety. Gwynn almost instantly passed out, crumpling in a heap on the stairs, but Jude made his way through the crowd, trying to get away from everyone. The pain in his shoulder was awful, but it was nothing compared to the things he’d just witnessed. His hands were shaking and he felt dazed—as if this entire night had been a horrible dream.

It wasn’t until Jude was a safe distance away from everyone else that black spots started to appear in his vision. He slumped against the wall and tried to sit down. The ship was still shaking badly, but he no longer cared. As the blackness took him, he couldn’t remember where he was anymore.

For all he knew, he was back outside in the storm, or maybe back in Burrow 12 with his parents and sister. He glanced around the hallway and saw only empty sky…

* * *

“You’re lucky to be alive,” said a gruff voice. “It was a fool’s thing you did last night.”

Jude blinked several times. Even though he’d been awake for some time, his vision kept getting blurred. Finally, the image of Allister Schlocky came back into focus. Jude rubbed his eyes, which seemed to make his vision slightly clearer.

“How’s Robert?” Jude asked. His shoulder was bandaged tightly, but it still stung. He massaged it with his opposite hand and winced.

“Which one?” Schlocky asked bitterly, taking a seat next to Jude’s cot. “Thorne is dead, but Gwynn is no worse than you. He’s just complaining a bit more than you are.”

Jude nodded. He had meant Gwynn, but only because he’d forgotten about Thorne. He’d also forgotten about Miles, but the image of the second mate flying into the tornado came back to haunt him and Jude thought he might get sick.

“It’s not as bad as I figured,” Schlocky continued. The way he talked out of the side of his mouth, it was hard to tell if he was angry or smiling. “I guess if it hadn’t been for you, there’d be a slightly higher body count.”

“Who died?” Jude asked, knowing how childish it sounded.

“Well, Thorne is dead, but I already told you that,” Schlocky said. He started counting on his fingers. “Two other Hosers are dead: Judith Weiss and Chuck Kesey. Weiss was hit by lightning before Thorne, and the tornado took Kesey. An engineer is dead—the one they all called Twitchy. He was impaled on something down in the boiler room when the ship was turning tricks. And then Vincent Miles is dead, but you already know that, don’t you?”

“Is that what this is about?” Jude asked. He tried to sit up a little straighter. He hated looking so pathetic in front of the captain. “Are you firing me for getting Miles killed?”

“Nah,” Schlocky said. “People get killed. That’s life on an airship. I came down here to tell you I’m giving you his job.”

Jude didn’t say anything. He was half-convinced Schlocky was messing with him.

“You can say no,” Schlocky said, keeping his piercing gaze on Jude. “But keep in mind that if you do, you’re off the ship the next time we get to port. I’m not exactly asking, if you understand me. You did get Miles killed, but he and I are just as much to blame as you. Either way, we still need a second mate, so you’re taking his job.”

“But I’m just a Hoser,” Jude said.

“I was a Hoser once, too,” said Schlocky. He laughed bitterly and started to stand. “What—you thought captains were just born?”

Jude shook his head. “I just meant that I’m not sure if I’m the right person for the job. I’ve only been in the air for a year. I’m still new.”

Schlocky threw a badge at Jude. It bore the emblem of a dirigible with GD sewn into it: the badge that all of the captain’s crew wore on the Gangly Dirigible. Jude looked at the badge and then back at Schlocky.

“I’ll give you a few days to rest up before you start your new job,” he said with a pirate’s grin.

Then, he turned and left.

Thank you for reading Nimbus: A Steampunk Novel – “Chapter Five”, a post from Professor Beej.

Here’s a snippet:

If there’s one thing I love in the world more than anything else, it’s literature that plays with genre conventions. So when I read about Myke Cole’s Shadow Ops: Control Point, I rushed over to Amazon and clicked the the button to send it to my Kindle.

You see, Shadow Ops is a fantasy novel. Kind of. Mostly. The main characters in the novel are magic users, sorcerers, but they aren’t in Narnia or Middle Earth. They’re right here in the good ole U.S. of A. Other books have done this, too– Jim Butcher‘s The Dresden Files is probably the closest comparison I can draw–but Cole’sShadow Ops takes this genre mash-up to the next level. If Battlestar Galactica is a military drama that just happens to be set in space, then Shadow Ops is a military drama where the soldiers just happen to have magic instead of M-16s.

The review in its entirety can be read at BuzzyMag.com.

Thank you for reading Book Review – “Shadow Ops: Control Point” by Myke Cole, a post from Professor Beej.

