Belated Outer Alliance Pride Day

September 1st was Outer Alliance Pride Day, and Cheryl Morgan has a round-up of some of the posts associated with the day, with some context about the John C. Wright post that sparked the idea--and there's the posts linkage on the Outer Alliance site itself. I'm not normally a joiner--I don't actually belong to any organizations, as far as I'm aware--but this one seems like a no-brainer.So here's the pledge: "As a member of the Outer Alliance, I advocate for queer speculative fiction and those who create, publish and support it, whatever their sexual orientation and gender identity. I make sure this is reflected in my actions and my work." Again, a no-brainer, right? Not even necessary? Well, yes, necessary, unfortunately. Ann and I have so many dear friends and relatives who are gay, lesbian, transgendered, what have you, that it still strikes us as bizarre that this is even an issue with some people.Anyway, you're supposed to post a piece of fiction, too, so here's a bit from "The Transformation of Martin Lake."By the time he reached the Cafe of the Ruby-Throated Calf, Lake found that his fellow artists had, aided by large quantities of alcohol, adopted a cavalier attitude toward the War of the Reds and the Greens. As a gang of Reds ran by, dressed in their patchwork crimson robes, his friends rose together, produced their red flags and cheered as boisterously as if at some sporting event. Lake had just taken a seat, generally ignored in the hubbub, when a gang of Greens trotted by in pursuit, and once again his friends rose, green flags in hand this time, and let out a roar of approval.Lake smiled, Raffe giving him a quick elbow to the ribs before she turned back to her conversation, and he let the smell of coffee and chocolate work its magic. His leg ached, as it did sometimes when he was under stress, but otherwise, he had no complaints. The weather had remained pleasant, neither too warm nor too cold, and a breeze ruffled the branches of the potted zindel trees with their jade leaves. The trees formed miniature forests around groups of tables, effectively blocking out rival conversations without blocking the street from view. Artists lounged in their iron latticework chairs or slouched over the black-framed round glass tables while imbibing a succession of exotic drinks and coffees. The night lanterns had just been turned on and the glow lent a cozy warmth to their own group, cocooned as they were by the foliage and the soothing murmur of conversations.The four sitting with Lake he counted as his closest friends: Raffe, Sonter, Kinsky, and Merrimount. The rest had become as interchangeable as the bricks of Hoegbotton & Sons’ many trading outposts, and about as interesting. At the moment, X, Y, and Z claimed the outer tables like petty island tyrants, their faces peering pale and glinty-eyed in at Lake’s group, one ear to the inner conversation while at the same time trying to maintain an uneasy autonomy.Merrimount, a handsome man with long, dark lashes and wide blue eyes, combined elements of painting and performance art in his work, his life itself a kind of performance art. Merrimount was Lake’s on-again, off-again lover, and Lake shot him a raffish grin to let him know that, surely, they would be on-again soon? Merrimount ignored him. Last time they had seen each other, Lake had made Merri cry. “You want too much,” Merri had said. “No one can give you that much love, not and still be human. Or sane.” Raffe had told Lake to stay away from Merri but, painful as it was to admit, Lake knew Raffe meant he was bad for Merri.Raffe, who sat next to Merrimount—a buffer between him and Lake—was a tall woman with long black hair and dark, expressive eyebrows that lent a needed intensity to her light green eyes. Raffe and Lake had become friends the day he arrived in Ambergris. She had found him on Albumuth Boulevard, watching the crowds, an overwhelmed, almost defeated, look on his face. Raffe had let him stay with her for the three months it had taken him to find his city legs. She painted huge, swirling, passionate city scapes in which the people all seemed caught in mid-step of some intricate and unbearably graceful dance. They sold well, and not just to tourists.Lake said to Raffe, “Do you think it wise to be so . . . careless?”“Why, whatever do you mean, Martin?” Raffe had a deep, distinctly feminine voice that he never tired of hearing.The strong, gravely tones of Michael Kinsky, sitting on the other side of Merrimount, rumbled through Lake’s answer: “He means, aren’t we afraid of the donkey asses known as the Reds and the monkey butts known as the Greens.”Kinsky had a wiry frame and a sparse red beard. He made mosaics from discarded bits of stone, jewelry, and other gimcracks discovered on the city’s streets. Kinsky had been well-liked by Voss Bender and Lake imagined the composer’s death had dealt Kinsky’s career a serious blow—although, as always, Kinsky’s laconic demeanor appeared unruffled by catastrophe.