Arcturian - Pt. 1

By Calum Morton

One more job, they said. It’ll be easy, they said. Markus Silassus was beginning to regret taking on this run. Far too much hassle for far too little pay; he really should have known better but times were hard, especially with the confederacy on his back in almost every quadrant. Ferrying supplies and several highly illegal shipments of pulse blasters to rebels on the near moon of Procturus One was not his best idea yet. Damn, that one was too close the smuggler thought as a plasma blast evaporated just off his starboard bow.

“Devin, get down to the engine room and give us more thrust. Re-route the…”

“The drive line directly into the tachyon chamber, yeah yeah,” parroted Devin, Markus’ trusty Agravian mechanic. Devin was a perfect specimen of his species, slight, sharp eyed and clever with his hands. His green scaled skin reflected the red glow of the emergency lights which now illuminated the corridors inside the Blazing Arcturian, his ship, home, life and source of most of his woes. May the elders smile upon me now, Devin thought as he ducked into the confined engine room. The deck bucked and heaved as another blast landed just shy of the ships energy reflector shield. More thrust, huh, I’ll give you more thrust you crazy fool. Devin slid the drive plate loose and began his work. He tapped his wrist communicator and spoke.

“Re-routing now, things might get a little bumpy but we should get clear of atmosphere.” His voice was raspy in the cockpit but Markus heard him well enough.

“Punch it Devin – we’ve only got one shot at this,” replied Markus, still wrestling with the controls as he weaved through incoming fire. Couldn’t be a moment too soon, I’m getting sick of dodging these plasma blasts Markus mused as he felt the ship judder then surge as Devin made the connection and the ship achieved its highest, if slightly unsafe, atmospheric velocity. Markus heaved on the controls and sent the ship into a tight spinning arc as he made a break for space and the great black beyond. Just a couple more seconds and they’d be clear of atmosphere and able to use the Arcturian’s Jump Drive. Suddenly the rumble of air rushing past the cockpit was gone as the ship hit vacuum.

“Devin, hold onto your tail, I’m activating the Jump Drive now!” Markus barked into the ship communicator. Down in the engine room Devin clutched tightly to a plasteel stanchion as the world blurred and lurched around him. His head span and he closed his eyes, hoping to alleviate the feeling of nausea caused by the leap into Jump Space. The inside of the Blazing Arcturian creaked and bellowed as it suffered under the stress exerted by the powerful Jump Engines. But she held, she always did…

----

GUEST WORK! So if you have any comments, please send 'em along to Calum so he can incorporate it into his next exciting chapter!

Because hell yeah

http://www.alternatehistory.com/discussion/showthread.php?t=260638

Over on the Alternate History forums someone's been silly. I better emphasise their point with this photograph:

The Academy - pt. 3

Part one here: http://swanindustries.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/the-academy.html

Part two here: http://swanindustries.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/the-academy-pt-2.html

By Rachel Vaughan

Dazed, Willow struggled out of bed to answer the the manic thrashing that was crashing against her dorm's door. Voices were muffled, but from the sound of it, the girls were all panicked. Almost instantly she knew what this would be about: the death of the dorm's maid.

"Willow, Annabel! It's happened again. Oh my god, get out here now. Hurry!" The startled voice belonged to Haidee Baylis. Willow flung open the door. The cold air that entered with the gust forced her to wrap her arms tightly around her. Haidee's face was flushed pink, her doughy brown eyes watering and fixed open in shock.

"Anya is dead. Lucy saw paramedics pushing her out of the dorm. She was completely covered in a white sheet but the blood was still seeping through. Why is this happening!" By this time Annabel had woken up too, and walked over. She embraced the scared girl in her arms, pulling her weak body into her own, offering words of comfort and soothing her with her calming voice. Willow couldn't help but feel nothing but guilt; it swept over her like a giant wave, completely washing away her mind's thoughts and replacing them with memories she couldn't bare to replay.

"I'm sure it wont happen again..." Willow lied through her teeth.

*

Willow and Annabel walked across the campus towards the Academy, along with the other female students from their dormitory, and the many boys from across the courtyard. It was a sea of white blazers trimmed with red piping, long white stockings covering legs in the chilly autumn air. Despite it being morning, the sky was still dark, its hue more of a deep blue opposed to the dark black of night. It was always dark here. The day's light lasted no more than nine hours; even fewer in the depths of the harsh winter. Burnt-looking leaves fell from the trees that lined the courtyard, and the sea green water from the white stone fountain in the centre looked dark and oily in the dim light. The carved stone faces stared with anxious eyes; their longing expressions seeming cold and withheld. It was the same look many of the students possessed - fear.

The Academy was a large building, well over 400 years old and dotted with watch towers and turrets. It looked its age for sure - even the fourth replacement of the large cast iron gates were now beginning to rust. Large stone walls stood high and surrounded the Academy; the tall oaks lining the stone stripping their leaves and creating a bed of crisp orange on the gravel below. Grey cloud smeared across the sky, and the chilled morning wind ripped through the crowd and hurriedly pushed students into the Academy.