Even so, it’s awfully hard to find a comprehensive guide to SWTOR PvP. So I thought I’d do my best to put one together. This entry is going to cover Valor Titles, Valor Ranks, and Medals earned while in Warzones.

Valor Ranks and Titles

First of all, you have to know what Valor is. Valor can be considered “PvP XP” because you gain it by completing Warzones (you can queue up for Warzones by clicking the faction icon on the lower-right of your minimap—but only after you reach level 10.)

As you gain Valor, you gain ranks, up to Rank 100. However, you cannot have a higher Valor Rank than your character level, so Ranks 50-100 can only be gained at max level.

For every 10 levels of Valor you gain, you get a new, special title for your character.

The titles—up to Rank 100—are as follows:

• Valor Rank 10 – Skirmisher
• Valor Rank 20 – Duelist
• Valor Rank 30 – Gladiator
• Valor Rank 40 – Centurion
• Valor Rank 50 – Champion
• Valor Rank 60 – Battlemaster
• Valor Rank 70 – War Hero
• Valor Rank 80 – Conqueror
• Valor Rank 90 – Warlord
• Valor Rank 100 – Elite Warlord

Warzone Medals

As you compete in PvP Warzones, you may notice that you gain medals. These medals increase your rewards for participating in the Warzone, but only up to a certain point. You can gain as many medals as possible, but you will only gain rewards for the first 8. These medals appear as a buff near your character’s lifebar.

For each medal, you gain the 250 Valor and 5 Warzone Commendations (used as currency to purchase PvP weapons, armor, and consumables).

While 8 medals may sound daunting, it’s really not. There are some 34 medals you can be rewarded.

• Offense Basic – 1k Attacker Points
• Offense Bronze – 3k Attacker Points
• Offense Silver – 5k Attacker Points
• Offense Gold – 7.5k Attacker Points
• Offense Platinum – 10k Attacker Points
• Offense Diamond – 15k Attacker Points
• Defense Basic – 1k Defender Points
• Defense Bronze – 3k Defender Points
• Defense Silver – 5k Defender Points
• Defense Gold – 7.5k Defender Points
• Defense Platinum – 10k Defender Points
• Defense Diamond – 15k Defender Points
• Dauntless I – 10 Minute Victory
• Dauntless II – 9 Minute Victory
• Dauntless III – 8 Minute Victory
• Dauntless IV – 7 Minute Victory
• Dauntless V – 6 Minute Victory
• Dauntless VI – 5 Minute Victory
• Demolisher – 2.5k Damage Single hit
• Annihilator – 5k damage from a single attack
• Combatant – 75k Damage Dealt
• Destroyer – 300k Damage Dealt
• Commando – 10 Kills
• Soldier – 25 Kills
• Quick Draw – 1 Killing Blow
• Assassin – 1 Solo Kill
• Shield – 5k Defense
• Protector – 50k Defense
• Guardian – 2k Defense in 1 Life
• Paladin – 10k Defense in 1 Life
• Healer – 75k Healed
• Savior – 300k Healed
• Medic – 2.5k Single Heal
• Trauma Surgeon – 5k Single Heal

In order to facilitate participation—i.e. no one AFKing their way through the Warzone—you must earn at least 3 medals in a Warzone to gain any reward at all.

I think that about covers it, but if I’ve missed anything or you have any questions, be sure to leave a comment, hit me up on Twitter, or shoot me an email.

Thank you for reading SWTOR PvP Guide – Valor Titles, Ranks, and Medals Explained, a post from Professor Beej.

Then you should write for Professor Beej!

Three years ago, I started this blog as a personal spot for me to share my thoughts on pop culture, and it’s done pretty well for that. But as awesome as I am, the whole of geekdom is a bit too much for me to tackle on my own.

So I’m looking for some help. From you, specifically, to help take Professor Beej to the next level. I want to put together a crack team of contributors to cover more areas of geekdom than I can alone.

The whole world is open for you—video games, board games, card games, movies, TV, books (reading or writing them!), Dungeons and Dragons, reviews, MMORPGs, whatever. If you have something intelligent and awesome to say about pop culture, why don’t you say it here?

What’s in it for you?

In addition to being hailed by yours truly as a supremely awesome being, you might be wondering “Why would I do that? What’s in it for me?” And I wouldn’t blame you. I’d be asking myself the same questions.

At the moment, the positions are entirely voluntary, but you will get your own by-line, bio, and links to wherever on the interweb you’d like.

