# "Day One on Prosperity" (~3000 words)



## The Jaded (Apr 22, 2011)

This story was written for a competition (not on this site) a few months back, and I'd like to revisit it, make some revisions. Let me know what you think.


​Day One on Prosperity
by The Jaded​
I   remembered the briefing as I trudged up the snowy hillside, trying to   ignore the fine grains of ice carried into my exposed skin by the   driving wind. Prosperity was a stronghold planet of the Collective, and   the week-long crash course had focused on the planet’s culture, and on   explaining how to blend in with the local population. Even still, the   temperature range on the surface was never mentioned. I silently wished   death on the data analysts on the dropship with every step. This   environment wasn’t an enemy I was rated to fight.
 
Of   course, I did have equipment working to ensure that the cold was not   going to kill me before I got to the building on the hilltop. My   survival coat was pumping as many joules of heat into my chest and arms   as it could, and this combined with the steep climb working my muscles   made freezing to death a remote problem. I ignored the discomfort as   best I could, wishing for a cup of hot coffee, even the toxic black   sludge that a dropship mess has to offer. 
 
Three-quarters   of the way up, I stopped for a moment, prudence and training forcing  me  to check out my destination despite my desire to get inside and  warm.  Visually, it was nothing impressive - a sprawling nest of prefab   structure modules, with a heavily sloped wooden roof thrown over most  of  it as an afterthought. Grey smoke smudged the cloudless sky above a   metal-tube chimney. My thermal imager showed nothing out of the   ordinary, only a pair of battered groundcars cooling off in an adjacent   shed. The main structure was heated, and showed up on thermal as an   impenetrable brick of bright color. No sentries, which was good, and no   military hardware I could detect. Safe enough place to thaw off and  plan  my next move, I decided, blinking away the thermal imager and  resuming  my climb. I mentally switched from combat-readiness to the   luckless-traveler local persona I’d decided on using, and the voice   modulator switched on to give me a local accent. 
 
As   I got closer, I marveled at the overwhelming appearance of decay. The   prefab segments were worn, pitted, and dented, and cobbled together   irregularly and hastily, looking for all the world like they’d been   dropped here by an aircraft and then welded together in place. Most of   the modules were corroded, and several had patched-over holes. Only one   of the modules looked to be maintained in any decent condition - the   central one, a thirty-foot long, one-story box that stood at the front,   bearing both main door and a glowing neon sign. My optics loosely   translated the meaning of the seven characters there displayed as "establishment open". I ducked inside the door quickly. 

It   was dim, compared to the blindingly white hilltop, so I stood blinking   for a moment. While my vision adjusted, I relied on my optics,  surveying  the layout with my built-in instruments. It was clearly a  bar, based on  the long counter, rough wooden tables and chairs, and  large supply of  liquid-filled containers. A rough cement hearth,  obviously burning real  wood, crackled in one corner, and the few  patrons inside were clustered  close to it. There was no other heat  source, but still the room was  gloriously warm compared to outside. The  other corner across from the  door was cluttered with what was probably  junk - most of the stuff was  unrecognizably smoke-stained and  dust-blanketed, but I recognized a  defunct pendulum clock resting on  its side atop the clutter, it’s still  hands turned down, frowning at  the pervading decay. I also noted the  location of a battered old satnet  terminal along one wall, resolving to  make use of it later. 

I   switched the optics back off and let my eyes adjust, moving over to  the  bar. The man behind it, swarthy and bearded, watched me come in  without  saying a word, guarded look on his face. I dropped heavily onto  one of  the rickety stools, and spoke, hoping the modulator would get  the accent  right.  "Something hot to drink, if you would."
 
The   man bent down, gathered ingredients, and in perhaps thirty seconds he   slid a chipped ceramic mug of brownish liquid across to me. It smelled   like sugary wood smoke, but it did emit a pleasant steam, indicating   that it was, as desired, hot. "It is a pleasure to, freely of charge, give you this drink, not expecting pay from a fellow comrade." His tone indicated, of course, the opposite, and his finger tapped on the bar six times.