"Everyone seems more reserved today, don't you think?" Annabel muttered. Her fluffy brown hair flew back in the wind, displaying her rosy red cheeks that shone like ripe apples in the cold air.

"Yes. You know why though. Everyone's scared and I dont blame them. Whoever the killer is deserves the fate they're dishing out." Willow scowled. Her own words cut her deep - after all, she was the one who caused the mass uproar. But then the glum atmosphere changed - voices became whispers and bundles of female students banded together in the courtyard. Smiles were plastered onto their chill-bitten faces and the way the crowd split reminded Willow of Moses' Parting of the Waves. Girlish giggles rose from the crowds, the kind that only emerged when a sighting of the opposite sex appeared. Taking Willow by the wrist, Annabel pulled her through the crowd, pushing past disgruntled female students until they were both standing at the front of the mass. Of course, the subject of so many girls interest could have been nobody else. It was Beau Aderson, accompanied by Alexander Axon and Cyr McIlwraith. All three boys stood like towering beacons of light. Their eyes were bright and crystalline, their skin pale and flawless. Beau's natural white hair seemed to repel the darkness, the pure strands falling into his eyes and obscuring his perfect bone structure. He stood tall and lean, one of his hands inserted into his trouser pockets, flipping one side of his blazer back and presenting his slim fitting shirt. Just glimpsing at the material hinted how his torso looked underneath the linen; toned and slender. The very vision of him was enough to send the girls at the academy insane, he was beautiful - hauntingly beautiful.

"Hello, Willow." His voice was deep but aetherial, so intriguing that it sounded almost like music. Listening to him talk had to be one of the most soothing things to hear. For a moment, Willow hadn't even acknowledged that he had just said her name.

"What? Beau, how - how do you know my name?" Willow was confused; she had never once spoken to him; she wasn't even aware that he knew who she was. Why was he acknowledging her with such a beaming smile on his face that even shone from his eyes?

"I don't understand? You mean you don't remember?" Beau looked hurt. Everyone could see his hands curl up into tight fists by his sides. Willow shook her head, her memory was her biggest flaw. Since the accident eight years ago, she remembered hardly anything at all.

Beau said nothing after that, his lips tightened and he began to turn away, hurt. Alexander and Cyr followed elegantly behind him.

"What was that all about?" Annabel whispered to Willow, taking back her wrist and heading back towards the Academy. Hundreds of pairs of jealous eyes fixed onto the two of them, irritated that Beau spoke to Willow, instead of them.

Blanketed in the warmth of the Academy and relaxed by her English tutor's voice, Willow leaned back at her desk and averted her eyes to the window. She sat at the back of the room, far from the front but nearest to the outside world. She payed little attention in class: her mind was always elsewhere. Today, however, her constant wandering mind fixed onto just one topic - Beau. She thought hard about why he looked so hurt when she admitted she did not remember him, since it was so strange - she had never once spoken to him in her entire education at the Academy. He was always the one shrouded in the students' affections and company, and he rarely spoke to anyone who did not speak to him first. He was... different. For starters he looked almost angelic compared to the other boys that attended the academy; he was elegant, and full of manners and knowledge. The way he spoke made him seem like he was from another time; his words were always so perfectly pronounced, his choice in language old and poetic.

Beau was the Academy's own personal celebrity; sought after by the entire population of female students and hated by the entire population of jealous boys.

Willow sat pondering everything about him, his past, his present and his future. She realised then, that everything she knew about him had been passed on by gossip. There was no possible way to know the things she did; it was even possible that everything she knew was not real at all. But it was strange, amongst the vast amount of possibly fake knowledge she had on him, she couldn't shake the feeling at the back of her mind that she really did know him.

"Miss Stannis." The English tutor called out, disturbing Willow's train of thought.

"Y-yes?"

"You're wanted in the headmasters office. Your uncle wishes to speak with you."

Willow swallowed hard and expected the worst. Maybe she would finally be found out after these past 2 months? She took a deep breath and rose from her seat, flattening down her skirt and exiting the room in front of an audience of 32 pairs of curious eyes.

The Body Builders

By Jack Swan

Pained grunts and sharp squawks of injury filtered in from the next room. Haktar sighed. He walked back from the broken windowpane, away from the view of the cratered street lit by the rising moon, and towards the adjoining wall. Flaky white plaster clung to the mortar beneath the peeling wallpaper; just another sign of this house that was falling apart, this world which was falling apart – this band of survivors that was falling apart. Another of Haktar’s soldiers was dying.

He took a step across the uneven dust and debris that lay scattered on the exposed floorboards and pushed the faded wallpaper, with its yellow-flowers-on-mauve-background, back over the bulletholes. He didn’t know why; he hoped the rough, curling paper could mask the sound. But another muffled groan escaped through the clean round holes in the masonry.

The door hinges squealed; Haktar turned and watched as Nephen put his head round the corner. “May I have a word, sir?”