On top of that, you get exposure to my already-existing network and readers. Building up a blog and a community are hard work, but I’ve spent the last three years doing the hard work for you. Jump right in and get read immediately.

You will be part of a team. Blogging can be lonely work if you’re constantly working an idea, then bouncing it off just yourself. As a team-member here at Professor Beej, you can take advantage of a collaborative atmosphere. Let my years of experience as an English teacher, writer, editor, and blogger work for you. Sometimes the difference between a good post and an awesome one is another set of eyes.

And, like I tell people every day at my other job, one of the most important things in the world are résumé bullets. The more you have of them, the better. How great do you think much do you think “Contributing Writer” at an established website would look on your résumé? I think it looks pretty good on mine. And, as a bonus, since by day I’m an actual professional-type person, I’m well-versed in the writing of reference letters and the like. If the time comes that you need a letter or a nod, and our relationship’s in good working order, I would be more than happy to help you out.

Sound good? Then let me tell you what you can do.

Contributing Writers

Ideally, Professor Beej contributors would write a weekly column about whatever tickles their fancy about geekdom. It could be a movie review, a playlog of your latest MMO excursion, an in-depth analysis of the Fringe season finale and its impact on future SF television, a list of reasons why you absolutely hate reading authors who use contractions in their narration—whatever.

If you have ideas spewing out of your brain, but no place to put them…put them here! Send me an email to professorbeej(at)gmail(dot)com. I’d love to see a few writing samples, and if you have ideas for the kinds of columns you’d like to write here, let me hear ‘em!

I am looking to add 2-3 regular contributing columnists/writers to Professor Beej, so if you’re up for it, talk to me!

Guest Bloggers

If you’re not the kind of person who likes to commit to something regular, but you have an idea for the most awesome, mind-blowing piece of prose your fingers can type out, send it my way! Even if you just have an idea, let me know about it.

There’s no limit to the number of guest posts I’m looking for. So as long as it fits the tone/topic of the blog, I’m willing to give it a look. Not every post is immediately approved, however, and certain guidelines are followed to help ensure that post quality and standards remain high. But don’t worry. I’ll work with you so that we can deliver the highest-quaity content we can.

You can send all drafts/proposals to professorbeej(at)gmail(dot)com, and I’ll get back to you.

The Nitty-Gritty, Disclaimer-type Stuff

I do reserve the right for final say regarding content, edits, and formatting. I don’t really expect to have to exercise this right that often, but the English teacher in me just can’t let a post out into the world without giving it the once over. You understand.

In addition to that, you retain all rights to what you’ve written here. I will never say I own it or wrote it. I love words and writers too much for that. Anything you post here is your baby. I just ask that you don’t cross-post it elsewhere in its entirety—excerpts, quote, etc. are fine, but we don’t want Google to yell at us for duplicate content and all that.

Any questions? Feel free to email me or or yell at me on Twitter (@professorbeej).

Thank you for reading Help Wanted: Guest Bloggers and Contributing Writers, a post from Professor Beej.

I don’t really blog, but as this is a special occasion—House, M.D. is ending!—I thought I would give it a try.

I am not usually one to get hooked on a TV show, but House, M.D. got me hooked from the pilot episode, the one where the patient had worms. I guessed the diagnosis before House did. Now, to be honest, that was mainly luck, but it also possibly had something to do with the fact I was taking a parasitology class at the time as well. Either way, I was hooked.

That Love/Hate Relationship

House, M.D. is one of those shows you either love or hate; there isn’t really an in-between. For me, it is a love. In the eight years the show has been on the air, I have never missed an episode. I own every season and watch them regularly. I am not such a crazed fan that I wear the logos or anything like that, but I wouldn’t mind having a snuggly Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital hoodie. Anyway back on topic, the end of the show.

For those of us who have watched the show from the beginning, we have grown to love the disgruntled doctor. We have watched him struggle with addiction, pain, friendship, and love. We have watched as he destroyed buildings, set people on fire, and drugged his one and only friend (more than once!). We saw House fall in love, let go of love, and ultimately close himself off to it completely. We have seen him struggle with human connection, with emotional ties to friends as well as lovers.

Gregory House has never and will never fit the norm of society. He will always be the outcast, eccentric, egotistical genius. But that’s why we have come to love him.

The show has taught us that everybody has secrets, that everybody has something they want to hide. It has also taught us that everybody lies.

