Rodger E. Carty's Blog: Rod Spills

It's mind bending, but ever so much fun to put it in a story. I'll just give you a précis. My novel Falling Up is about a boy who can fly. Yeah, I know. And I nicknamed him Peter in acknowledgement. Anyway, to deal with the physics without invoking pixie dust, I fantasized that he could control gravity with his mind.

Good so far, except this means he feels zero gravity. Well, that's cool, and being able to do the same for friends is wonderful! Except, zero gravity training usually is done with a sick bag in hand. So, he has to give everyone instructions: no problem. Fun to include that the villains get no instructions, with the humiliating result.

The world is a big place, so to make this story more than just page after page of him flying somewhere else, he has to be able to go fast. Well, that's great, I love the idea of going fast. Add in flying plus zero-g, and I've got the trifecta of wonderful, in my opinion.

Oh, but high speed is windy, and if it's extreme, it's tough on clothes and limbs. Wind chill is not so fun, either. Add a sprinkle of fantasy: he can make wind shields with gravity. This solves another problem, of going high because the air gets thin. It's a rough world out there, so his shields need to stop bullets. Ok, even big bullets. Now he's all cozy in a bubble, and it's nice and quiet.

There's more, but you get the idea. I worked to demonstrate these aspects and how his abilities dealt with them, and how it all made him so different, so wonderful.

Here's a sample. You can read the whole sequence in the free preview on Amazon; this is in chapter 4.

Peter returned to the office building the next morning right after breakfast. Since he was travelling east, he wasn't going to arrive just after they opened, so he travelled extra fast to get there as soon as he could. Thinking of the reaction of the guards last night, he left his lights high in the air and landed around the curve of the road from the building, then casually walked to it.

A man and a woman stopped talking when he opened the door, and they just stared at him, mouths open.

“Good morning! Is this the place for me to arrange to bring in scrap metal in trade for iron product?”

The man blinked, swallowed, and said, “Are you the boy with the lights?”

Peter, taken aback, answered, “Uh, yes, I am, but how did you know?”

“We were just discussing whether we were going to fire one of the night guards for sleeping on the job when he reported a boy who was glowing, and who then flew away, or whether we were going to put both guards on sick leave when the second guard finally admitted he'd seen the boy too. Then just now there was a great thunder in a clear sky, and not two minutes later you walk in the door!”

“Thunder?” Peter thought quickly. There was turbulence when he was flying so fast, but it wasn't a problem — or so he thought. Maybe he was pushing the air out of the way and making wind or something. He'd have to talk to Teacher about this!

“Well, sorry about that. I didn't intend to scare you. I'm just wanting to do some trading here.”

Urgently, the man asked, “What about the flying?”

After a second's hesitation, Peter lifted himself off the floor to hang there, unmoving.
. . .
Terence suddenly joined the conversation. “Does it get dark earlier here than where you live?”

“Yes, it does.”

“So, you live some distance to the west from here! That explains why you were talking to the night guards!” Jumping out of his chair, he continued, “Of course! The sonic boom!”

“The what?”

“The thunder we heard just before you walked in. You were flying faster than the speed of sound! You broke the sound barrier!”

“I didn't know there was a barrier. Who calls it that?”

“The men who were building jet planes to go ever faster over a century ago. Do you ever experience turbulence while flying?”

“Sure, I feel turbulence on the outside of my bubble, but it's no problem.”

Slapping his arms against his sides, Terence said, “No problem? No problem? Men died figuring out how to build aircraft that could go faster than the speed of sound!”

It was Peter's turn to stand there with his mouth open. Airplanes that could fly as fast as he could? The thought that they might, and that it would be dangerous, simply hadn't occurred to him. Then a memory struck him. “Can flying faster than sound break the tops off trees?”

Laughing, Terence said, “Are you bragging? Or asking?” He held up his hand. “I get it.” After he had control of himself again, he said, “You are such a remarkable young man! What did you say your name was?” He walked toward Peter with his hand out. “I'm Terence, and I'm so thrilled to meet you!”

I have romance in my novel Zero-I, prequel to Falling Up. No racy stuff. The main character comes to work for someone he knew briefly in university years before.