“Certainly,” Haktar replied. He realised he was gripping his gun barrel tightly; he relaxed his leather-gloved fingers, and cursed his damned war-frazzled nerves. He couldn’t help but worry about his troops – his surviving troops – but these days, everything put him on edge.

Nephen walked in, heavy boots crunching the broken brick on the floorboards. He straightened up the bloodstained cloak that hung over his dusty Kevlar combat jacket, walked out into the moonlight that shone between the broken rafters of the room’s shattered ceiling, and spoke.

“We’ve done all we can for Calsie, sir, but she won’t make it. Her body’s taken far, far too much damage for her to survive in any useful capacity. Frankly, sir, if she were a normal human, she’d be dead by now.”

Haktar didn’t reply right away. He had been expecting this – he had pre-empted what Corporal Nephen would say almost down to the word – but the news was still unwelcome. There had been so much suffering and death these last few months, since the war broke out... he couldn’t bear to see anyone from his precious, tiny group of survivors pass on too.

If only we hadn’t walked straight into that ambush –

But he couldn’t trouble himself with ‘if only’s. As the last lieutenant left in a hundred square miles of wasteland, he had to make sure the best action was taken every time. And in this case, he couldn’t let sentimentality get in the way of the proper way to treat a dying soldier. He took a deep, silent breath, and looked at Nephen’s bloodstained, unshaven face.

“Where’s the damage, exactly?”

“Her stomach and left kidney, sir. Most of the rest of her body should be perfectly intact for salvaging.”

“Do it then.” Haktar said that too fast; he paused, gathered himself, and carried on. “Euthanise Calsie and break her down for parts.”

Nephen stiffened, just barely; he managed to make it look as though it were part of his slow, controlled salute. He held his right hand, with its missing ring finger, smartly to his forehead. “As you wish, lieutenant. Will you be...?”

“What?” Haktar had already drifted off into desensitised daydreaming. “Oh. Yes. Definitely. After all, I’m her commanding officer.” He nodded quickly, a mask of authority. Nephen’s eyes betrayed some kind of apprehension but he turned nonetheless and led Haktar out, into the dark corridor, and through into the other room. It had once been a young boy’s bedroom, and one who clearly had enjoyed playing at being a soldier; the walls were army green, and when Haktar and his survivors had first taken up residence in the broken house they had cleared out hordes of abandoned plastic soldiers. The green walls turned the bloodstains, the unwashed crimson stains of bloody and basic surgeries,  to a shade of black that hid well in the shadows that filled most of the room.

Calsie lay in a pocket of light in the corner, with a small gas lamp rasping softly next to her and throwing a yellow light across her bed. Overhead, emptied bookshelves now carried the unit’s dwindling stockpiles of painkillers and bandages. Every now and then she would squirm weakly and wheeze out a quiet exclamation of pain. She turned her head just enough to see her commanding officer enter the room.

“Sir...” she muttered, and attempted a weak salute. Haktar looked back with the best and most confident look he could muster.

It wasn’t even a smile.

“How are you feeling, private?”

She, at least, managed to affect a weak smile. “Grim, sir... Had better times...”

“Your bravery is commendable, Calsie.” She smiled a fragile smile at her commander’s words. “Truly inspiring. You’ve done an excellent job coming this far.” He took a deep breath. “But...”

“S’... s’okay, sir,” Calsie said. “Knew that... this was coming. Be... honoured, to... let my body... keep serving our u – unit, sir.” Her eyes were watering up. Haktar wasn’t sure whether or not they were a malfunction with her eyeballs, or if they were genuine tears. He didn’t know which to hope for. On the one hand, if the eyeballs were malfunctioning, they couldn’t be recycled and reused by the rest of the unit. On the other, if that was genuine emotion – well, Armen like he and Calsie weren’t meant to have feelings that intense. But if she could cry, then so could he, and all his authority would be lost...

He snapped back to the moment, even though he’d so much rather be fretting about threats to his command position than dealing with losing one of his few survivors.

“I’m... glad you accept that. It’s an honour to have a soldier of such calibre... it’s an honour to have fought with a soldier of such calibre.” He pushed out a smile. Nephen quietly passed behind Haktar. In his hands he cradled a cold metal probe four inches long and as wide as a pencil. He hovered just outside the edge of Calsie’s field of vision.

“You’re a fine soldier, Calsie. One of the very best I’ve ever commanded. I promise you, when we link back up with Command, you’ll receive the highest commendations.” Haktar nodded at Nephen. The medic returned the gesture and extended his left hand – the one with a finger missing – to Calsie’s strawberry-blonde hair, and brushed the short curls away to reveal a small ring-shaped protrusion hidden behind the flap of her ear, the size of a fingernail. He pressed the probe into the thin skin that stretched across the ring like a drum, punctured it, and pressed the probe into her skull.

Calsie’s weak hands trembled over the bed, until she was dabbing her cold fingers on Haktar’s own wide, gloved hands. He pulled off the warm leather mitts and laid them down and, in an acceptable breach of etiquette, took her hands in his.