I   was familiar with this custom - in the Collective, one did not pay or   trade for anything, he was given it free of charge, and freely and in  an  ‘unrelated’ matter gave a gift of money or goods at the same time.  On  Collective worlds, commerce itself was a black market, hiding behind   barely-plausible reciprocated charity. "Of   course. I, also, out of the goodness of my heart and desire to see  this  fine place continue to operate, would like to present a gift."   I put a hand into my coat pocket and pulled out two coins, one marked   with five stars, one with only one. I’d stolen the coins, and a few   others, from a vacant homestead I’d passed on my way here. In theory,   the Collective had no currency, but in practice, Violation Marks were   its equivalent. Their only true value was in that they could be used to   nullify small violations of Collective laws and regulations. As the   local laws were myriad, illogical, contradictory, and often changed without notice,   this had proven a strong source of value.

The   drink was hot, as promised, and it wasn’t just heat that burned my   throat as I swallowed. The drink had me feeling much less frozen in   moments, though the taste was a little unpleasant. Despite my protesting   taste-buds, I nodded my appreciation as I warmed my fingers on the mug’s   exterior. 

"I did not hear an engine, comrade, did you walk here in this weather?"    The man behind the counter shook his head at the thought. Apparently,   even Prosperity natives couldn’t tolerate this cold - that could mean  it  was irregular. I liked this theory, as it meant I might not be cold  for  the entirety of the next six months.
 
"Not all the way, no."  I took another swallow of the drink. "My car gave out on me a few hours ago, and someone pointed me here."   Lies, of course. My drop-pod had deposited me in a snowbank about four   hours before, right before it turned itself into metallic dust.

"Need a mechanic, then?"  He put on an expression of hard thought. "I might know a guy willing to make the trip out here..."
 
"Nah, that wreck’s dead for good this time."  I shrugged to dissuade him of this idea. "I’ll figure something out, but thank you, comrade." I took another swallow of the drink. "I was hoping to make it to Victor Yards before it died, though."   Victor Yards was my objective. Sabotage there would hamper the   Collective’s war effort, and if the Yards stopped producing, it would   make this otherwise-unremarkable planet a non-factor in the war, safely   skipped over.

"Looking for work, then."  He nodded. "I understand. Times are hard." From what I had learned in the briefing, he was grossly understating things.
 
"Yeah. Weather’s been hurting my home town pretty badly."    If the pattern of other Collective worlds played out here, of course,   the smaller settlements were abandoned by the authorities entirely, or   worse, carefully and brutally mismanaged. Of course, one did not speak   ill of the authorities on a Collective world. The "weather" was an innocuous scapegoat.
 
"I do have some vacant rooms, of course. It would only be charitable for me to offer you one, free of charge."  Again, he meant the opposite. "Follow me."   He stepped out from behind the bar, leading me toward a hallway whose   opening was cut into the back of the big module. It branched twice, and  I  set my optics to overlay a building map to ensure I would remember  the  way back. The hall was poorly insulated and cold, but not as bad as   outside.

 Eventually,   he stopped in front of a door. The single letter scratched into it was   not translated by my optics, so it was probably a room designation. "”Room twelve."   I understood his meaning, and paid him twelve Marks, all the while   professing it as a donation to this fine establishment, not a payment   for the room. The proprietor then unlocked the door, and left me to my   own devices. I went inside to see just what I’d paid for.
 
The   room was dingy gray, prefab like the rest of the building, with a   metal-frame bed, lumpy stuffed mattress, and a wooden, homemade-looking   chest of drawers. The whole room was maybe six feet by ten, with a   single narrow window, a set of metal-slat blinds covering it   incompletely (as two of the slats were missing). It was cold, but there   was a small electric heater in the corner, which I immediately turned   on. A holo-poster on the wall displayed Collective propaganda. As I   entered, the image jumpily changed from a watercolor cartoon of factory   workers to a stylized galaxy map, on which the territory of the   Confederacy was drawn as a wildfire sweeping through the stars toward   Collective worlds. The caption read, "Destruction Advances." I thought   with a little chuckle that advertising the enemy as bringing warmth to   Prosperity was a bad move. There was no satnet terminal in the room, to   my dismay - I would have preferred to access the Collective’s nets in   privacy. Even so, I could lie low here for a few days, planning my next   move. 