Each week, House, M.D. has taken us through puzzle after puzzle after puzzle, and we keep going back for more. We have watched as murder was committed, as addiction and rehab danced their dance, as love ended, and as we saw what life in prison is like. Yet through it all we still feel for Gregory House and his team.

Because through it all, they’re people, too. Which makes us ache all the more for House’s inability to connect.

The show has revealed the minds of the characters in it. Chase’s insecurities as a doctor. Cameron’s inabilities to let go of lost love. Foreman’s fear of not being the best. Wilson’s struggle to give up his friendship as the enabler. And Cuddy’s refusal to admit her love. The show has introduced us to a variety of people with real personalities and real problems.

And now, it’s over.

Who knows what House will do now? For that matter, who knows what I will do now?

I am not ashamed to say I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to stop watching the show. I don’t want to stop interacting with the show and loving these characters.

I need more. I need more puzzles. I need more deceit. I need more control issues and egotism. Put plainly: I need more House.

I have loved and will always miss my beloved Gregory House. But at least I can say he taught me two lessons I’ll carry with me from now on.

Everybody lies. Everybody dies.

What did you think of the House, M.D. finale?

Thank you for reading [Guest Post] The End of an Era: The End of “House, M.D.”, a post from Professor Beej.

You can read the whole thing from Fantasy Faction’s perspective here: “The Man Who Thought He Was King.”

Now, I don’t bring this up to badmouth Mathias. I don’t know the guy, nor have I ever read his books. I followed him on Twitter until just recently, but never really interacted with him. So what I’m saying, I’m saying based entirely on the forum posts he left and the Tweets I’ve since gone back and read.

In a nutshell, Mathias argues that he’s not a self-published author because he uses pen-names, and “publishes” the work using his real name. These days, self-published authors are their own publishers. We’re our own marketing departments. Our own PR reps. We’re everything. We do in fact act as publishers—and everything else—in addition to being authors.

So Mathias isn’t wrong there. From a certain point of view.

The issue with Mathias here is that he’s being a complete and total dickbag. As Chuck Wendig puts it, he’s a screeching moonbat. He’s getting a lot of press, and I hope for his own sake that he’s selling a lot of books for it.

But here’s my take on the whole matter: you’re only as good as your name. Even in a day and age of pseudonyms and anonymous avatars, your name matters. People remember your name, and more than that, they remember you if you’re a screeching moonbat dickbag. You can hide behind fake names and faulty logic for a while…but as that one guy said a while back, truth will out.

So let this be a lesson to you, self-published and indie authors. Learn from this. Learn from M.R. Mathias. Know that there is only one rule of being a self-published author. (And no, it’s not write write write, though that help help helps.)

The number one rule of being a self-published author is simple: don’t be a dick.

If you learn that, live it, practice it, you’ll find readers. You’ll find more than readers. You’ll find fans. No, you might not make the big bursts of sales these kinds of controversies stir up, but you’ll make up for that in having a loyal fan-base that can support you in most, if not all, of your future endeavors.

Of all the authors I follow on Twitter, the ones whose work I’ll go back to over and over are the ones who actually respond and have conversations. They’re the Myke Coles, the John Scalzis, the Chuck Wendigs, and the Tim Pratts. They’re the Stacia Kanes and the Tobias Buckells. They’re the ones who will get my money.

And you know why? Because they’re not dicks.

Thank you for reading The One and Only Lesson Self-Published Authors Can Learn From M.R. Mathias, a post from Professor Beej.

Chapter Four

You have greatness within you. It has been beaten down by those around you, but in time, others will see it like I have. When that time comes, I will guide your hand so that you do not ruin the moment.

* * *

The whirring and clanking had kept Demetrius Rucca up all night. For being the skyport that housed most of Nimbus’ noble families, Cloud Nine sure didn’t seem like much. Of course, Rucca had no idea what it was actually like down in the Burrows or on any of the other skyports, but he expected more out of a place that was home to the seat of the Assembled Court. If he were god-king, he would demand more from the seat of his government and his house of worship.

His ruminations were interrupted when the new day’s sunlight began to glint through the large windows of his bedroom. When the sun had completely risen, Rucca finally gave up any attempt to sleep. He went through his morning routine—washed himself, shaved, and then wheeled himself over to the desk that sat beneath the window. The morning’s light shone on the books he had stacked there, creating the perfect study environment, but try as he might, he could not concentrate on the words this morning. Probably one of the side effects of not sleeping well.