“It’ll be alright, Calsie,” he said, flicking an eye to his medic. Nephen was calmly pressing the grey plastic plunger on the end of the probe, eyes focused, face expressionless. He turned back to look at Calsie, who was staring at him with fading emerald eyes.

“Good... luck... chief...” she whispered, through lips that were barely parted. She stiffened, suddenly; then her grip relaxed, her head rolled back on the pillow and her eyes fixed their gaze on the ceiling. The light in her eyes faded to a jade mist.

The worst part of an Arman’s death was that, despite being entirely artificial, and with the concept of a family entirely alien to them, there was always one ingrained piece of normal human behaviour that broke through at the barrier between life and death. Armen didn’t have mothers – but like every normal man, woman or child in what remained of the human race, their last words were always the same, the final motion on dry, dying lips:

“Mum –”

Calsie relaxed into the pillow; then, she wasn’t Calsie anymore – only Calsie’s body. Haktar sat, silent, for a few long seconds, then rose gently to his feet. He hid the faint quiver in his hands from Nephen.

“Take an inventory of the corpse,” Haktar ordered, smartly and businesslike. “Break her down and start patching us all up with whatever intact organs and muscles you can get off of her. It. From it.” He tipped his head towards Nephen’s hand. “You look like you could do with a replacement finger. I need my medic in top physical condition. Take her – damn, its finger and fix it on.”

He was going to clap Nephen firmly on the shoulder, but his verbal slip made him reconsider, made him doubt if it was a good idea – just like everything else did. He nodded awkwardly instead. “Carry on, corporal.”

“Sir,” said Nephen, and turned to the corpse. Haktar let himself out of the room, out into the dim corridor. He leaned gently on the railing that hung out over the open stairwell, listening to the dim chatter of the other survivors in the rooms downstairs. He would have to tell them that Calsie had died, have to pass on the macabre news that if they needed any body parts replacing – and they all did, after months of battle damage – to report to Corporal Nephen and have their bodies patched up. It shouldn’t be disturbing – Armen, Artificial Men, were designed to be easily broken down to their component muscles and bones and used to repair their injured comrades – but after all this war and fighting, and all the bonds they had made, and the fact that they were quite possibly one of the last bands of any kind of humanity left on the planet, the thought of losing one of their number was a grim one. Even if it did benefit them overall.

He wanted to cry. Luckily for his pride, dignity, and most importantly, authority, he didn’t – Armen weren’t built to cry.

Saving Tobuscus' London Riot

Here's something a little different. I thought I'd do a very small 'alternative history' - where things go differently. You're probably familiar with the term in respect to things like 'what if the Nazis won WWII' or 'what if we still used airships' but here's something rather smaller-scale. The basic premise is that yesterday's meetup with Toby Turner in London got rather out of hand: a meetup that was meant to last around 2 hours ended in just 20 or so minutes with the internet celebrity retreating to a taxi. This was following a chaotic crush with around 2,000 people present. I was at the event and enjoyed it, but I appreciate it could certainly have gone better, and avoided the internet backlash that it has been receiving this morning. So the simple question is: how could it have been improved?

In order to put the various videos you can find of the event in context, I'll do a rough timeline (all times are approximate):

4:00 - Toby's predicted arrival time

4:40 - Toby arrives from the northeast of the Albert Memorial. The majority of fans are on the south side, facing towards the Royal Albert Hall. Toby is Lazyvlogging as he enters on his heelies; my friends and I run along beside him.

4:41 - The majority of the crowd rushes to the east side of the Memorial, pressing Toby against the rope fence of the East Albert Lawn. Over the next few minutes a combination of Toby moving and the crowd's inertia pushes Toby against eastern fence of the Memorial - this is where the vlog he uploaded was filmed at.

4:45 - Toby climbs over the fence of the Memorial, allegedly injuring himself on the spikes, but meets mass audience applause. A few people then climb over too.

4:48 - Toby exits via the northern side of the Memorial. As I passed by I saw at least two people who had caught their shoes on the spikes and fall over onto the Memorial steps.

4:50 - The crowd's inertia pushes Toby past the northeast corner of the Memorial. At this point he is still taking part in pictures being taken.

4:51 - Toby manages to push out of the crowd and runs east, along the East Albert Lawn, followed by the crowd; I manage to shake his hand at around about this point.

4:55 - Toby leaves Hyde Park and gets into a taxi.

5:00 - The first police units arrive; some people are already leaving while others remain talking to YouTubers Seth and Syndicate.

Clearly, this is far from an ideal course of events. Being at the event itself, my immediate reaction to Toby's problem was that he lacked any tough guys to try and form a perimeter around him (no way was simple human restraint going to manage - we were hyped up and in full-on herd mentality mode). Had Toby had some form of security with him then the event would likely have been a little more contained and he would've had a little more personal space. Then again, even a few big guys wouldn't be enough against the 2,000 excited fans that were there. More importantly, in terms of alternative history, it wasn't in character for him to bring security. So in order to still create a successful event without indulging in unusual twists of character, we'll have to consider alternative routes.