My   sensors let me know that the room was free of surveillance, so I took   out a small black tube, which I knew held dozens of tiny machines.   Unscrewing the cap, I rested the tube against my hand until one of the   tiny, insectile robots had crawled out. With the tiny machine clinging   to my hand, I headed back out to the bar area, leaving left nothing   there. I knew the chances of it being searched were high. 

On   my return, I noted the stares of the other four customers, heads  turned  away from the flickering fire. None approached me, though, so  perhaps  it was merely curiosity on their part. I ordered dinner, "donating" the  hinted cost, and stood at the satnet terminal while it  was prepared,  pretending to spend the time looking up local sporting  statistics. The  harmless searches were a cover, of course, letting me  deposit the little  robot in my hand onto the terminal and giving it  time to find a way  inside the battered housing. The software it  carried, I hoped, would  work its way into the satnet system, and insert  my biometric data into  the Collective’s security nets. That would get  me into Victor Yards. 

When   my food was brought out, I sat near a wall, tactfully distant from the   group at the fire but not so far that the warmth did not reach me. The   food was some sort of unrecognizably processed vegetable paste, as  well  as cuts of an unrecognizable meat. I ate uninterestedly, trying to  look  as average as possible. 
 
As   I was eating, though, I heard electrical humming and the crunching of   snow under treads. A few moments later, the door opened briefly,  letting  in a harsh gust of subzero air and a pair of men. I kept  outwardly  cool, though the matching silver protrusions on their right  temples made  their nature obvious. These were Collective soldiers, and  the implants  protruding from their skulls housed dozens of small  sensors and  processing units. I’d been told my own equipment was  undetectable to all  but the most careful detection, but still, I  experienced a brief moment  of uncertain panic. Each man had a long,  rifle-like weapon slung across  his back, and as they stepped to the  bar, my optics determined that to  fire one of those without losing an  arm would require bone  reinforcement. These were not just backwater  patrolmen. As they started  talking to the barman, I turned up my audio  pickup to hear their low  voices. 

The   soldiers vaguely mentioned reports of objects landing nearby, then   asked the barman about suspicious activity. I pretended to keep eating,   but listened tensely to the response. I started charging the capacitors   on my own weaponry. Apparently, the pod had been detected, despite  being  supposedly undetectable. 
 
The   barman leaned in to whisper to the soldiers carefully, and I knew from   his expression before he spoke that he was suspicious of my story. "”Might want to check out the man in the corner, there." He whispered hoarsely. "Came in not two hours ago, walking in this weather in just that thin coat. Not even so much as a hat on him. Could be nothing."

The   two nodded, and turned to look at me. I nodded a solemn reply, then   returned to my meal, but knew things wouldn’t end there. Even if they didn't believe the innkeeper, they had to play this out. "Sir, could we have a word outside?"   The first soldier asked impatiently as his partner stared   expressionlessly. I shrugged, nonchalantly put my left hand in its own   pocket, and followed them out. I’d seen enough of their hardware to know   I’d have to take them by surprise, get their guards down.

I   was unsurprised when the moment they had me outside I found a sidearm   pressed against my head, held by the expressionless second soldier.  This  was practically standard behavior for questioning people. Playing my part,  though, I  shook, feigning fear as the first man threatened me with  rote,  intentionally vague consequences if I didn’t tell them exactly  the  truth, exactly what I was about. I nodded and gulped when he was  done,  and the pistol vanished. For now, I’d play along with their  little  fishing expedition, and not let them know what they’d hooked  until it  was too late. 

I   gauged their movements, trying to guess what kinds of implants they  had  in addition to the visible headpieces. Both definitely had overly   steady, precise movements - that probably meant aim assist.  
The   impatient one itched his left palm when not gesturing or talking, and I   suspected he had some sort of hardware there too. Without active   sensors, though, I couldn’t be certain. Pretending to be frozen in fear,   I still had my hands in the pockets of my coat. 