He wheeled himself away from his desk, across the room, and out the door of his bedroom. He sat for a few moments in the living area of his suite, which was well-decorated and comfortable. Most of the time Rucca liked it, but today he found it confining. He pushed and twisted the joystick of his wheelchair to drive him around the furniture. He circled the room, pacing as best he could without the use of his legs.

When enough time had passed that he wasn’t going to be the first one on the skyport out and about, he wheeled himself out the door and toward the dining hall. Maybe breakfast would make things better.

* * *

Breakfast made nothing better.

The fruit was stale, the meat overcooked, and Rucca was pretty sure that the coffee had been left over from the day before. Nothing was going right today. So he wheeled himself away from the table, breakfast half-eaten, and toward the door.

“Have a great day, sir,” Milton Hartselle called after him.

Rucca twisted the joystick, turning the wheelchair to face the servant. He opened his mouth to say something snarky. Instead, he just turned the chair back toward the door and left the room.

The promenade was busy even at this hour. Shops were opening up for the day, and Rucca wheeled by as the shopkeepers raised their grates and unlocked their doors. He saw Carlos and waved at him. The flamboyantly-dressed man finished turning his key and then walked over to Rucca.

“Good morning, my lord Rucca.” He extended the first word until it was three or four times its normal length. “It is a beautiful day, is it not?”

“Hardly,” Rucca answered.

“What is this?” Carlos asked. “We can’t have the High Prelate’s son in a bad mood. No, no, no, no, no!” Carlos rushed back to his shop’s door and pulled it open. “Come along inside, my friend. Let us find a way to brighten your morning, what do you say?”

“Thank you, Carlos,” Rucca said. “But I can’t say that I’m in the mood to play dress up.”

“Play dress up?” Carlos placed his hand on his chest as though covering a wound. “My lord Rucca, I am hurt in my soul! Have you ever made a grown man cry?”

Yes.

“The only way to mend this wound is for you to come inside. Come!” When Rucca didn’t even inch forward, Carlos said it again. “Come!”

Rucca sighed. He pressed the joystick forward and rolled into the clothing shop. “Carlos, I hardly think—“

“Ah, my lord friend, I know the perfect thing for you. I do not act as though I can enhance the way you dress. No, no! I would never be so bold. You are as well-dressed as any man on Cloud Nine, better than most! But an accent…an accent would be perfect. Something for that strong jaw, perhaps?”

Rucca just rolled his eyes while Carlos continued to prattle on. He did his best to tune the shopkeeper’s voice out, but he found it harder and harder to do as Carlos placed hat after hat on his head.

“No,” Carlos would say. “Not that one. That one is not for you.” He replaced it and said, “No, not this one, either. My friend, you have such stature, such presence, and I am afraid you make all of my merchandise look cheap next to you.” Rucca could see what Carlos was doing, and it was almost working. But he knew it was the merchant’s shtick, his routine.

“I know!” Carlos exclaimed and ran from the room. When he came back, he held something behind his back. “I know why nothing else would work, my lord friend. I know! It is because you are so great, meant for something so much better than the rest of us, that only the best merchandise I have would work. You must accept my apologies for not trying this first, my lord friend.”

Absently, Rucca said, “Yes, yes, Carlos. Of course.”

“You are most magnanimous. What do you think of these?” He brought a pair of goggles from behind his back. They were somehow different from most other airship goggles Rucca had seen. Most of the ones he had seen airship crews wear had been cloudy pieces of glass attached to worn pieces of leather that tied or buckled at the back. They were functional, but far from fashionable.

The goggles that Carlos held out for him, however, were magnificent. Rucca could see there were multiple lenses layered on top of one another, each a different color. He had no idea how many layers there were or what they were for. Instead of buckling or tying worn leather, the lenses were attached to a frame crafted entirely out of metal, and the metal was etched with a script that Rucca had never seen. The goggles looked more like a crown than simple eye protection.

“Those are lovely, Carlos,” Rucca said. “Where did you get them?”

“Here or there,” Carlos said. “What does that matter now, my lord friend? Do you like them?” He handed the goggles to Rucca, who undid the clasp and put them on. The world took on a shimmering hue, and he wheeled himself to one of the many mirrors Carlos had stationed around his shop.

After a few moments of staring at his reflection, Rucca said, “I do like them, Carlos. How much for them?”

“For anyone else, more than they could afford.” The shopkeeper laughed. “But for you, my lord friend, they cost nothing.”

“Nothing?” Rucca asked. “You’re just giving them away?”

“To you. Only to you. It seemed earlier that you were having a bad day. With these, maybe it will not be so bad?” His voice rose at the end of the sentence, making a simple declaration into a question.