Chapter 1
Somewhere in those mountains was Denise’s home, her research facility, and his new job. It wasn’t just to see her again after so many years that brought him here.
—
Used to emergency calls, he was fully awake by the time he picked it up. “Gordon here.”
“Good morning! You sound like you kept your habits from your military days.”
Gordon smiled slightly at Denise’s voice. “I did. And it sounds to me like you’ve been awake for hours already.”
“Pretty much. I haven’t had breakfast yet, though. Care to join me?”
—
Gordon readily recognized Denise sitting in the far corner. She had hardly changed a bit! She saw him, too, and smiled as he approached.
“Good morning! I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
Denise rose from her chair, and, ignoring Gordon’s offered hand, embraced him. “Let’s not stand on ceremony here. We’re old friends, so let’s act like it.” Then, with a mischievous look, “But I’m still the boss!”
Gordon laughed as he tentatively hugged her in return. They both sat, and a server seemed to materialize at the table with coffee. While she poured Denise a refill, Gordon turned his cup upright. She filled it, too, and walked on.

They sat looking at each other without saying anything for a few seconds. Gordon picked up his menu to defuse the awkwardness. “What’s good here?”

Chapter 2:

".. Perhaps a three second transit.”
Gordon did the math in his head. “60 feet per second. About 41 MPH.”
Denise nodded.
“What caused the sled to come apart? That doesn’t seem very fast. Pretty docile, really.”
Denise grinned slightly. “I understand why you wouldn’t find 40 MPH very interesting. Being an ex-fighter jet jock, anything under Mach 1 is boring, right?”
With a start, Gordon remembered saying those very words to a younger Denise, years ago. He barked a short laugh, and nodded.

From chapter 3:
Gordon nodded, but he was still smiling.

“What?”

“You are so confident, capable!”

She smiled back, but she was thinking, ‘Change the subject, change the subject!’ “Meanwhile, tell me what you think of our exercise equipment.”

I just saw a short classic movie blurb about the original Rambo movie, First Blood. They made the story so that Rambo never kills a single person, to make him a likable hero.

I like that they did this. Controlled power. He's a soldier, just back from war, so presumably he killed many in war. He knows how. He knows he can kill. But he chooses not to kill, even when he's sorely provoked by those who are trying to kill him.

The main character in my novel Falling Up does kill, but never anyone who has not first tried to kill him. In fact, many times when he kills, it's by turning the bullets they're shooting at him back on them. They're killed by their own bullets, fired at him, with the intent to kill him. Even in the middle of a war, he gives people a chance. 'Stop now, turn away. You don't even have to leave your guns behind. But if you attack me, you die.'

Many of those who die are people who have enslaved and murdered others, and so it is an act of protecting the weak and the innocent that he kills. All good, honourable intentions and actions, in a world largely without law. A likeable hero.

I have a scene planned for my sequel to Falling Up, where Peter made glass figurines of galloping horses. He captured them mid-stride so well that Lucy feels like, in the next instant, they will suddenly gallop away. Some of them are displayed in their home, but many are for sale in the family trading store. Then there is a scene where Lucy and Peter go to see the horses, and they are flying along in the herd as it gallops over a grassy plain. Peter has done this with them before, and the horses are used to him, so they are running quite closely around them.

Imagine flying along with them as the herd travels in sweeping curves over the hills, up and down with the terrain, and around the occasional tree. Waves made of horses pouring across the land. The wind is lashing the manes and blowing through Peter and Lucy’s hair. The smell of many horses’ sweat mixed with the dust they are kicking up is strong, earthy; the stuff of life. Lucy’s laughter, squeals and shouts of delight add counterpoint to the thunder of many hooves and the heavy breathing of horses.

I listened to a few samples of another narrator’s work today, after I saw a post of theirs on FaceBook. Their British accent is the type that I’ve always admired. Precise diction, smooth delivery, every word clear and calm, yet overlaid with little twists of pronunciation that I recognize as being specific to some region of the UK. It’s all very delightful, and I can understand why they have narrated many books.

Then I listened to the latest chapter from my novel, that my narrator Dylan Orsolini has shared with me. It took me in my imagination to my wild horses scene I described above. I realized the British narrator is like riding a horse at a walking pace, ever so smoothly and precisely navigating obstacles, allowing a rider to relax into it. To experience the rhythm of the horse’s gait and even their muscles moving beneath their skin, while enjoying the elevated view. Pleasant. Peaceful. Relaxing.