“We’re not afraid of anything,” Raffe said, raising her chin and putting her hands on her sides in mock bravado.Edward Sonter, to Kinsky’s right and Lake’s immediate left, giggled. He had a horrible tendency to produce a high-pitched squeal of amusement, in total contrast to the sensuality of his art. Sonter made abstract pottery and sculptures, vaguely obscene in nature. His gangly frame and his face, in which the eyes floated unsteadily, could often be seen in the Religious Quarter, where his work enjoyed unusually brisk sales.As if Sonter’s giggle had been a signal, they began to talk careers, gauge the day’s fortunes and misfortunes. They had tame material this time: a gallery owner—no one Lake knew—had been discovered selling wall space in return for sexual favors. Lake ordered a cup of coffee, with a chocolate chaser, and listened without enthusiasm.Lake sensed familiar undercurrents of tension, as each artist sought to ferret out information about his or her fellows—weasels, bright-eyed and eager for the kill, that their own weasel selves might burn all the brighter. These tensions had eaten more than one conversation, leaving the table silent with barely suppressed hatred born of envy. Such a cruel and cutting silence had even eaten an artist or two. Personally, Lake enjoyed the tension because it rarely centered around him; he was by far the most obscure member of the inner circle, kept there by the strength of Raffe’s patronage. Now, though, he felt a different tension, centered around the letter. It lay in a pocket against his chest like a second heart in his awareness of it.As the shadows deepened into early dusk and the buttery light of the lanterns on their delightfully curled bronze posts held back the night, the conversation, lubricated by wine, became to Lake’s ears tantalizingly anonymous, as will happen in the company of people one is comfortable with, so that Lake could never remember exactly who had said what, or who had argued for what position. Lake later wondered if anything had been said, or if they had sat there, beautifully mute, while inside his head a conversation took place between Martin and Lake.He spent the time contemplating the pleasures of reconciliation with Merri—drank in the twinned marvels of the man’s perfect mouth, the compact, sinuous body. But Lake could not forget the letter. This, and his growing ennui, led him to direct the conversation toward a more timely subject:“I’ve heard it said that the Greens are disemboweling innocent folk near the docks, just off of Albumuth. If they bleed red, they are denounced as sympathizers against Voss Bender; if they bleed green, then their attackers apologize for the inconvenience and try to patch them up. Of course, if they bleed green, they’re likely headed for the columbarium anyhow.”“Are you trying to disgust us?”“It wouldn’t surprise me if it were true—it seems in keeping with the man himself: self-proclaimed Dictator of Art, with heavy emphasis on ‘Dic.’ We all know he was a genius, but it’s a good thing he’s dead . . . unless one of you is a Green with a dagger . . . ”“Very funny.”“Certainly it is rare for a single artist to so thoroughly dominate the city’s cultural life—”“—Not to mention politics—”(“Who started the Reds and the Greens anyhow?”)“And to be discussed so thoroughly, in so many cafes—”(“It started as an argument about the worth of Bender’s music, between two professors of musicology on Trotten Street. Leave it to musicians to start a war over music; now that you’re caught up, listen for God’s sake!”)“—Not to mention politics, you say. And isn’t it a warning to us all that Art and Politics are like oil and water? To comment—”“—‘oil and water’? Now we understand why you’re a painter.”“How clever.”“—as I said, to comment on it, perhaps, if forced to, but not to participate?”“But if not Bender, then some bureaucratic businessman like Trillian. Trillian, the Great Banker. Sounds like an advertisement, not a leader. Surely, Merrimount, we’re damned either way. And why not let the city run itself?”“Oh—and it’s done such a good job of that so far—”“Off topic. We’re bloody well off topic—again!”“Ah, but what you two don’t see is that it is precisely his audience’s passionate connection to his art—the fact that people believe the operas are the man—that has created the crisis!”“Depends. I thought his death caused the crisis?”At that moment, a group of Greens ran by. Lake, Merrimount, Kinsky, and Sonter all raised their green flags with a curious mixture of derision and drunken fervor. Raffe sat up and shouted after them, “He’s dead! He’s dead! He’s dead!” Her face was flushed, her hair furiously tangled.The last of the Greens turned at the sound of Raffe’s voice, his face ghastly pale under the lamps. Lake saw that the man’s hands dripped red. He forced Raffe to sit down: “Hush now, hush!” The man’s gaze swept across their table, and then he was running after his comrades, soon out of sight.“Yes, not so obvious, that’s all.”“Their spies are everywhere.”“Why, I found one in my nose this morning while blowing it.”“The morning or the nose?”Laughter, and then a voice from beyond the inner circle, muffled by the dense shrubbery, offered, “It’s not certain Bender is dead. The Greens claim he is alive.”“Ah yes.” The inner circle deftly appropriated the topic, slamming like a rude, massive door on the outer circle.“Yes, he’s alive.”“—or he’s dead and coming back in a fortnight, just a bit rotted for the decay. Delay?”“—no one’s actually seen the body.”“—hush hush secrecy. Even his friends didn’t see—”“—and what we’re witnessing is actually a coup.”“Coo coo.”“Shut up, you bloody pigeon.”“I’m not a pigeon—I’m a cuckoo.”“Bender hated pigeons.”“He hated cuckoos too.”“He was a cuckoo.”“Boo! Boo!”“As if anyone really controls this city, anyway?”“O fecund grand mother matron, Ambergris, bathed in the blood of versions under the gangrenous moon.” Merrimount’s melodramatic lilt was unmistakable, and Lake roused himself.