This week, things are somewhat strange for Futures, as there’s a sense of the inexplicable wrapped in the downright peculiar courtesy of Judy Helfrich’s new story Unreal. Regular readers will remember Judy from her previous stories Playing for keeps and The coupon. This time, things are a little bit different — well, actually, they’re a lot different… Fortunately, Judy is here to guide us through the creation of this new kind of world — as ever, it pays to read the story first.

Writing Unreal

No story comes to a writer fully formed — at least not to me. By the time I finish writing a story, my hard drive is littered with deleted scenes, pointless plot lines, and bodies (ahem: cut characters). Behind each polished story, there are veritable boatloads of dreck.

I was bemoaning this fact when it occurred to me that the same might hold true for reality. What if, to create our reality, we lived through numerous unrealities? Castoffs from our true reality that were tried out and discarded as being unsuitable?

And what if we went one step further (because why the heck not), and everything that didn’t happen in reality was played out in unreality? Who knows, somewhere outside the scope of our perceptions, the roads not travelled might lurk. Unrealities where we live out every horror, every joy, every unlikelihood that never happened; where things become more and more bizarre until we exhaust each possibility and wink out of existence.

Well, that gave me the willies (which is a good sign for a story), so I shooed the heads from my keyboard, gave my dodo bird a pat, and wrote Unreal.

This week’s Futures story marks the welcome return of John Gilbey with Breakthrough. John will be familiar to regular readers as he has penned a number of Futures tales over the years (you can see a full list at the foot of this post). When not writing sci-fi, John can be found at the  University of Rural England — though he might be easier to track down on Twitter. Here, he explains what sparked the creation of his latest work — as ever, it pays to read the story first.

Writing Breakthrough

When folk find out that I’m a science-fiction writer, they sometimes ask me where I get my ideas from. The answer I give is usually some variation on “it depends …”, as the stories emerge from a variety of sources.

Some, probably the largest group, come from my career in the research and higher-education community — often as a result of a half-heard conversation, an unexpected occurrence or getting a glimpse of an alternative future by noticing a tiny detail that could be a flaw in reality. For example, I once gave a talk in a lecture theatre built for a physics department in the 1960s. Behind the teak podium, a brushed aluminium panel hosted an arcane collection of vintage audio socketry and robust toggle switches. One such control was labelled ‘Summer / Winter’, which made me wonder if this was the remnant of some ancient quantum weather experiment. If I threw the switch, I pondered, would the outside world change from winter to summer? And if it did, would I be the only one to recognize the change? Well, what would you have done? Naturally, I tested the hypothesis. Sadly, it turned out it just changed the speed of the ventilation fans in the ceiling — or so I would have you believe …

Other stories arise from bets, often made with friendly editors. One such involved the alleged impossibility of building sympathetic characters around certain roles in the research infrastructure. This led to the creation in short order of three stories featuring a health and safety officer, a quality manager and a human-resources executive — tales that would probably not have emerged without the challenge being made.

Still others, including Breakthrough, arise from the people I’ve met through being a writer — such as people I’ve chatted to at conferences or workshops and vaguely kept in touch with since. One such acquaintance, Mariette DiChristina (editor-in-chief of Scientific American) recently posted a picture of her travels on Twitter. The image, of an old cyclotron electromagnet resting on a plinth in the grounds of a research institution in Japan, was arresting enough that I immediately commented “That sculptural installation would make a very nice starting point for a science-fiction story …”. Mariette’s rapid response, “Sounds like a good plan!”, left me with the enjoyable problem of writing a story that would account for the situation, engineer a science-fiction element and build a reasonably plausible tale. Breakthrough is the output from that process.

While doing research for my writing, both fiction and non-fiction, I’ve visited a number of particle-physics research installations. They are hugely complex environments that demand extraordinary levels of project management to develop and manage. As a project manager myself, I have great respect for anyone who takes on such a challenge — and anyone who did would be quite capable of finding a creatively sculptural use for a huge, heavy, unusable dipole magnet that a fictitious research institute had found itself lumbered with.

Naturally, I’m always happy to visit other interesting sites of scientific endeavour to talk to folk and learn more about the odd aspects of your particular discipline. Drop an e-mail to gilbeyATbcs.org.uk if you’d like to chat. Who knows, there might be a story in it.

Read more of John’s Futures stories

It never rains in VR | Finding a happy medium | Safety critical | Big Dave’s last stand | Meeting with Max | Permanent position | Commitment | Final protocol | Unfinished business | Corrective action | The last laboratory | Killing time | Intervention | Visiting Bob | Communicant | Review of the year 2062 | Deep impressions | Infraction | Citadel | Geode

Futures is pleased to welcome back J. W. Armstrong this week, with his story The preprint. Regular readers will remember his previous stories The sixth circle and Reversal of misfortune, though they might not have realized that A final problem by one A. C. Doyle was actually by the same author. Here, he reveals the creative process behind his latest tale — as ever, it pays to read the story first.