 Toby's original route

One of the other obvious problems was that despite being the focus of the crowd's adoration, Toby lacked the force of character or physical presence to stand up for himself against the herd mentality. (He's about 5'10, if you're wondering.) Being at the centre of a very noisy crowd he could barely even make himself heard, as various videos will testify. However, there was a solution to this problem.

While my friends and I were waiting amongst the crowd, there was one particularly vocal group who were leading chants and songs and, crucially, had a megaphone. The issue is that Toby arrived from the northeast, and the last time I saw this group (about a minute or two before Toby arrived) they were standing on a podium southwest of the Memorial. They would probably have been among the last people to arrive in the crowd.

Now, as these people were attention-seekers, it's unlikely that they would have moved to the quiet and uncrowded northeastern side of the Memorial, where only a few people (myself included) were standing when Toby arrived. So in order to grant Toby this key group of people, he would need to come into contact with them. But this isn't hard: all we need to do is to have Toby Turner enter from the west, rather than the northeast, and so come into contact with the megaphone-carrier sooner.

What effect would this have?

Well, if we assume Toby turns up roundabout the same time - for all we know his taxi dropped him off elsewhere, or he got off at a different tube station - and he arrives via the west, he will immediately come into contact with a much, much larger crowd. This could mean, though, that he is in even greater risk of physical harm in a 'crush'. While the megaphone will be closer to him, it still may not percolate through the crowd and reach him. So we will have to ensure that the crowd exercises restraint straight away. Fortunately, Toby provided for exactly that solution at the time.

The initial crush, featuring silly string and derp faces

Toby arrived with heelies, but stumbled as he stopped his 'glide' in. Now, let's say that by being distracted - indeed, shocked - by the size of the crowd, Toby fully trips up this time as he rolls in on his heelies, while the crowd approaches. So rather than people rushing to hug Toby, the first people to arrive are helping him up. Depending on how he hits the floor - be it on his front or on his back (heelies are notorious for making you slip over backwards and hit the back of your head) - Toby could be disoriented for a short while. The first to arrive would therefore have more incentive to look out for and look after him straight away. As Toby is helped to his feet, a small core of the crowd is immediately telling the others to 'back off' and 'give him space'. Backed up by a small group of people, Toby would have at least a few looking out for him and so the initial crush would be mitigated.

However, as he fell, we'll assume that Toby dropped his phone with which he was vlogging (he was filming while he rode in yesterday). While most of the initial wave to reach Toby are looking out for him, a few are going on pure adrenaline, and one joker thinks it's a good idea to pick up Toby's phone - still recording - and film himself on it. Only a few seconds later, though, someone else gets hold of it, and suddenly the phone has a life of its own as it is passed through the crowd. We'll assume, for the sake of fun, that it survives more or less intact. The result is Toby gets perhaps one of his greatest audience-interaction vlogs ever.

Of course, some people would be calling out on Toby's behalf 'where's my phone?'. Beyond a few revellers who may then start to sing 'where ma keys, where ma phone' in true Britain's Got Talent style, this will also encourage people to start spreading the news in the crowd, creating a mildly more subdued and responsible tone. I've no delusions that this will turn the crowd, which was primarily composed of excitable teens, into responsible people - not at all - but it will raise the percentage of those genuinely looking out for Toby, while giving him space at the same time.

Toby has also created another advantage for himself through entering from the west: he is now on South Carriage Drive, at the bottom of the steps leading up to the fence of the Memorial. This means that the people waiting on the steps have a good chance of getting a view of Toby, and while there will be pushing - which will be risky and unpleasant on the stairs - the desperation to see Toby will not be so much, since he will be more visible from the higher elevation at the top of the steps. The downside to all this means that I will be at the back of the crowd in this version of the event but Toby will be having a marginally safer time, which is what that matters.

Now, as Toby moves up the stairs past the southwest podium of the plaza surrounding the Albert Memorial, he should pass straight past the group with the megaphone. This group will immediately be leading cheers, but will almost inevitably pass on the megaphone to Toby. While it wasn't the loudest of megaphones at the time, it will give Toby exactly the authority he needs, and without having to distract himself by vlogging at the same time, he will be able to focus on what he's doing and where he's going and actually maintain some control. Meanwhile his calls will be passed on by those spread out through the crowd who, having asked once about Toby's phone, feel that it's a good idea to basically act as message-carriers and relay the calls for order they hear from the others in their 'relay chain' of messages.

The crowd that Toby will face when he arrives

Toby will still reach the fence of the Memorial this time round, only this time it will be the south face, having navigated through the crowd and up the stairs. I get the feeling that at this point a more significant crush will occur, the first such in this version of events. It's probable, therefore, that he will still climb over the fence and onto the steps leading up to the Memorial itself. Armed with the megaphone, though, he will now more effectively be able to tell people not to cross, and there will be a few people scattered throughout the crowd trying to back that up. A few will still jump over the fence, and a few may try to climb via the statue plinths on the four corners of the Memorial's fence to get in too. I like to think that in this course of events I will still be hanging onto the side of the 'Asia' plinth to get a good view of Toby, and perhaps not let some rabble-rousers through, which could well impact the course of events.