“Maybe not,” Rucca said, adjusting the goggles’ lenses. By clicking small levers on either side of the frames, different colored lenses switched in and out. The ones not currently covering his eyes were flipped up in front of his forehead, which gave him a peculiar, insect-like appearance. “The day certainly seems to be looking up.”

Carlos clapped his hands excitedly. “I love to hear it!”

At just about that time, noise began to filter into Carlos’ clothing shop. There was nothing distinct at first, but it didn’t take long for the noise level to rise. Both Rucca and Carlos could tell the ruckus was a shouting match. From the sound of it, it couldn’t be that far away. Carlos rushed to the entrance, and Rucca wheeled behind him.

From the entrance of the shop, Rucca could hear the shouting that came from the ramp leading down to Tier One. He looked up at Carlos and said, “Thank you for the goggles.”

“Absolutely. Any time, my lord friend. Just remember Carlos when it comes time to tell friends who has the best merchandise on Cloud Nine.” The shopkeeper winked at Rucca, who began to wheel away as he spoke.

“Of course, Carlos. See you later.”

As Rucca wheeled closer to the disturbance, the shouting became less like angry noise and more like distinct words and phrases. At first he could only make out bits like “dirty old bum” or “templar sumbitch,” and as he rolled closer, he saw the altercation was between one of his father’s templars—a fellow he didn’t recognize, actually—and a bum he’d seen around the skyport’s lowest tier more than a few times. He thought the bum’s name was Gully, and if he remembered correctly, he’d heard talk that Gully had a mean streak that alcohol only made meaner.

“Now, I told you, you templar sumbitch, I’m late for work.”

“And I’ve told you, you dirty old man, that I don’t think you have a job on Tier Three.”

“Do so,” Gully argued. “And I can prove it.”

The bum stuck his hands deep into both pockets. He rummaged around for a while, and the look on his face indicated that he was indeed looking for something that he just couldn’t quite lay a finger on. Eventually, he pulled both hands out of his pockets and showed them to the templar, middle fingers extended upward. “Here’s your proof, you armored god-tard. Now let me through.” The bum rushed the templar, putting his head down and charging.

The templar easily sidestepped the attack. It wasn’t that hard to do, as Gully was already intoxicated enough that he couldn’t even charge in a straight line. Once Gully realized his attack was unsuccessful, he stood up quickly and whipped his fist at the templar, who grabbed the bum’s wobbly arm and threw a punch of his own.

The templar’s plated fist slammed into Gully’s ribcage, and Rucca heard the breath escape from the beggar’s lungs and saw his legs give out. Gully hit the ground hard, but his intoxication level was likely high enough that he wouldn’t feel the impact. If the templar had stopped there, Rucca’s day would have ended quite differently. Instead, the templar reared his foot back and began kicking Gully in the stomach over and over again.

Rucca knew he wasn’t exactly an upstanding citizen, but he didn’t think he was what most people would consider a bad person, either. He might be entitled, spoiled, immature, and selfish, maybe—but not bad. And he was certainly not considered by anyone to be as noble as his father, the High Prelate; however, when Rucca saw the way the templar was laying into Gully, something inside him snapped. Later, he would look back on the moment and wonder what made him interfere, and he could think of absolutely nothing about his life or personality that precipitated the event.

It was just a voice in the back of his head telling him to interfere.

In any case, when Rucca saw his father’s templar attacking the bum, he instinctively pushed his wheelchair’s control stick forward. The chair didn’t stop until it slammed him into the templar, who was caught mid-kick and knocked to the ground himself.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” the templar demanded from the ground.

Rucca smiled at him. It wasn’t often someone had to look up to make eye contact with him. “My name is Demetrius Rucca. My father is Cornelius Rucca. If you do not know of me, can I at least assume that you are familiar with him?”

The templar picked himself up and bowed his head. “I am sorry, sir. I had no idea. I am sorry if I mispoke.”

Rucca looked down at the bum, who was still wheezing on the ground. “I do not believe that I am the one to whom you owe an apology.”

The templar’s gaze flitted to the bum. “To him?”

“Yes. I believe so. Do you even know his name?”

The templar stared at Gully. He swallowed audibly. “I…do not.”

“And yet you beat him senseless. Would my father approve of your actions?”

“I was tasked with keeping the rabble out of the upper tiers, sir.”

“That did not answer my question, templar.”

The templar thought about it. “No, sir. I don’t think he would have.”

“And yet you really laid into him, didn’t you?”

