Mistakes Have Been Made

But it's still not the end of the world. Damn it.

I have more than a novel’s worth of scenes, paragraphs and smaller snippets which I’ve culled from my long-form prose writing. Below are two such scenes, from the same novel, in the same location, but from two different characters’ points of view, at different times.

The first scene, ‘Dewey’, was an attempt to capture more queerness by sympathetically roping in an additional (albeit closeted) character, without the overdone need for spice sprinkling. The topic of conversation and related location drew on prior librarian experience, but the scene failed to move the plot along and the main character’s wordplay was too obscure. The lesson here was don’t get too clever with your readers, even if you think you know what you’re talking about.

The second scene, ‘Smoke & Mirrors’, was deleted because it brought irreverent humour into a scene of bloody mayhem. The scene should have instead helped escalate the final act towards a tense climax. One beta reader described it as “Pratchett invading a Rohirrim cavalry charge”. Fair comment, I thought. Which idiot would dare blemish an epic Bernard Hill (RIP) call to arms?

Until next time…

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Deleted Scene #1: ‘Dewey’

I’ve yet another treatment session, but I’m early for once and my finger is hovering over the elevator’s buttons. I’m now able to recognise some of their Eastern pictos and there’s one I’ve been dying to press. I give in to procrastination. At least it might provide me with something to occupy my time whilst another painful needle funnels Madam’s miracle potion into my veins.

The elevator descends four levels instead of the usual three, a tone announcing each, and then opens its doors. The smell is unmistakable. Books. Paper books, in a setting that Mr Dewey could never have dreamt of. I step out and stop. Unlike the medical labs above, this floor is bigger. Much bigger. They must have taken months to hollow out the cavity for this prodigious archive. Books of every binding, colour and thickness already appear to occupy most of the space, packing out the lengths of shelving which reach up to the rough-hewn ceiling. There are trolleys in the aisles with catalogued items still to be put away and a set of wider shelves near the elevator, full of both opened and unopened boxes. The writing on their sides covers a variety of languages and scripts.

The scale of the Panoptiki’s operations continues to astound me. Each isoCommune was a remnant of an ancient society, each with its own tenets, but joined by a common ideology. Closed but connected. Determined to survive through rigid discipline, whilst adapting to the changing world outside, if not taking advantage of it. Much of the world’s knowledge and many of their cultural connections relied on the written word. Loss of literature meant a loss of place in the world.

There is a large desk close to where I’m standing, rooted in wonder. On it are several piles of books, many with annotated scraps of paper bookmarking their pages. I glance at the spines in reflex, but it’s dull stuff: optronics, laser physics, materials science. Not what I would call cosy escapism.

There’s a polite cough. A man. I step closer and he reveals himself, a shy animal hiding in a forest of bound paper. Paler than most of the Panoptiki, he pokes the bridge of his glasses with an ink-stained finger and smooths his non-existent hair. He reminds me of the clerk I’d met in the dusty furnace of Shamandoosolay.

My teenage self takes another step, wanting to hide again amongst the stacks, to find safety and solace in mere words. “Hello, are you the librarian?”

He smiles widely at my greeting. “You might call me that. And might you be my latest reader? I do hope so, Mz Anoman.”

My fame precedes me yet again, but I wonder if his catalogue extends far enough to meet my exacting subject requirements. “That depends, Mr…?”

“Suleiman,” he says, rising from his chair, his bald head only reaching my chin.

“Mr Solomon. Very good,” I reply, offering my hand.

There’s a sharp intake of breath. “A little-used alternative, I’m afraid,” he says.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” I drop my arm as he dismisses the error with a small wave. “I have a simple question for you, Mr Suleiman, and I hope you have a simple answer: 306 or 616?” The numbers are a distillation of a cultural change that once mattered a great deal to me. I’m hopeful of cultivating another young mind to a similarly broad degree; not for entirely selfless reasons. I’ve been disappointed before and I have the same pessimism here, in this community of oppressive social conformity, backed by over-exacting science. But if you don’t ask, you won’t receive.

His smile widens. “Ah, Mz Anoman, what a fascinating young lady you are. I would like to reassure you you’re not alone in sitting on that particular fence.” He taps his nose. “306.7 is where my preference has always lain.” Subterfuge over, he points towards a narrow gap between two rows of shelving.

A rational number can say so much about a rational man. Before venturing into the stacks, I discard stifling tradition and clasp his hand with both of mine. “Thank you. Thank you so much,” I whisper. “Please, take me to your shelves.”

He catches his glasses before they fall from his nose. We’re going to get on famously.

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Deleted Scene #2: ‘Smoke & Mirrors’

“General, you have to let me try.”

“I don’t have to let you do anything, Archie. But I can have you executed where you stand for subordination.”

“But your daughter’s message. They need help!”

“She did not ask for your help.”

There is a nervous cough behind me. “General, there is one possibility. It is only a prototype, but initial tests have been encouraging.”

“You are speaking about your special suit, Suleiman? The one the soldiers refuse to wear?”

“Er, yes. But I believe Mr Archie’s mind has the required flexibility to wield—”

Hanif turns to me and asks, “What is your opinion of suicide missions, young man?”