Then I knew that Dylan’s narration is that whole wild herd, galloping across the miles, with the head of this horse, then that horse coming into view among them. I realized that they could be covering the same terrain as that British horse, but the herd is doing it with a level of excitement and joy that makes it an entirely different, and far, far better, experience. I so much prefer the gallop, with turns so sharp and surprising I have to concentrate to hold on, even though I know this terrain well. Listening to his narration is an experience in itself.

You are like wild horses, Dylan. I am so blessed to have you narrating my novel. Thanks for carrying my story so well. Keep on galloping!

Just this week I started writing the first draft on the prequel to my debut novel Falling Up. First chapter is done, and I've done another 600 words or so on chapter 2.

Although I published in February, I finished the first draft on that novel in November last year. I've been editing and promoting it ever since, and planning, plotting, outlining the prequel and the sequel ever since. And writing the occasional scene that grabbed me particularly hard. Over a year since I was simply writing a novel. I had no idea I was missing it so much. I just knew, at the beginning of the week, that I HAD to start now. I couldn't wait any longer, even though there is much of the pre-first-draft work to be done still before I can finish.

I love writing!

The process of book writing is different for different people.

I planned what I'd write for quite a while before beginning. I had a lot of fun writing. I was laughing in some places and crying in others, and that carried on into editing. I found editing to be just as much fun, and I read my novel start to finish about 30 times during editing and beta reader feedback.

Other people have a story idea and just start writing, going wherever the story leads them, but they loathe editing. I can see where editing could be a pain when you're no longer in that freewheeling creative mode.

It seems to me that this is why some people like traditional publishing better. They do the editing for you. If you hate editing, this would be a real boon.

People who do little planning, just run with a story idea, can put out multiple books per year if all they do is write. No planning, no editing.

It's amazing to me how differently creativity manifests itself for different people.

The backstory implied in the novel is that Jack and his buddies had some experience in Central and South America before meeting Peter, so they would have had access to coffee. The larger story is the nuclear winter drove people south. Canadians into the US, and Americans into Central and South America. So by Peter's time there would be a fairly large population of descendants of American immigrants in Mexico and other places. A turnabout from today where there are so many immigrants moving north. Jack and his crew may have been born in Mexico. This helps with the plausibility of at least some people in these countries speaking English. It would be much less likely anyone would speak English if there had been no contact with Americans since the Nukes.

Mentioned in the novel is that there were clogged highways in the US, indicating people were fleeing the cities. Unidirectional clogs of vehicles. Many of the ones who went north got stranded in the sudden snow and died on the highway.

This also works for some people in Paris, including a mugger, speaking English: people from the UK migrating south.

Here's that mugger scene, but first their trip there. This is the kind of romance I write:

Peter landed near Lucy as she was nearing the deck. “Hi, how are you today?”

Lucy could hardly see Peter through the rain, but she could see he was revoltingly cheerful for such weather. To add insult to injury, she saw that the rain wasn't touching him: he was shielded and dry. “I'm miserable with this miserable weather. I apologize in advance if I'm grumpy.”

The rain stopped beating upon her as if someone had turned off a tap. Through the drips still coming off her hood, she could see a waterfall less than a meter in front of her. It was to her right as well. She pulled her hood back and looked up, and she could see water streaming across the shield Peter had placed above them. The motion was strangely calming, and she sighed. “It's beautiful.” Now she could see Peter clearly. “Thank you.”

“How about I take you somewhere for lunch?”

“Oh, I don't know, I have work to do here... I'll ask.”

“Sure, Hun, you two go have fun. Take the afternoon off.”

“I'll just dry my hair and get my coat! Be back shortly!”

Peter took them through the rain slower than they usually went, but in a few minutes they passed through the storm. Then they sped up. Lucy could see nothing but clear sky in front of them. Then she realized she could see nothing but water below them. “Where are you taking me for lunch?”

Peter grinned. “It's ok, it's only about a half hour away.”

Lucy laughed. “Yeah, but that tells me nothing. You can go halfway around the world in a half hour!”

“It's a surprise. I'll tell you this much, though. I'm pretty sure it's somewhere you've never been before. Just in case you were thinking we were going to Venezuela.”

Lucy worked to cast off her foul mood, and the sunshine helped. Sure enough, less than a half hour later she saw land ahead.