The templar would not meet Rucca’s gaze. “I was just doing my job, sir.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good excuse, templar. A convenient one, I’ll give you, but not a very good one. I’ll tell you what. You leave old Gully alone here—in my custody. I promise that he won’t be bothering you again today. And on top of that, I’ll be sure that the next time I run into my father, the High Prelate won’t hear a word of your poor performance at your new posting.”

The templar looked shocked. “How…how did you—“

“I have never seen you here before, and if you ask anyone around here,” Rucca gestured to the crowd of people who had gathered around them, “you will find out that I am not an uncommon sight.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I pay attention to things.”

The templar grunted and stood up straight. “Understood, sir. I’ll, uhh, leave the bum with you.”

Rucca nodded at him, and then wheeled himself over to the bum. “Gully, I believe?”

He nodded. “You the king?”

“No, I don’t believe I am,” Rucca said.

“Coulda fooled me, with that crown on your head,” Gully grumbled.

Rucca chuckled and rolled down the ramp toward Tier One. “Come on, Gully. We’ll have a couple of drinks then catch up. What do you say?”

“You buyin?”

“I am indeed.”

“Then I say you got yourself a date.”

* * *

After spending longer in a bar than he was comfortable with, Rucca began to wheel around Tier One. Gully followed him despite Rucca’s best efforts to prevent him from following.

“I know I’ve told ya before, your majesty—“

“I told you before, Gully, I’m not the king.”

The crazy bum ignored him. “—but I really do owe you for gettin that god-tard off me this mornin.”

Rucca pondered why he saved the bum from the templar. Am I to be stuck with this man forever?

“It was nothing, Gully.”

“The hell it wasn’t. He woulda beat me to death if you hadn’t stopped him, your majesty.”

Rucca sighed. As much as he appreciated Carlos’ gift earlier that day, right now he would have done anything if he hadn’t been wearing the goggles when Gully first saw him. All afternoon, the drunken bum had been calling him your majesty.

“I mean it, your majesty. I’ll do anything for you. Anything I can, that is. I’m not worth much, but I’ll do what I can for you. Get you anything you need. Ale, women, whatever, you name it, and it’s yours.”

They arrived at Rucca’s favorite spot on Tier One, right next to the docks. From there, he could see every new airship as it arrived at Cloud Nine.

Or, rather, it had been his favorite. Until yesterday. It was the spot his father had found him. He could still hear his father’s voice in his head.

You are a cripple. You will never fly one of those, Demetrius.

Rucca tried to tune Gully’s prattling out as he settled in to watch the airships dock. He reached up and unclasped the goggles Carlos had given him. They really were exquisite, probably made for an airship captain or someone of similar station. Yet Carlos had given them to him, the wheelchair-bound wannabe.

“Gully, what was it you just said?”

“I said I’d do anything for you, your majesty. Get you anything you want.”

Rucca looked down at the goggles in his hands and then back out the window at the ship currently docking. He smiled and said, “Get me an airship.”

Like what you just read? Then click here to read the next chapter or to buy all of Nimbus: Part One on Amazon!

Thank you for reading Nimbus: A Steampunk Novel – “Chapter Four”, a post from Professor Beej.

And if you’re wondering about the Error 37 reference, be sure to watch this amazing video. It explains everything. (Be aware there’s a lot of explicit language in the second one.)

Thank you for reading Saturday Zen – Diablo Got Hot!, a post from Professor Beej.

You heard me. Stop writing. Right now. Just stop. You done? Good, now we can move on.

When I teach composition, I start out the semester by telling the students that I have one rule about writing. That it’s a simple rule. I get in front of my classes, and I tell them, “Under no circumstances, do I ever want any of you to try to sound like a writer.”

Because that’s not the point. That’s not the point of all this. That’s not the point of writing. The point of writing isn’t to show people who verbose you can be. It’s not to let people see how extensive your word-hoarde is.

The point of writing is to communicate an idea as clearly as possible. And the best way to muck that up is to try to sound like a writer.

Case in point: compare Jane Austin and Stephen King. Apples and oranges in many cases, yes, but my point is that King is clearer than Austen. His ideas are clearer to grasp.

For instance, the first line of Pride and Prejudice reads, “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife,” and the first line of The Gunslinger is “The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed him.”

Genre, vocabulary, tone, time period, all that notwithstanding, which of these sentences communicates its idea more directly?

I’d have to say King’s. It’s more direct, more straight-forward. Sure, Austen’s is pretty, but she sounds like a writer.