Writing The preprint

The original draft of The preprint was written quickly, in the very early morning, and had a different ending. In that initial version, the machine reluctantly decides that the protagonist knows too much. The machine concludes it’s in the Universe’s best interest for the protagonist to die, thus assuring the equations will never be published. Before killing him, though, the machine gives the protagonist 60 seconds for any religious or philosophical rituals that might be deemed important.

So the last part of the story, in its original drafting, was about: you’re not in physical pain, your cognition is not impaired, and you’re absolutely certain you have only 1 minute to live — what might your final thoughts be?

At the time I wrote it (3 a.m.), I thought it was pretty good stuff. When I re-read the story later, however, the ending was so depressing and pretentious that even I — as the author, predisposed to like the prose — couldn’t stand it. I highlighted the story’s ending in my word processor, hit ‘delete’, and saved the first part in my ‘ideas’ folder. I then forgot about it.

A few weeks later a chance discussion with a friend about publication and academic promotion reminded me of that first draft and catalysed a better ending. I rewrote the story quickly. I liked that subsequent draft — except it was overlong. Backstory elements about the machine (appearance, motivations, role in the Universe’s workings, downsides of causality violation) were deleted. At one point I sent a version to my brother, who had helpful comments. I worked on shortening it some more. When the story got down to 950 words I submitted it to Futures. I was, of course, delighted when it was accepted!

Finally, I struggled with the title. The time machine was an early, unimaginative, candidate. Publish and perish was a working title at one point. Briefly, Perish and publish appealed to me. I finally struck on The preprint as descriptive without, I hoped, telegraphing the ending.

It’s very rare for there to be something that looks like a sequel in Futures, but this week, Home Cygnus by S. R. Algernon is just that. Regular readers will be familiar with his work — and if you’re not you can find out more at his website or by following him on Twitter (plus, his other Futures stories are listed at the end of this post). Here, he talks a little more about the origins of his latest tale — as ever, it pays to read the story first.

Writing Home Cygnus

This story is a sequel to In Cygnus and in Hell, and part of a series that is a prelude to novels set on the Cygnus colony. In Cygnus and in Hell left off with Dorothy making the decision to accept a slot on the Xi Zhong ship bound for Cygnus, so the next step would be to decide what to bring with her and what to leave behind, material possessions, emotions and memories. The things that she carries with her would be one part of the foundation of an entire civilization, as well as a source of comfort to her in the journey ahead. In writing the story, it occurred to me that the best things to carry on a journey are the tools that help us create new memories and build new connections, while also bringing the old ones to life. A conversation with Dorothy’s great-grandfather could be more significant than a cargo hold full of mementos.

Home Cygnus is part of a continuing series that will chronicle milestones and turning points in Dorothy’s life as she travels to 16 Cygni and perhaps beyond. The Cygnus colony will continue for centuries afterwards, but that is another story…

Other Futures stories by S. R. Algernon

A time for peace | Planetary defences | Cargo cult | A pocket full of phlogiston | The chains of plenty | Asymmetrical warfare | In a new light | One slow step for man | Genius loci | Legacy admissions | In Cygnus and in Hell | The palimpsest planet | e-PLURIBUS

This week, Futures is delighted to welcome Fawaz Al-Matrouk with his story about a rather remarkable animal: The tail of Danny Whiskers. When not writing about unusual cats, Fawaz directs films. You can find out more about his work at his website or by following him on Twitter. Here he reveals the origins of Danny Whiskers — as ever, it pays to read the story first.

Writing The tail of Danny Whiskers

Danny Whiskers started as a drawing.

I often entertain myself with a bit of doodling between deadlines. This was a cat in the passenger seat of a car, shaking his paw and shouting obscenities at drivers nearby. I found him amusing, drew some more, and eventually titled the page: “Danny Whiskers”.

My narrative mind began to wonder why Danny could speak. Was he a figment of the driver’s imagination, like Hobbes to Calvin? Or was he the result of some mad experiment, like a furry Frankenstein? The ravings of a monster cat seemed more troublesome for his human companion, so I found myself with some science fiction.

From there, two themes I often grapple with naturally worked their way in.

First, the conflict between science and superstition. This theme has captivated me from an early age. Galileo was a childhood hero of mine. It may have something to do with growing up in a religious environment, where the very act of drawing was, to some devout uncles, a sin against God. I began to wonder: what if Danny’s intelligence was the result of an experiment outlawed by religious belief?

Second, people doing a bit of right in a world of wrong. This theme echoes through most of my imagination. Idealists fascinate me, whether they be sure or full of doubt, right or completely mistaken. It may have something to do with growing up in a war, where I saw the ordinary people around me do extraordinary things. I began to wonder: what if Danny’s companion was a scientist who felt responsible for his sentient creation, even at the risk of his own life?

Add to these a mad dash to the border, and you have The tail of Danny Whiskers: in which an uppity cat escaping the law just can’t keep his mouth shut, ten miles from freedom.