Peter grinned. “I'll give you some clues. That land to our right is Portugal and Spain.” As they were descending and slowing, he said, “To our left is Ireland and Britain.” They were over land now, continuing their descent. “The water to our left is the English Channel. Below us is —”

“France! You're taking me to France for lunch! We just crossed the Atlantic Ocean!” Lucy laughed and cried the rest of the way to their landing.
. . .
It was fully dark by the time they were done eating, so Peter turned on the other two lights, keeping them all high enough they could still see around them. “How about we walk to the Seine? It's a few blocks, but we can fly away from anywhere in the dark, so won't have to walk back.”

“Yes, please! That and seeing the Eiffel Tower are on my list of things I've wanted to do for years.”

“That's no problem, either. It's off to our left, though far enough away we couldn't see it from here even if it wasn't dark. It's on our way home. We can circle it a few times, so you'll get a good look at it.” Peter declined to mention that they had already flown past it in daylight on their way to land, but she had tears in her eyes at the time.

They walked, arm in arm, ignoring the stares of people who saw them walking in the center of a pool of light. It was perhaps a half-kilometer to the river, and they were in no rush.

“Well, here we are. On the other side and a bit to the left is the spire of the Sainte-Chapelle, and over to our right is the Notre-Dame Cathedral.” They turned left and walked along the path next to the river.

“I wish we could see this in daylight!”

“Well, we could do that, but we'd have to leave from Maine right after breakfast to have much time here.”

Lucy gave a short laugh, then realized Peter wasn't joking, so looked at him quizzically.

“Paris is four hours ahead of Maine. It's still daytime there right now, and still will be when we get back.”
“How romantic, how convenient! An evening stroll along the Seine, and back home before supper.”

Suddenly, a man entered their circle of light in front of them. “Arrêter!” Peter and Lucy stopped as the man approached. He was moving his knife back and forth slowly, making Peter's lights reflect off the blade intermittently.

Peter said, “Put the knife away. I'll give you some money.”

The man spat out the word, “English!” Then he continued with a heavy French accent. “I don't want you to give me money, I want to take all your money. I don't need charity, I work for my money.”

“This hardly qualifies as honest work, does it?”

“Who said anything about 'honest'? Hand over your money, or I cut you.”

Lucy said, “Peter, please don't kill him.”

He looked at her. “Ok.”

The robber said, “You want to kill me? No, I kill you!” He lunged, knife pointed at Peter, but his first step didn't even touch the sidewalk before he disappeared from their circle of light, flying to their right. His squeal was silenced in the splash.

They calmly resumed their walk, but the altercation had spoiled the mood for both of them.

Lucy sighed and said, “Let's go home now.”

I often think in accents or voices. Sometimes it's a result of a particular character in a movie or something which catches my attention, and I'll find my internal monologue will take that on, perhaps for hours. Oh, yeah, I entertain myself quite a lot. The other day it was sparked by an offhand comment in a FB post. I thought of a rejoinder, and it played in my mind in a slow western drawl, and Wilfred Brimley's voice. Then everything I thought was doing this for a while.
I used this when I was writing my novel Falling Up. Different characters have different voices and manner in my imagination, and I hope I was able to write them well enough for readers to get that, too.

An example of a character I had a lot of fun writing was Terence, the guy from the steel mill in Ohio.

This is from chapter 4, which is included in the free preview on Amazon, so I'm not giving anything away. First, some context.

People who put up fences usually didn't appreciate him just dropping in wherever, so he followed the fence to find a manned gate. It was fully dark when he found one. He landed on the road leading to it, then started walking toward the gatehouse. Two men came out, staring at him wide-eyed. Their reaction made him think about how he must look to them. He could have landed farther along the road and walked here, but his lights hovering overhead would probably still result in the same response. He was careful to have the lights in front of him slightly, shining back down on him so his face wasn’t in shadow, but this only served to cast him in an aura of light. But just walking up to them in darkness had its own dangers. Peter was starting to realize his lights were a mixed blessing, but he loved having them anyway.
With a sigh, Peter called out, “Are you open for business? I'd like to talk to someone about trading scrap for iron product.”
“Uh, no one is here for you to talk to. Can you go to the office in the morning?”
“That would be fine. Where is the office?”
“Right back down the road you got here on.”
“Ok, I'll follow the road back. What does the office look like?”
“It's the only building there, a half kilometer back.”
“Thanks very much, and have a great evening!” Then Peter lifted, turned, and followed the road.
It was several seconds after Peter's light faded from sight before the guards, still wide-eyed and avoiding eye contact with each other, turned without a word and returned to their gatehouse.

