As energy and enthusiasm creeps back after two years of ME (see this post) I’m back working on the novel originally called Sunken Star. At last I feel I’m getting somewhere. The novel is not quite complete,and weighed in at 133,000 words before I started this latest edit. I’m now well over half-way through editing and have knocked about 5,000 words off. There have been changes,but soon I’ll be working on the final section including the climax. The title has changed to just Star,but if any publisher is interested they will doubtless have their own ideas.

Yes it has some science fiction in it,but this doesn’t become obvious until you’re some way into the story. It’s also very hard to sell SF. I’m therefore planning to follow advice and pitch the novel as ‘Young adult fiction’.

This extract is from about halfway through,and is a scene that contributes minimally to the overall novel. If a publisher wants the book shortened this bit will go.

Matt Shepherd is the main characterof the novel. He is 16,seriously bright,seriously weird. Matt’s home is in Leeds,UK. This scene deals with Thorburn Scott,a minor character. Call him Thor,everyone else does,but he don’t like it. He’s a sad and lonely geek who is extremely able in his own field of research. He lives in Boston,Massachusetts. This extract (currently Chapter 51) is intended to emphasise and bring even more to life certain aspects of the atmosphere and surrounding events of the novel,which is set in the day after next year. A background plot is the deteriorating state of the world.

Comments,however critical,welcomed.

51 –Pressure

Thorburn’s apartment was on the fifth floor. The Shepherd kid would call it the fourth floor. Why did Brits number floors from zero? Not that the exact number had mattered these last thirty some hours.

The rooms were as drab as when he first moved in. Previous occupant had smoked heavily,and Thorburn was not a practical man. Not a painter and decorator. He had occasionally bought furniture with a warmer,more cheerful appearance. Each item had looked great in the shop. Together,well,the best he could say was that maybe the colours and styles didn’t quite go together.

He shivered.

The temperature was not unseasonal. It was just the dreary sub-zero you get when a high pressure region is stuck over the North Eastern States,drawing cold air down from the Arctic,and dispersing cloud cover. What little warmth the sun offered in the brief days was soon gone in the evenings. And then the gas pressure dropped,almost to nothing. And round here everywhere was heated by gas. The tenements had boilers in their basements,large,dirty,noisy things.

The papers had been full of it. But the best use for them would have been to start a fire. If only the apartment had had a fireplace. He’d been tempted to burn the TV too,the way it twittered on. Instead it had been more useful to wrap himself up in everything available and sit it out when he wasn’t at work. At least power had been on for the computer,but he’d been too late to get any kind of electric fire from the local shops. Panic buying. Stupid people. But typing is hard with gloves on. Thorburn had gone to bed fully clothed in a sleeping bag under the winter duvet under the summer duvet.

Then the tap water had stopped.

Well,it would.

At least carrying water up four flights of stairs had warmed him up. The trick had been to find somewhere with a working tap. Or pay the extortionate prices for bottled water.

But during the last couple of hours gas pressure must have risen above some threshold level. The basement heating system had allowed itself to be used again. Their caretaker had re-ignited the pilot light.  It was a good thing he’d not tampered with it any of the times it went out. Gas suddenly rushing through with no light –that could be a problem and a half. The apartment had started to warm,though it would be a long time before the brick walls caught up. It was a good thing

They were going to have to do something about how they heated homes in North America. They must know the figures. US oil production peaked in 1970,followed by natural gas in 1971. Of course,they’d obscured the truth for a couple more decades with a frenzy of exploration. But those in power had known. So how did they respond? They let the movers and shakers go on pushing gas as the way to heat your home. After all,you could always import it from Canada. That country had an infinite supply. They must do because we can’t live without gas. And we are the people who matter.

What you could not do is ship liquefied natural gas in from other countries without investing one helluva lot of money first. Gas was far less amenable to transportation than oil. Far more explosive because it vapourised so fast. Far less energy per gallon. And well over half of American homes required it in the winter. Could you ever ship it fast enough to feed that hunger? Helluva way to run a country. Helluva way to run a world.

Some days back demand had been tremendous. Pressure had fallen,and then fallen further. One by one swathes of New England found themselves effectively without gas.

He reached out a hand for the remote and turned on the TV.

At least this had been a manageable crisis. And not even as wide-reaching in impact as the electrical outage of 2003. That had cut off most communications,closed down  ATMs,prevented many credit card purchases,made it almost impossible to shop. And then there had been Hurricane Katrina in 2005. Be fair,Boston was not devastated and unliveable. People had just been hellish cold for a few days. Some had died. Probably not a bad way to go,hypothermia. At an early stage you’d stop thinking straight. Which might be nice.

For once the TV news had moved on from yesterday’s coup in Saudi Arabia. Gas pressure coming back on line in New England had more immediate journalistic value. Naturally. I mean,who actually knows where Saudi Arabia is?

Splat.

A water drop struck the cabinet his TV rested on.

Frozen condensation warmed up? The water pipes would be thawing now. Wow. A long,hot shower would be incredible. Incredible.

Another drop splattered on the imitation wood surface by the TV.

He looked up.

It didn’t look like thawing condensation. There was a discoloured patch of wet ceiling plaster the size of a jellyfish. What could be causing that? Should he go and check with the tenant above him? The guy must have spilt his beer. Or maybe just give the caretaker a ring? This was what they paid him to sort out.

There was no warning.

From somewhere outside came the rib-shaking boom of an explosion. It was followed by a rapid series of muted thumps and a rumbling and a clattering.

Broken glass sprayed past him from the window,a pressure wave picking his newspaper off the coffee table and flinging it across the room.

Some glass embedded itself in his face and hand. Thank God he’d been looking away from the window. He reached up and felt blood neither oozing nor dripping,but flowing.

What the hell?

He staggered to the window. Icy wind numbed his face. Shards of glass,skewed inwards,clung to the edges of the frame. The street was littered with debris.

Further down,where smoke and dust billowed,he could just make out a jagged gap in the line of tenements. At least one car was ablaze. He turned from the window before anything else exploded. His head was aching. His left ear and left hand stung like fury. Spikes of glass clotted the back of the hand. Do you pull them out? How do you clean wounds without water? How do you stop the blood running down your neck into your clothing? Why do abused ears hurt so much?

He collapsed back into his arm chair and began to shiver in earnest.

The drops of water were coming faster now. They would soon merge into a dribble,and then a stream. How long would it be before the ceiling plaster,already bulging downwards,collapsed completely drenching both the plasma screen and the surround sound system?

The TV and the lights went out.

[This extract is copyright (c) Nigel Leech 2011. e-mail me if you'd like to reproduce any part of it.]

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