Quick-bits!

This week's newsletter is just a small book update and some feedback from the last issue. But stick around to the end, because just like the self-serve ice-cream at the end of the buffet, I've got a treat for you.

Last time, I told you about finding some serious structural issues with the book's plot. It's really something I should have caught back when I was building the original outline.

The good news is that I'm back on track, even if I'm running a little behind. I've fixed the plot problems, rebuilt the outline, and crafted new beat sheets for each chapter. I've also identified which scenes from the previous draft I can save and reuse.

I'm working on drafting the new content and think that will take me into mid-March, which really isn't much later than my original plan.

For those of you who made it to the end of the last newsletter, you'll recall I shared with you the names, venues, and logos of the fictional sports teams that call Cascadia their home.

Well, that prompted some of the best feedback yet. You guys love your Cascadia teams.

It was originally a world building exercise, but based on the response I'll have to make sure at least one of them gets a mention in the book. Who should it be? Drop me a note or leave a comment and let me know what you think.

Your responses also gave me an idea for the next book. A couple of you even suggested a merch store. The most popular team seemed to be the Timberjacks, Cascadia's Major League Baseball team. Spring training is already underway. Who's looking forward to opening night at Ironpine Park?

I had a scene from the first draft I needed to cut, but I didn't want to just throw it away. Instead, I've included it for you here. I hope you enjoy Daisy and EB's little adventure.

The shop on Deckard Street smelled of solder, burnt dust, and ozone; the same as every electronics shop since the invention of the transistor. A little brass bell above the door announced us. The man behind the counter looked up, magnifying glasses giving the impression of bug's eyes. He looked at me, looked at EB, looked at EB a second time, and returned to his work without a word. A cop and robot walk into your store, and you don't say a word? Points for composure.

"I called ahead," I said. "Bennett. Picking up a sensor array," as I stepped up to the counter.

He didn't answer right away. I watched as his soldering iron trace a careful line across a circuit board that was no bigger than my thumbnail.

The shop was packed floor to ceiling with salvage, components in labeled bins, and screens in various states of disassembly propped against every flat surface. Busted hardware, waiting to become someone's treasure.

"Shelf behind you," he said finally. "Yellow ticket."

There it was, a crate on the shelf with a yellow ticket that read "BENNETT — DO NOT SELL" in big block letters and then, underneath in smaller writing, "Seriously do not sell."
I appreciated the emphasis.

I checked the array with a tester I brought with me, while EB stood in the middle of the shop and tried to take up less space than he actually did. He wasn't succeeding. A stack of salvage monitors threatened to fall when he shifted his weight.

"Careful," I said.

"I am being careful."

"The monitors disagree."

He turned his head to look at them. "They appear stable."

One of them slid six inches to the left. We both watched it stop at the edge.

"Stable?" I asked.

"Within acceptable parameters."

The array I came looking for tested as functional. It had a calibration seal from with the last decade, an eighty percent charge, no visible damage to the housing. Better than I'd expected for the price.

I set it in my bag and pulled out my slate to transfer payment.

"You do military surplus?" the man asked. He was looking at EB now with the kind of interest that meant he'd stopped seeing a scary robot and started seeing a parts list.

"He's not for sale."

"Didn't say he was. Just asking. What about just his head? Would you be interested in a trade for that?"

"He's not for parts either."

EB's sensor lights pulsed once. "I find this conversation mildly disconcerting," he said.

"You and me both." I zipped the bag and headed for the door. "Thanks for holding the part for me," I said over my shoulder as we stepped out of the shop.

The bell rang again when we left.

Outside, the rain had settled into the kind of steady drizzle that didn't feel like weather so much as atmosphere. Cascadia's default setting. EB fell into step beside me, his footfalls heavy on the wet pavement.

"That individual was assessing my components," he said.

"Yeah."

"Is that a common occurrence?"

“More than you'd think."

EB was quite, then asked, “Does it happen to you?”

It was my turn to be quite. “Yeah,” I answered. “But for different reasons.”

He processed that before responding. "I am not certain how to feel about it."

"Welcome to having a body," I said. "It's mostly inconvenient."

He didn't answer. But his status lights did a small, slow pulse that I'd learned over time, meant something like “Noted.”