Peter returned to the office building the next morning right after breakfast. Since he was travelling east, he wasn't going to arrive just after they opened, so he travelled extra fast to get there as soon as he could. Thinking of the reaction from the guards last night, he left his lights high in the air and landed around the curve of the road from the building, then casually walked to it.
A man and a woman stopped talking when he opened the door, and they just stared at him, mouths open.
“Good morning! Is this the place for me to arrange to bring in scrap metal in trade for iron product?”
The man blinked, swallowed, and said, “Are you the boy with the lights?”
Peter, taken aback, answered, “Uh, yes, I am, but how did you know?”
“We were just discussing whether we were going to fire one of the night guards for sleeping on the job when he reported a boy who was glowing, and who then flew away, or whether we were going to put both guards on sick leave when the second guard finally admitted he'd seen the boy too. Then just now there was thunder in a clear sky, and not two minutes later you walk in the door!”
“Thunder?” Peter thought quickly. There was turbulence when he was flying so fast, but it wasn't a problem — or so he thought. Maybe he was pushing the air out of the way and making wind or something. He'd have to talk to Teacher about this!
“Well, sorry about that. I didn't intend to scare you. I'm just wanting to do some trading here.”
Urgently, the man asked, “What about the flying?”
After a second's hesitation, Peter lifted himself off the floor to hang there, unmoving.
Both could see he was floating, and the man came around the counter to Peter. Crouching down, he said, “May I?”
“Go ahead.”
He touched the floor beneath Peter's feet, then the bottom of Peter's shoes. “How do you do it?”
“I can control gravity with my mind.”
“Gravity? So you can remove gravity from where you are, to fly?”
“Hmm, close enough.”
Standing, the man looked around in the air above Peter's head. “And the lights?”
Smiling, Peter said, “My invention! Car alternators powering car headlights! Portable lights!”
“But where? Did you leave them at home today?”
“I did bring them. I take them everywhere, even during the day! I haven't had them long, and I'm still enjoying shining them all over. Uh, I left them hanging on the other side of that tree —”
“You hung them in that tree?”
“No, I hung them in the air.” With that, Peter lowered himself back to the floor.
“Could I see your lights? I love to build things too!”
Peter grinned, walked to the door, and opened it. It was a round knob, so it was difficult for him to turn it with gravity. A few seconds later, his lights streamed through the door in a line. Peter dissolved the bubbles around the lights so they could hear the alternators, then spun them up to turn on the lights. Encouraged by their lack of fear, he let go of the door, and closed it with a bit of gravity as he walked back to them. He was almost disappointed when they didn't seem to notice.
Excitedly, the man asked, “What makes the alternators spin?”
Peter and he answered almost in unison, “Gravity!”
“Do you have to push more gravity into them or something to keep them spinning?”
“Nope. I only stop the spin when I don't need the lights on because they will burn out after a while.”
“So, the gravity doesn't run out after a while?”
Peter thought he'd already answered this question. “No. I set the gravity inside to spin it, and then dissolve the gravity when I want the spin to stop. I've used these for hours at a time and there's no change.”
The man looked stunned. He just started pacing back and forth, muttering under his breath. Peter heard some words that were spoken slightly louder. “No change!” “Ever!” “Limitless!” “Revolution!”
After several minutes of this, he slumped into a chair, holding his head in his hands, still muttering.
Since the man appeared to be otherwise occupied, Peter walked the rest of the way to the counter, held out his hand to the woman. “Hi, I'm Richard Piles, but people call me Peter!”
Laughing at the joke, she shook his hand. “Alice Greasley! Pleased to meet you, Peter!” Nodding at the man, “That's my husband, Terence! He's extremely pleased to meet you too, and when he comes out of that coma, I'm sure he'll tell you so himself!”
Somewhat distractedly, Peter replied, “I look forward to it. Say, I'd like to apologize to those guards for the trouble I made for them.”