“Did I hear right?” Lake rubbed his ears. “Is this poetry? Verse? But what is this gristle: bathed in the blood of versions? Surely, my merry mount, you mean virgins. We all were one once—or had one once.”A roar of approval from the gallery.But Merrimount countered: “No, no, my dear Lake, I meant versions—I protest. I meant versions: Bathed in the blood of the city’s many versions of itself.”“A nice recovery”—Sonter again—”but I still think you’re drunk.”At which point, Sonter and Merrimount fell out of the conversation, the two locked in an orbit of “version”/“virgin” that, in all likelihood, would continue until the sun and moon fell out of the sky. Lake felt a twinge of jealousy.Kinsky offered a smug smile, stood, stretched, and said, “I’m going to the opera. Anyone with me?”A chorus of boos, accompanied by a series of “Fuck off’s!”Kinsky, face ruddy, guffawed, threw down some coins for his bill, and stumbled off down the street which, despite the late hour, twitched and rustled with foot traffic.“Watch out for the Reds, the Greens, and the Blues,” Raffe shouted after him.“The Blues?” Lake said, turning to Raffe.“Yes. The Blues—you know. The sads.”“Funny. I think the Blues are more dangerous than the Greens and the Reds put together.”“Only the Browns are more deadly.”Lake laughed, stared after Kinsky. “He’s not serious, is he?”“No,” Raffe said. “After all, if there is to be a massacre, it will be at the opera. You’d think the theater owners, or even the actors, would have more sense and close down for a month.”“Shouldn’t we leave the city? Just the two of us—and maybe Merrimount?”Raffe snorted. “And maybe Merrimount? And where would we go? Morrow? The Court of the Kalif? Excuse me for saying so, but I’m broke.”Lake smirked. “Then why are you drinking so much.”“Seriously. Do you mean you’d pay for a trip?”“No—I’m just as poor as you.” Lake put down the drink. “But, I would pay for some advice.”“Eat healthy foods. Do your commissions on time. Don’t let Merrimount back into your life.”“No, no. Not that kind of advice. More specific.”“About what?”He leaned forward, said softly, “Have you ever received an anonymous commission?”“How do you mean?”“A letter appears in your post office box. It has no return address. Your address isn’t on it. It’s clearly from someone wealthy. It tells you to go to a certain place at a certain time. It mentions a masquerade.”Raffe frowned, the corners of her eyes narrowing. “You’re serious.”“Yes.”“I’ve never gotten a commission like that. You have?”“Yes. I think. I mean, I think it’s a commission.”“May I see the letter.”Lake looked at her, his best friend, and somehow he couldn’t share it with her.“I don’t have it with me.”“Liar!”As he started to protest, she took his hand and said, “No, no—it’s all right. I understand. I won’t take an advantage from you. But you want advice on whether you should go?”Lake nodded, too ashamed to look at her.“It might be your big break—a major collector who wants to remain anonymous until he’s cornered the market in Lake originals. Or . . . ”She paused and a great fear settled over Lake, a fear he knew could only overwhelm him so quickly because it had been there all along.“Or?”“It could be a . . . special assignation.”“A what?”“You don’t know what I mean?”He took a sip of his drink, set it down again, said, “I’ll admit it. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”“Naive, naive Martin,” she said, and leaned forward to ruffle his hair.Blushing, he drew back, said, “Just tell me, Raffe.”Raffe smiled. “Sometimes, Martin, a wealthy person will get a filthy little idea in a filthy little part of their mind—and that idea is to have personalized pornography done by an artist.”“Oh.”Quickly, she said, “But I’m probably wrong. Even if so, that kind of work pays very well. Maybe even enough to let you take time off from commissions to do your own work.”“So I should go?”“You only become successful by taking chances . . . I’ve been meaning to tell you, Martin, as a friend and fellow artist—”“What? What have you been meaning to tell me?”Lake was acutely aware that Sonter and Merrimount had fallen silent.She took his hand in hers. “Your work is small.”“Miniatures?” Lake said incredulously.“No. How do I say this? Small in ambition. Your art treads carefully. You need to take bigger steps. You need to paint a bigger world.”Lake looked up at the clouds, trying to disguise the hurt in his voice, the ache in his throat: “You’re saying I’m no good.”“I’m only saying you don’t think you’re any good. Why else do you waste such a talent on facile portraits, on a thousand lesser disciplines that require no discipline. You, Martin, could be the Voss Bender of artists.”“And look what happened to him—he’s dead.”“Martin!”Suddenly he felt very tired, very . . . small. His father’s voice rang in his head unpleasantly.“There’s something about the quality of the light in this city that I cannot capture in paint,” he mumbled.“What?”“The quality of light is deadly.”“I don’t understand. Are you angry with me?”He managed a thin smile. “Raffe, how could I be angry with you? I need time to think about what you’ve said. It’s not something I can just agree with. But in the meantime, I’ll take your advice—I’ll go.”Raffe’s face brightened. “Good! Now escort me home. I need my sleep.”“Merrimount will be jealous.”“No I won’t,” Merrimount said, with a look that was half scowl, half grin. “You just wish I’d be jealous.”Raffe squeezed his arm and said, “After all, no matter what the commission is, you can always say no.”