I pause as my shit turns real. “The same as yours, General,” I say, wincing in expectation of summary retribution.

His eyes narrow, then his lips twist. Without shifting his gaze from me, he says, “The boy is definitely not a soldier, Suleiman. So perhaps you finally have found a volunteer to test your device in the heat of battle.” Suleiman nods excitedly as Hanif continues, “You have your wish, young man. Go rescue those we love. That is an order.”

“Hang on, no-one said anything about being a guinea pig for whatever this ‘suit’ thing is.”

“An order, I said,“ the General repeats, with a face brooking no dissent. “Obey all of Suleiman’s instructions to the letter, try to stay alive, and…”

“Yes?” I say, looking up at him. Perhaps for the last time.

“Good luck, Archie. Bring them back safely.” His face softens for an instant, a father’s brief appearance from behind a soldier’s mask.

I straighten my back and resist saluting. “Thank you, General. You won’t regret your decision.”

“It is far too late for regrets,” he says, nodding at Suleiman.

“Quickly, this way, Archie,” says my inventor mentor, beckoning me towards the armoured door being hauled open by two guards. “We may already be too late.”

I use the Panoptik’s side-door, which Pash and I first entered, half-starved and desperate, almost five months ago. It seems an age away. I never imagined I would exit through it, possibly for the last time, by running headlong into a battle between thousands of troops from two bitterly opposed factions.

‘Running’ isn’t the best way to describe my progression towards where I last saw Paysha from the ops room. On account of what I’m wearing, ‘repeatedly stumbling’ is perhaps more accurate. As soon as Suleiman had lifted the experimental suit from out of a wardrobe secreted in a locked storeroom at the bottom of the control tower, I’d understood why no soldier had wanted to wear such a ridiculous outfit. Even its maker had looked sheepish when he’d measured it against me for size.

I resemble the robots in science fiction movies made almost a century ago. Only worse, much worse. I’m having to adopt a ridiculous half-cantering gait to move faster than a walk, like a child pretending to ride a horse by holding a stick between its legs. Victory might be within our grasp, once the opposing army spots me and collapses into helpless laughter.

But Suleiman had promised me it had worked well in trials, whilst failing to hide his enthusiasm for seeing how it might cope in genuine combat. Yippee for me. As he’d strapped me into it, he’d briefed me on its mode of action and kept repeating, like a broken audiostream, the most critical aspect: when the suit lights up stand absolutely still with your legs apart and your arms raised over your head. ‘Or what?’ I’d asked. ‘Or be sliced and diced in under a second,’ he’d replied, in a matter-of-fact tone.

Marvellous. Either win at musical statues or become Monsieur Rosbif served extra-rare. The one positive aspect was not having Imp blurting out ‘Mighty Mirrorman’s Mangled Meat Makes a Marvellous Meal’. But Pash is in the middle of this mayhem and urgently needs my help. So I must swallow both my fear and pride.

As I approach the tattered edge of the battlefield, human figures appear out of the billowing dust clouds. Whilst safely ensconced in the ops room, I’d been shielded from the gory proceedings. Now I can see death isn’t coming easily to anyone here, no matter whose side they’re on. It's the noise which hits me the hardest amongst the visceral carnage and ceaseless loss of limbs and lives. Humans have always been loud, messy fighters.

Suddenly, the suit’s carapace glows ruby red and I skid to a halt in the salty gravel to adopt Suleiman’s highly recommended Vitruvian pose. My outfit is eccentric enough, but the unusual light emanating from the new boy's arrival is attracting combatants on both sides. It’s hard to tell who is friend or foe, but Suleiman had assured me the suit would do it automatically. I hadn’t asked how and I still don’t care. I only want to avoid being killed before I reach Pash, and hope that neither of us die as I escort her back into the Panoptik. It’s a simple enough wish. But, as with most rushed projects, executing it is the hardest part.

A Slaver emerges from the fray, intent on dispatching me with her axe to non-Slaver heaven, or Slaver hell. Delightful. I continue to expose my body to the maximum possible extent, which briefly confuses her. By making no attempt to defend myself, I’m begging for someone to slice a sharp blade or poke a pointy piece of metal into me. She shrugs and starts her run-up with a piercing howl, axe arm rotating above her head. I can tell she’s done this before. Unlike myself. The primitive parts of my brain are screaming at my body to dispense with the milliwave security scanner impersonation and flee. But my frontal cortex is suppressing such cowardly reactions, instead placing a ridiculous amount of trust in Suleiman, a librarian who’s read a couple of optical physics books and owns a small screwdriver set.

Frontal lobes beats lower brain stem as physics again rules supreme. I hadn’t felt a thing, but the Slaver’s torso has been neatly dissected into a series of asymmetrical slices, the limbs becoming disjointed accompaniments. It’s not a pretty sight. Her body parts continue to smoke as I wipe her blood from my face and the smell of her cauterised flesh reaches my nostrils. Her emerging battle companions look less keen on engaging me. The suit’s glow diminishes, returning to its former polished mirror-like state. I press on into the melee to continue with my quest, the latest knight in shining armour to attempt Paysha’s rescue. I’m no hero and I don’t want to die, but failing her again isn’t an option. Even if I’m not what she really wants, I should still be brave. I will be brave.