After this point, it's hard to say what will happen, as Toby now has control of the megaphone and can probably direct things as he actually wants to happen. I haven't been to - or seen - any other meetups of Toby's so I don't know what this would involve - singing? Chanting? General rambling? There'd certainly be a 'hello audience' in there. However, with Toby up there - plus a few of his self-appointed bodyguards - there will definitely be more structure to the event. Moreover, some people will fan outwards to get a better view of Toby on the Memorial stairs. No doubt that at some point Seth will join Toby, as will Syndicate, who had joined the event of his own accord. At this point, Toby can now safely talk with his audience, as well as do autographs and photographs while he is standing behind the fence.

I get the feeling that it will be a matter of time for Toby until the number of individuals crossing the fence turns into a general assumption, even amongst the more sensible members of the crowd, that crossing the fence is a good idea. I should point out that it wasn't: those spikes were sharp and dangerous. Since we're trying to create the most positive event we'll hope that Toby manages to shout down anyone trying to cross the fence with his megaphone and no more than a few actually try it, and as few as possible receive injuries from doing so.

The police, too, will probably eventually turn up, for the same reasons. It's possible an ambulance may turn up after an overly-worried audience member interprets Toby's initial tumble as requiring medical attention; if so, any accidents involving the fence spikes may just have the people there needed. The police will arrive around twenty minutes in, only this time, Toby's event is going well, and the police are more likely to simply, well, police, and arrest anyone who crosses the fence again. Again, we're assuming here that Toby has crossed back over the fence by 5pm; if he ends up getting arrested for trespassing in front of 2,000 fans, things will get horrifically ugly and the current shouting about the event being a 'riot' will pale in comparison to what could have happened.

Perhaps, as Toby crosses the fence again, he again takes a small tumble. This will reinforce those looking out for him but at the cost of making him look like a royally clumsy plonker. I'm sure that that's a reputation he can handle, though. With his 'escort' reinforced Toby can more-or-less safely move through the crowd, having photos taken, doing autographs, and so forth. If his phone has been returned he can now tweet and shout-out to audience members too, as well as continuing the vlog from his own point of view. He may end up bumping into one of the several people carrying a guitar; expect a rendition of the 'subscribe' song to follow. No doubt after some people meet him they will leave and the crowd will slim down, marginally, maybe by around a hundred or so.

Our final hurdle: overcoming this most undignified exit

When this will actually happen is unsure, and is also the difficult part: how will we avoid another stampede, as actually happened yesterday as the people chase Toby? I'm sure his designated bodyguards will tire of their responsibility and the control over Toby will lax. Then again, the initial peak of excitement may have passed and while the individual fans Toby meets will be excited from anticipation, the general mood will end up more relaxed. Moreover, some police may well end up hanging close by to Toby, ensuring that wild antics do not immediately follow. The crowd will also be a little more broken up if Seth and Syndicate are also present, each attracting a smaller sub-crowd of their own. Around an hour or so in people will probably be starting to leave in small numbers, and if Toby stays the whole two hours - leaving at 6:40 - then the crowd will be appreciably smaller and people will be sauntering off for dinner in one of the Kensington cafes. (They're mostly teenagers - do you really expect them to dine at anything more classy than a Subway?) I'd imagine the crowd could be as little as 'only' 1,000 or so by the time the event is over. This would then allow Toby to more calmly exit to a taxi, and while there will still be the same degree of crowding around his taxi as there was yesterday - and people running after it as it leaves - it will not be the result of Toby having been chased into retreat.

The route to success

So the overall result is that Tobuscus' London meetup is a much calmer and more placid event, relying on audience maturity - which could manifest under the right circumstances - and while it will still be wild and bubbling with excitement, with significant herd mentality, we won't have anywhere near the chaos that characterised yesterday's event. Of course, I personally would have been far away from Toby all the way through, and the chance of me shaking his hand would be significantly reduced. Moreover, I would've been late for my party that night, as a result of a longer event. But we wouldn't have an internet storm decrying the event as an 'embarrassment' and people saying they are 'disappointed to be British'. So while this may not be the most totally probable course of events - it's engineered to produce the most positive course of events, rather than the most realistic - it would certainly have resulted in a much more enjoyable and much less chaotic event.

But if Toby's looking for advice, then I'd say rely on bodyguards, because the luck I outlined here is nowhere near the guarantee of security a few tough guys offer.

Ex Nihilo

By Matthew Walpole

The man led the boy child through the drifting ash of a wasted world. Black, ashen snow stretched from horizon to horizon. Somewhere, the man said, there was a city.

They’d been walking forever. Forever under the scorched sky. Forever in the darkness; it was all the boy knew. He was born from the dust of a world he’d never know and dust he was; caught in a stray wind, drifting over the tundra. Soon the wind would weaken, let him fall...

                

The man stopped, bent on his stick, heaving each bitter breath. The boy looked back; he could still see the place they’d last had to stop. He touched the man’s arm.

                Let me help.