"I... I was on my way t-to Victor Y-yards to f-find work."  I probably laid it on a little too heavily, but they ate it up. "I only w-want to do my part in the war."
 
The   two turned, to converse with each other in low tones. The calm one  kept  an eye on me at first, but then turned slightly for just a moment,  and I  knew that I was out of view. I jerked my hands out of my  pockets,  pointing one each at the soldiers, and every system flashed  green in my  optics. 

The   soldiers started to turn at my sudden motion. The calm one reached for   his pistol and the hotheaded one started to bring up his left hand.  I’d  been right - the center of his palm had dilated to reveal some sort  of  weapon. It was too late for either of them to do anything, though.  My  instruments had just enough time to tell me the nature of the hand   weapon before the coilguns built into my own arms spit twin blasts of   hot red plasma. Missing was impossible at this range, even with aim   assist turned off. 

The   charred corpses of the soldiers fell to the ground. If it weren’t for   their subcutaneous armor (which I hadn’t noticed), there would have  been  little left of them but cinder. Even with its protection both had  been  killed instantly. Superheated matter at point-blank range tends to  make  short work of living tissue, after all. After three seconds, the  sound  of the shots echoed back from the surrounding hills. 

I   let the coilguns retract into my hands, and stepped back inside. The   barman started at my solitary reappearance, and began inching toward the   bar’s hatch. Obviously, the shots had been heard, and I think he   expected the soldiers to come in without me. 

"Relax."  I said, letting the local accent drop. "I’m not here to kill civilians."

He gulped and nodded. "”Who... Who..." The other four patrons simply stared, looking like animals caught in the hunter’s flashlight.

I smiled. He knew I couldn’t answer that to his satisfaction. I decided to humor him with a hint. "I’m the man who’s going to make invading this pathetic snowball unnecessary."   It was true - if Victor Yards fell silent, the Confederacy could  ignore  Prosperity entirely. I looked around, while that sunk in.

 One   of the patrons stood in a flash and reached for a sidearm, but before   his hand touched the weapon my own arm was already pointed at him,  coils  extended. No amount of lightning reflexes could out-draw military   implants. Careful to keep his hands in sight, he sat back down. I did   what I’d come back in for - I slagged the satnet terminal to keep them   from calling down the Collective and to hide my earlier digital   intrusion. Then I walked back out without saying another word.

 I   appropriated the soldiers’ crawler, though I’d have preferred  something  faster. I knew that I’d only delayed the news of my  existence. It was a  race against the clock now. I should have been  afraid, but all I could  feel as I drove toward Victor Yards was gleeful  anticipation for the  challenge to come.


 _This story originally written for Klazzform's Short Story Competition: [link]_​


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## powerskris (Apr 22, 2011)

This has some interesting concepts in it. It also feels like something that was meant to be part of a larger story. Was that your intention?


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## The Jaded (Apr 23, 2011)

It is part of a larger conceptualized story, yes, but one that is too large in scope to be properly defined in one narrative.

What I'm trying to say is that it's a story set in a setting I plan to (and have already begun to) work further in, which I have been building in my head for some years. I have this idea, maybe it's easier to tell a story as big as the war my MC refers to by coming at it from a lot of perspectives. If that doesn't work out, though, I think this bit serves itself well as a stand-alone.


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## SrGrvsaLot (Apr 24, 2011)

The main strength of this story is its setting. It is obviously well thought-out and consistent. You do a good job painting a picture of Planet Prosperity. On the other hand, it also bears a striking resemblance to "Space Soviet Union" This is not a problem per se, but it is a weakness. It tempts the reader to view it as allegorical or political - which is fine if that was your intent, but otherwise might lead to readers bringing in some unexpected baggage.

The main problem with this story is that it takes to long to establish what's at stake. Planet Prosperity is well-described, but it isn't so unusual that it made me wonder "what could possibly be so important as to bring the hero _here_?" As a result, I spent the first few paragraphs waiting for you to get to the point.

Related to this, the main character is a cipher. I don't know who he is, where he came from, why he was chosen for this dangerous (?) mission, or why he thinks the Confederacy is worth fighting for. I'm forced to assume that he's basically a representative of  "Space America," and that is just a little groan-worthy.