“No apology necessary! If anything, it's us who need to apologize to them for not believing them!”
“Yes, well, I don't expect you often get someone who can fly coming around.”
Alice laughed. “No, you're right! An extraordinary claim, for sure!”
“I hate to think of how they're feeling right now.”
Alice waved that off. “We sent them home without telling them anything about what we were considering to do with their report, so I expect they're both sawing logs right now. But if you want to make sure they're ok, they come back on shift at 5 PM.”
“I'd like that, but I don't want to just drop in on them in the dark again, that would be cruel.”
Alice smiled. “They will be checking in at the office just before 5, so you could just make sure you're back here by then.”
“Um, I don't have a watch.”
“You don't keep time, where you live?”
“Well, no, but it would be complicated for me with my travelling anyway.”
Terence suddenly joined the conversation. “Does it get dark earlier here than where you live?”
“Yes, it does.”
“So, you live some distance to the west from here! That explains why you were talking to the night guards!” Jumping out of his chair, he continued, “Of course! The sonic boom!”
“The what?”
“The thunder we heard just before you walked in. You were flying faster than the speed of sound! You broke the sound barrier!”
“I didn't know there was a barrier. Who calls it that?”
“The men who were building jet planes to go ever faster over a century ago. Do you ever experience turbulence while flying?”
“Sure, I feel turbulence on the outside of my bubble, but it's no problem.”
Slapping his arms against his sides, Terence said, “No problem? No problem? Men died figuring out how to build aircraft that could go faster than the speed of sound!”
It was Peter's turn to stand there with his mouth open. Airplanes that could fly as fast as he could? The thought that they might, and that it would be dangerous, simply hadn't occurred to him. Then a memory struck him. “Can flying faster than sound break the tops off trees?”
Laughing, Terence said, “Are you bragging? Or asking?” He held up his hand. “I get it.” After he had control of himself again, he said, “You are such a remarkable young man! What did you say your name was?” He walked toward Peter with his hand out. “I'm Terence, and I'm so thrilled to meet you!”
Peter shook the offered hand. “Call me Peter!” Seeing Terence squinting against the light now shining in his eyes, and that Terence had not paid any attention to them after he had first demonstrated them, Peter dissolved the fields inside the alternators. The alternators spun down, and the lights faded to dark. Peter moved them to above the door.
It was not lost on either Alice or Terence that Peter didn't even look at his lights when he sent them back over his head to hang in the air near the wall. Terence said, “Ah, yes! Spatial awareness!”
“So, can I trade scrap for processed iron product? How much can you take, and what ratio will you give me back?”
Alice answered, “Yes, we'd love to expand our market! I think we can handle any amount you care to bring us, and we'll give you one ton of steel for every ten tons of scrap, not counting the waste. Our shredder can handle anything up to the size of a car, though we have to flatten it first.”
“Cars! That's great! Are burnt-out cars ok? No one is going to use those for parts or try to get them running.”
“Even better! Most of the waste product is burnt away, so your return ratio will be better!”
“Can I start today? I remember seeing about a hundred cars on one highway, all crunched together, that burnt. I've seen lots of other burnt cars even in cites too! Flattening them is no problem either; they take up less space when I stack them for transport.”
Alice replied, “Of course! Drop your load off whenever you have enough to make it worth bringing in.”
“Then I'll go get that highway clump now. I should be back in a few hours.”
Alice and Terence gasped, looked at each other, and Alice said, “We're going to need more workers!”
Peter said, “Nice meeting you! See you soon, then!” Then he briskly walked to the door, held it open while his lights flew out in single file, then flew after them. Alice and Terence simply stood there at the abrupt departure of the most amazing person they'd ever met. They were still staring as the door gently closed, latching with a click, though Peter was already gone.