                The man grunted and the boy moved his hand to his backpack.

    I’ll carry some o’ the weight.

    The man brushed him off.

    I’m fine.

    The child’s eye’s glittered. You’re not.

    They dragged on in silence.

The horizon was lost in fog when the man next stopped: night was closing in. Nights here were darker than the starless wildernesses of outer space. Nights here were colder. The man stuck his stick in the snow like an explorer marking an alien landscape.

                We need shelter.

    The boy gazed up at the man. What’re we goin’t do?

    You tell me. Look around.

He looked: a desert, sketched in charcoal. Fog gathering. He began to cry.

                The man knelt and touched his fragile hand. It’s goin’t be okay.

                No.

    We’re goin’t get through this, together.

    The boy lifted his wretched eyes. There’s nothing but snow.

    Precisely.

    We’re goin’t bury ourselves?

            The man’s eyes twinkled with laughter.

    We’re goin’t build’n igloo.

    An ee-glow?

    I’ll show you.

               

                

The man knelt and pressed the snow.

     It’s gotta be made o’ the right stuff. Tha’s important.

     He turned to the boy.

     Strong foundations are essential. If the snow don’t hold together y’have no igloo. You with me?

     The boy nodded.

     Good.

The man drew a circle in the snow with his stick, marking the base of the dome; he then took a rusty carving knife from his backpack and gave it to the boy.

    What’s this for?

                You’ll see.                                     

                The man got down on his hands and knees and beckoned the boy to do the same.

                Now, cut deep - that’s it - now slice through, slowly!

                He guided the boy’s hand and together they created a large snow block.

                There y’see - soon you’ll be able t’do all this without me.

                The boy looked away.

    No I won’t. He couldn’t help a small smile twisting his lips. 

Block by block, they raised their structure from the snow. The boy suggested that they’d work quicker with individual roles. He became the wall-builder; the man - the block-cutter.

By the time the blocks stood at the boy’s chest the man was exhausted. He lay in the snow, his breath steaming and drifting with the wind. The boy stepped back from the wall and grinned.

     It’s good.

                The man nodded. Uh huh.

                The boy sat with him. 

                Who taught you?

                Mm?

                The boy gestured to their work.

                Oh. My dad.

                When?

                The man gazed into the dark emptiness.

                A long time ago.

                The boy gazed too.

                He laid his hand on the man’s.

    We’ll find it.

The man nodded and gripped his hand.

They sat like that in the silence.

The boy started and sprang to his feet: Com’on!

                Jus’ a moment.

                Now!

                He scooped a ball of snow and hurled it at the man.

                Hey!

               The boy’s glee echoed across the expanse as the man staggered to his feet and returned fire. They played. They played recklessly, urgently; until the thickening darkness could no longer be ignored. The man dropped a snowball from his readied hand and his glowing cheeks paled.

                We have to hurry.

Those last blocks nearly broke them. The man was trembling with exhaustion; the darkness was intense.

                So cold.

                He kept having to rest. The boy struggled on.

Eventually, there was only one block left to do: the block that sealed the dome. The man said: Mess up the final block an’ the whole igloo’ll collapse. He was securing it in the space above when his back gave. They were standing inside.

His scream ripped through the night. The boy screamed too, brittle with terror. The man’s frame buckled, the boy rushed over, helped him stand; helped sustain the roof: the blocks were sliding – all supported by that one point. The moment held, quivering: the man supporting the roof, the boy supporting the man. It held. The roof held. The pair collapsed. Their shelter held.

With the sunrise they crawled out and stood together, watching the horizon. The fog had cleared. They could see lights.

                What are they?

                It’s hard to tell.

                What d’you think?

                I think...buildings.

                Buildings?

                The man took his son’s hand.

                I’m goin’t need your help getting there.

                But what are they?

                Come on, I’ll show you.

----

I'm delighted to present this piece of guest work from Matt Walpole - my old writing course buddy! Ah, good times. Matt informs me he's currently stuck with writer's block; luckily, positive comments, either left here or addressed to him, are the best cure for that!

That Time I Made A Hydrogen Bomb (In Year 9)

This is all a completely true, if somewhat embellished story, of an incident from year 9, written a week after the event in question...

By Jack Swan

I nearly realised every schoolboy’s dream. Yes, I detonated a bomb in school.

If you were a bored primary schoolboy then you probably will have felt the impulse to raze your school off the face of the earth with no lean amount of explosives. I know I did. I didn’t, however, expect to nearly fulfil that childhood fantasy whilst in a seemingly boring science lesson on a dreary Wednesday morning. “This has got to make a pop...” were my last words before I accidentally ignited a small hydrogen bomb. In the classroom.

I should point out something first: this isn’t the same kind of hydrogen bomb that is carried on suborbital missiles to bring about global apocalypse in World War Three. I’m afraid not; this is merely hydrogen released from magnesium in acid catching fire and causing an Earth-Shattering Kaboom in a chemistry jar. If you know about the Hindenburg disaster you’ll know what I’m on about, albeit on a smaller scale. Still, this was no piddly little pop. In fact, a piddly little pop is why it all happened in the first place.