In a revision, I think it would be good if you established the character and his motives earlier on. I initially thought he was there as an explorer. The change of expectations I felt when I learned his true mission did not have the feel of an intentional reversal. Putting the danger upfront would also give the opening paragraphs some much needed suspense (they do a good job of setting the scene, but not of explaining why the scene is interesting).

Specific suggestions:

You might consider changing the season from winter to summer. That would make the parallels with the real world USSR a little less on the nose.

Also, the hero kills the guards with superheated, flesh-melting plasma bolts shot from his hands at close range. That strikes me as implausibly dangerous.

The first sentence reads: "I   remembered the briefing  as I trudged up the snowy hillside, trying to   ignore the fine grains  of ice carried into my exposed skin by the   driving wind."  I do not like this. In general, first sentences should be something of an attention grabber, but this one pushes all sorts of "ignore me" buttons. It is a cerebral "I remembered" reference to a dry event "the briefing" spliced with a passive-voiced depiction "the fine grains of ice *carried . . . by* the driving wind" of the weather. Also, it's a little wordy.

Here's how I would rewrite the first paragraph:




> With every step, I silently wished   death on the  dropship's data analysts. Their week-long crash  course had focused on the planet’s culture, and on   explaining how to  blend in with the local population. They never mentioned the   temperature range  on the surface.  This   environment wasn’t  an enemy I was rated to fight.



Then follow with a second paragraph that established that the planet he was on was called "Prosperity," that it was a Collective stronghold planet, and that he was there for some shady business.


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## The Jaded (Apr 24, 2011)

> On the other  hand, it also bears a striking resemblance to "Space Soviet Union" This  is not a problem per se, but it is a weakness. It tempts the reader to  view it as allegorical or political - which is fine if that was your  intent, but otherwise might lead to readers bringing in some unexpected  baggage.
> 
> ...
> 
> I'm forced to assume that he's basically a representative of  "Space America," and that is just a little groan-worthy.


Yeah, I should probably do something about that "Space America" assumption. I just didn't think that too much politics was relevant here. I guess that was incorrect. The Collective is merely my conceptualization of how a centrally-planned dictatorship would have to operate in a future as advanced as the one here described. I took a page from old USSR propaganda about "bad weather" and the like, of course - history improperly learned from does tend to repeat.



> Related to  this, the main character is a cipher. I don't know who he is, where he  came from, why he was chosen for this dangerous (?) mission, or why he  thinks the Confederacy is worth fighting for.


Who he is namewise is left out intentionally - I realized that for the narrative involved his name is never important enough to waste words. As for the rest, I was not able (within original deadline) to find any way to fit that into my word limit. Both deadline and word limit are gone now, though, so we'll see.



> Also, the hero kills the guards with superheated, flesh-melting plasma  bolts shot from his hands at close range. That strikes me as implausibly  dangerous.


Which it indeed would be, if he weren't so heavily augmented. I see your point, though. I might change his weapons a little - they started out as dart launchers, and I sort of upped his tech level a few times in my editing process to justify the two not getting off return fire. 



> You might  consider changing the season from winter to summer. That would make the  parallels with the real world USSR a little less on the nose.


Even Prosperity's tropics are snowbound three quarters of the year. Summer is really short but also very, very hot, due to a particularly elliptical orbit, and it seemed unlikely to me for a number of reasons that the dropship would make a pass during local summer.



> The first sentence reads: "I    remembered the briefing  as I trudged up the snowy hillside, trying  to   ignore the fine grains  of ice carried into my exposed skin by the    driving wind."  I do not like this. In general, first  sentences should be something of an attention grabber, but this one  pushes all sorts of "ignore me" buttons. It is a cerebral "I remembered"  reference to a dry event "the briefing" spliced with a passive-voiced  depiction "the fine grains of ice *carried . . . by* the driving wind" of the weather. Also, it's a little wordy.


Yeah. I will work on that first paragraph a little.

Thanks for the comments. I will take them into consideration while I write the next draft. It's always helpful to have another perspective (maybe even a sane perspective) on my work.


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