I love writing about characters' confusion or surprise when they see Peter's abilities demonstrated.

In Falling Up, at the end of the hurricane sequence, Peter takes Lucy home, and brings her sailboat with them. Flying thousands of kilometers carrying a sailboat is pretty unusual, and leaving it floating in the air when they arrive is also extraordinary. Here is Lucy's mother's reaction:

When Lucy began to calm down, she noticed her parents' wary looks at Peter. “Mom, dad, this is Peter. Peter, these are my parents, Alfred and Helen Gruben. I met Peter on a small island near South America, and he brought my ship and me back home.”

Helen said, “Your ship, too?”

“Yes!” With a sly grin, she added, “It's here in the yard right now. It only took us about a half hour!”

Helen, astonished, said, “A half hour? In the yard?”

Alfred looked from Lucy to Peter, then took his wife's hand and led her out the front door. They just stood there, looking at Lucy's ship, hovering in the air above the yard. Peter and Lucy joined them, Lucy smiling even wider than Peter.

It was fun to write the interaction between Peter and a villain by the name of Colonel Graff in Falling Up.

In his paranoia, Graff has 'interrogated' many people, so has come to expect certain reactions from his victims. Fear is a big one. It can't be truth if he doesn't get the expected reactions.

Since Peter is protected by a shield, it thwarts Graff's efforts and infuriates him.
—
He waited perhaps a half hour before the door opened and in walked a military leader of some sort. He sat down at the other end of the table from Peter, leaned his elbows on the table, and just sat there staring closely at him for more than a minute. The blank stare suddenly changed into a snarl. "Check those straps! The drugs should have taken effect by now!"

Both guards scurried over and checked the straps, one on each side of Peter. "They're tight, sir!" And with that, they scurried back to their posts by the door.

"Well, then, some mechanical malfunction. I shall have to do this the hard way." With that, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a pouch, which he unrolled on the table. Peter could see several shiny, sinister-looking and no doubt very sharp metal tools reside there. Watching him caress each one in turn, Peter involuntarily shivered, imagining the many people who had likely suffered excruciating deaths at the hands of this man.

It was not lost on the officer, who showed a tight-lipped, toothy, predatory smile. He had misinterpreted Peter, thinking he was now in fear for his life.

Peter said, "Tell me why you have detained me. I arrived here by my own free will — "

The guard further demolished his rifle, this time swinging it at the back of Peter's head like a club. "Prisoners will not speak unless spoken to!" He managed a fair amount of belligerence this time, despite likely permanently ending the ability to ever fire the weapon again. He had reduced it to just a metal club in two strokes. Of course, Peter's head moved not at all from the impact on the shield, and he chose to not even acknowledge the guard's actions.

Peter resumed his sentence, "And yet, you treat me like an enemy." Peter sensed the guard behind him reaching back to hit him again, then subside at a hand gesture from the officer. "If I'm indeed an enemy, it's because you have made me one by this horrendous treatment of a guest. I'm not bragging overmuch to say that this could have been a very beneficial alliance, had you done this differently from the start. Bringing that jet home is a small demonstration of what I can do.”

The officer struck his hand on the table with a loud 'crack'. "Bringing home the plane that you crippled is hardly the kind of benefit we are looking for in our allies."

"That wasn't me who shot at it — "

Jumping up and leaning in on the table, he shouted back, "I had a look at that wing. It was not shot at, it was cut cleanly through, disabling the plane."

"I cut off what was burning. I was concerned the fuel would explode. I saved the plane and the pilot's life."

"Enough!" he thundered. "Enough lies! You shall tell me the truth before you die, let me assure you."

"Not likely. You cannot even touch me with those things."

"Ah, perhaps the drugs are finally taking effect. Let us see just how you react to the sight of your own blood." He played his fingers gently and lovingly back and forth over the tools on the table again, finally selecting one. Turning and twisting the instrument so it would catch the light, he slowly came around the table to stand beside Peter. He reached toward Peter's chest, aiming for the buttons on his shirt, but found he couldn't contact the buttons. After poking and slashing at several to no effect, he began to wildly slash across Peter's chest, again, to no effect. The shield easily turned the blade every time. He changed to an overhand grip and tried to stab him, but the force of the stroke simply broke the blade. Peter heard it whine by his ear on its way to some corner of the room. The officer looked wide-eyed at the broken knife for a few seconds, then threw what was left of it in Peter's face. It too simply bounced, but the officer didn't notice because he was already jumping for another tool. He brought out a fairly impressive-looking pointed tool. It had a curve to it, almost a hook, and he rounded on Peter with this, stabbing and slashing over and over in vain. Peter just sat there calmly and patiently, thinking there had to be a point where he would give up, and then they might actually have a dialog here.

After perhaps 30 seconds of frenzied stabbing at Peter, the officer stopped, and stood over him, staring at him with wild eyes, gasping for breath. There was blood on his hands; apparently he had cut himself in his efforts to injure Peter.

Peter said, "Can we talk now?"

His response was a howl and a renewal of stabbing attempts. After just a few seconds he stopped, stepped back and shouted, "Guards! Shoot this prisoner!"