And in terms of communication, that’s bad.

Back in the Day

I started this blog on Christmas Eve 2009. I thought I was a good writer. I thought that I had some pretty good ideas. And I did. For the most part.

The problem was that I considered myself to be…a writer.

That’s right. I broke my own cardinal rule. It took a lot of time and a lot of posts for me to realize that my early stuff was damn near unreadable. It wasn’t just because I was long-winded–which I was. It was because I had no idea how to write for the internet.

I was so used to writing academic papers that I had no idea what I was doing when it came to conveying simple ideas anymore. It took me years to be able to find my right style.

And now? Reading this is pretty much like having a conversation with me. I’ve found my voice. I’m so much more comfortable in my blogging now that I don’t feel like I have anything to prove.

Reading tons of blogs helped with this. Reading Syp’s Bio Break, Gordon’s We Fly Spitfires, and Matt’s World of Matticus helped me a lot because those bloggers are all very distinct because they’re not trying to be writers.

They’re trying to be people.

People on the internet don’t like to read.

They like to skim. So write in short sentences and equally short, scannable paragraphs. Break your ideas up into bite-sized chunks that people can take in snippets and tab away and get some work done before coming back.

Take that five-paragraph essay stuff…and stuff it. Take the idea of holding your best idea until last, and hold it out like a matador’s cape–right out in front of you. Let that be the first thing people see. And don’t be afraid to have a simple post. Sometimes, a good list-post or a few hundred words in a blurb is all you have to say on a subject.

So say it.

No One Likes a Smartypants.

Don’t try to sound intelligent. Don’t try to put on airs. Don’t try to make yourself out to be more awesome than you are.Don’t try to make them think you’re somebody you’re not.

Because in this hobby, we’re branded by two things above all else: our writing styles and our personalities. Both of which will determine whether you make it or have to take your ball and go home.

My point is that if you’re not a funny person, don’t try to be. If you’re not an analytical person, don’t try to be. If you’re not dry and snarky, don’t try to be. People stick with bloggers because they’re people. Because we like interacting with one another. So be personable, be friendly, tweet a few folks, and write like a human being.

For me, when I try to be dry and snarky, I come across as a dick. So I’m bubbly and friendly and happy as much as I can be. That’s who I am. It’s who I am on the internet, and it’s who I am in real life. My online persona is really just me–a heal-slinging, magic-using, robe-wearing, lightsaber-wielding, better-looking version of me.

There are a lot of bloggers out there. And most of them, no one ever reads. Why not? Because they sound exactly like everyone else.

And you know what’s cool about you? You’re not just like everyone else. You don’t sound like anyone else. You have ideas I can’t have. You have thoughts on games that you need to share. So break away from the crowd and make people pay attention to you.

Just don’t do it by trying to be a writer. Because then you’ll get an F.

Know a newbie blogger? Send ‘em our way! The Newbie Blogger Initiative is going on all month long! Don’t be a stranger!

Thank you for reading Hey, Newbie! Stop Writing!, a post from Professor Beej.

Now, though, summer break is fast approaching, and it’s time for me to once again treat writing like the job I want it to be. I just don’t think it’s going to be the super-awesome, breakneck-pace job it was going to be. I’m having to cut a lot of stuff because April was going to be a major month for me to get stuff done–freelance pitches, queries, guest posts, short stories–and it just didn’t turn out.

So I need some realistic goals for this summer–with summer being through the end of August. So in the next four(ish) months, I hope to accomplish the following:

• Launch Birthright Kickstarter hopefully no later than the second week of June.
• Finalize revisions and polish on Birthright (The Technomage Archive, Book 1) for a November 2012 launch. (Even though this isn’t due by the end of August, I fully intend to be well on its way to completion by then.)
• First draft of Lineage (The Technomage Archive, Book 2) - Complete at 75,062 words.
• First draft of Legacy (The Technomage Archive, Book3)
• Keep trucking on Nimbus: A Steampunk Novel with weekly chapters, and polish and revise Parts 2-4 by the end of August.

While this is enough to keep me busy, I did have a lot more on my plate. I had planned to get 2 Technomage Archive stories written and polished for submission over the summer, as well as prep some proposals for Dragon magazine and other more niche publications.

I still intend on getting as much of that stuff done as possible, but with working on 4 novels and dealing with the worst period of my life, it just can’t be a priority.

What about y’all? What are your goals for the summer or the year?

Thank you for reading Summer 2012 Goals, a post from Professor Beej.