My dictionary at home describes naivety as thus: “Having or expressing innocence and credulity; ingenuous.” I think that sums up the pre-doomsday atmosphere in my mind quite well. We had attempted to capture escaping hydrogen in a test tube, and ignite it with a splint. Hopefully you all know that causes a ‘pop’ sound, and that was what we were trying to achieve. But after two failed attempts and a sense of moderate annoyance we had heard nothing.

“Ah, not again!” I huffed, glaring through misty, smudged and painfully uncomfortable plastic science goggles at the silent test tube.

“Oh well,” Trevor replied, in his stereotypical might-be-interested, might-not-be attitude. We stood in silence for a few seconds. (I should explain at this point that a few seconds often is enough to formulate the best and worst ideas in the history of mankind. It was probably only a few seconds for George Bush to decide to run for president – and look what that led to. In this case, I had a similarly bad idea. Not that I knew it was bad, of course.)

“What if...?” I asked, moving my hand to take the lazily glowing splint from Trevor’s hand, “We put the splint directly to the pipe where the hydrogen is coming out?”

He looked at me.

I looked back.

He looked at me some more.

And spoke. “Go on then.”

So, shrugging, and expecting only a mildly loud pop, I put the lighted splint to the tube. It seemed simple at the time – I merely placed the splint at the throat of the pipe, and waited. I don’t know how long for, but it seemed an eternity. Then things went a bit faster.

A lot faster.

The resulting detonation caused windowpanes to shatter in Taiwanese suburbs and according to certain unsubstantiated sources the shockwave rounded the globe no less than twenty seven times. Some say it caused a minor earthquake near Inverness, and led to a temporary closure of Heathrow airport as a Boeing 747 coming into land was jarred off course, impacting into Terminal 2.

All I know is that I was standing there, now-extinguished splint held quivering between petrified fingers; I was a nervous, trembling wreck, juddering in much the same way as would an old oak tree vibrating as an army convoy roars past.

Oh, and the bung on the jar had flown off and hit Trevor between the eyes, blasting the goggles off his face.

Following the localised cataclysm a ghostly silence fell across the classroom. That or my eardrums had been pounded like I had had a front-row season pass at a twenty-four-hour heavy metal marathon. Or both. Either way, there was a deathly hush as a crescent of awestruck students formed around a startled Trevor and me.

The first thing my scrambled psyche latched onto after registering the blast was my science teacher rushing towards us. Though I had temporarily been reduced to the mental coordination of a disaffected bee after a debate on the ethics of stem cell research in Chinese there was still enough intact grey matter in my skull to recognise the shape of a hurrying teacher – and to associate that with the word ‘trouble’.

Mind still frazzled I tried to scramble together some sort of excuse. It was like trying to type a novel with your nose – exceedingly difficult, and you mostly end up with a jumble of gibberish. Bracing myself for a volley of “Why did you do that?!” and “Did you even think about what you were doing?!” and “Detention after school!” I slowly tilted my head towards my teacher, fearing the worst.

“Are you alright?” she asked, hurried and concerned. I burbled a still-shocked reply, partly acting, partly residual shock. “I should have warned people not to do that,” she continues.

Oh...

As the class slowly returned to their stations to continue the experiment as it was meant to be done my teacher continued her talk, as I superglued my mind back together. Apparently, what I had done was cause a feedback explosion, and the resulting blast went to where the magnesium was still dissolving and releasing hydrogen, causing the underwear-fouling explosion. We were ‘lucky’ that the blast had only caused the bung to smash Trevor in his forehead, or else the whole jar might have shattered, filling us with glass pellets. It could have been much worse. Allegedly.

Anyway, to cut a long story short I slinked out of the classroom to my guitar lesson. Treading carefully past the dust piles and rubble heaps caused by the explosion, and the brave men and women of the emergency services trying to keep order amidst the chaos I had created I kept a low profile, whilst bubbling with a volatile mix of fear and excitement. As per my expectations, I have now gathered the titles of ‘terrorist’, ‘evil genius’ and ‘mad scientist’ to my name; fortunately the latter two are what I’ve always wanted to be recognised as! Chemistry definitely isn’t boring any more. The best part is, the government  decided not to launch an enquiry into why a small tactical nuclear device had been detonated on the top floor of an otherwise innocuous state secondary school, so I don’t have to fill in reams of paperwork and risk a court trial and jail sentence! But one of the stranger things is, my e-mail inbox seems to be filled with messages coming from a Mr ‘Osama’ – does anyone know who he is?

And just why he wants me to do a scaled-up version of the blast underneath the Pentagon?

----

Apologies for the bit at the end making it a bit dated. Mr Bin Laden was still a big threat back when I wrote this, in early 2010! Also the descriptions are a bit heavy-handed - in my opinion - but I can't be asked to change it because I was very happy with how I wrote it at the time, and I guess it's got a certain charm about it. I hope you've enjoyed this (completely true) account of how I made a hydrogen bomb!