In appealing to people who may prefer other forms of writing, I need to deal with one of the major weaknesses of science fiction: lack of characterisation.
To create a convincing and understandable character, it is necessary to form similarities with emotions and feelings that readers themselves experience and can relate to. This is especially important early on: “‘Woooooohoooooooo!’ My intercom crackled alive with the others’ euphoric delight.” The experience of delight created by the view and the sensation of falling, is a very simple and understandable reaction. Mannamew’s awe, in particular, is used to convey the team’s feelings, the exaggerated responses of: “My God... Amazing... It’s so big!” giving the impression of the impact the sight has on them. Even “Woooooohoooooooo!”, although crude and incorrect, provides a humanising side to the characters, a childish vocalising of sensations, whilst simultaneously drawing the reader’s eye to the section - ‘What is this long word?’ ‘Why is it in a paragraph of its own?’ - graphically pleasing to the eye. In the dialogue there is deliberate usage of colloquial terms, grammatical mistakes and choice of basic lexis, such as: “Mike” for ‘Michael’, “Things is not good” for ‘things are not good’ and “Yeah?” for ‘yes’. I tried (with moderate sucess) to avoid giving characters regional accents, as doing so would burden the characters with a huge debts of connotations not relevant to the story.
Another problem, often found in television science fiction series, is that too many technical references can distance the reader from the speakers and confuse the plot. Often, although I research and discuss the physical possibilities of my ideas, (for example, examining the real effects of vast pressures - what would the suit have to be like?), I find it best to leave the technical mechanics to the reader’s imagination, only defining that which is vital to the plot. Deep Blue makes several references to the divers’ suits. If I was writing a much longer work, the suits might be described in greater detail. In this piece, they’re left mainly unexplained, with only a short paragraph nestled into the second section:
“Our suits, double layered and ribbed to withstand the pressure, were too heavy and bulky to be moved by human muscle. Vast pistons and turbines had to be used to move each joint. It was a crude system, but allowed humans to withstand these kinds of pressures.”
This paragraph is actually the end product of a combination of spontaneous writing, where the paragraph swelled up, and heavy editing, which deflated it a lot. Compare it to the pre-edited version:
“Our suits, double layered and ribbed to withstand the pressure, were too heavy and bulky to be moved by human muscle, even with some of the weight taken by the water. Vast pistons and turbines had to be used to move each joint. The whole suit could be controlled by flexing organic muscles: by extending my index finger inside the suit, the external claw motors will be brought to life, and the index claw extended from the others. It was a crude system, but allowed humans to withstand these kinds of pressures. The suits are really extensions of our own flesh and blood. Just extensions.”
The latter is more descriptive, more informative. This is reflected in the additional sentences, increased number of words and larger descriptions. I believe, however, the former to be considerably better. The majority of the concepts in the latter are retained in the edited version, but half the number of words are used. The first has much more impact and is smoother and leaner, making the second seem unpolished and badly written. Keeping sections like these small is especially important when you are trying to appeal to a wide audience, as many will find too much description unneccesary. The difference between the two paragraphs illustrates the vast improvement editing can make to work, especially for genres such as science fiction. If you eliminate one too many words in a detective story, the tiny clues, based on intricate structures of ‘white clouds’ and deception, can be lost, wrecking the plot. Science fiction is a lot more forgiving: you can eliminate half of the words and, although reducing the quality of writing, not effect the storyline.
All fiction has various sources of inspiration. Very often it is hard to trace an influence to its source, only being able to notice the effect on the story. Whenever I write fiction, I always insert part of my own experience into the work, either deliberately, or unconsciously. Parts of Deep Blue, for example, have direct similarities with some of the Greek myths I know, something I had neither planned nor intended. The tale of Daedalus and Icarus, has many similarities with Deep Blue. Daedalus designed Minos’s vast underground labyrinth, represented by the Institute, Icarus also rejecting his father’s works and beliefs. Icarus falls from the sky, deep into the vast blue ocean, the image of the burning sun that melted the wax not unlike the reactor core.
Death too is a consistent theme. Blue is, for many, the colour of death. Derek Jarman, dying of AIDS, created his last film: Blue, with no visual images, just his voice and the blue screen. Impermanence is similarly inherence in the writing, everything: the people, the reactor, the Institute itself, finally facing destruction and oblivion. The reader knows Michael’s time is passing: “I’m getting too old for this.” “Forgive me, I’m old and tired.”. Although unclear whether Mannamew knows, Michael’s constant reliance on the (fictional) drug, menzine, is increasingly apparent through the story. Drug dependence, his aging body and exposure to radiation, all compound his problems in the final section, making his eventual death begin to seem inevitable.
Sentence structure is generally regular throughout the piece. Occasionally, though, short sentences are used to add effect whilst conserving words:
This technique can be very effective in emphasising your points efficiently. The phrase “Life down here is pretty minimal.”, not only describes the absence of natural marine life, but the dead, tomb-like state of the evacuated Hofman Institute. Double meanings also exist for objects physically present in the story too: “The blackened corpses of the plant engineers lay beside the cooling rods.” Here, the death of the engineers not only explains why the plant started to overheat, but also symbolises the increasing futility of the situation, preparing the reader for Michael’s eventual failure. Shorter sentences are used to show Michael’s decreasing cohesion of thoughts. Initially, the sentences are moderately long:
“Forcing my aching muscles down the steps I opened the rod cover, gripped the control rod and inserted it deeper into the fusion reactor. After finishing inserting the coolant rod, I began walking round to the next.”
Later on, the radiation slowly reduces his mental capabilities, the sentences beginning to become shorter and more fragmented, additionally emphasised by the change from the past tense, to the present:
“The light isn’t yellow, it’s... Sweat droplets are running down my face. Taste of iron in my mouth.
Not red... Maybe blue...”
All sense of time is lost. By moving into the present, cutting the length of the sentences and slowly reducing the range of his lexis, I’ve tried to show him dying realistically. Earlier in the story, Michael has ‘flashbacks’, their duration uncertain. This timelessness suits my image of the depths, where there is no sense of time, direction or distance.
There is also a lot of visual imagery: “Spaghetti stared back at me. Hundreds of red wires connecting circuits and transmitters filled the crevice.” This helps the reader to visualise the codegate’s workings. In many images, I’ve tried to give the readers a sense of the scale:
“The ocean beneath spread vast between horizons, terrifying, as blue stretched full circle, sky and sea a 360o sphere of turquoise brilliance.”
I’ve used words such as ‘vast’, ‘terrifying’ and ‘brilliance’, to try and convey a sense of the exhilaration the characters feel. Other images include the description of the Hofman Institute and of the core. Colours, textures and materials are also described: “A slight indent in the wall ahead of me... taller than my suit... thin red stripes across the yellow paint... sturdily build... an outer layer of aluminium covering a lead-based alloy.” This level of description, however, was kept to a minimum, as it uses much space, and can slow the story’s pace.
The ending, having both climatic and anti-climatic elements, (the build up to the attempt to cool the core and his slow decline to unconsciousness), I personally find very effective, linking the very last words back to original title quite well. The image of his dying body lying beside the vast glowing form of the core, representing nature’s vast power, is very potent. The core, though bond to serve Man’s whim, providing energy and warmth, is never truly tamed. Almost a living animal, the core naturally tries to escape the suffocating layers of the Institute, out to the blue ocean beyond, the hydrogen, formed from the sea water, returning home, just as Michael returns back to his past.
The addition of the epilogue, whilst perhaps not answering all questions, gives a slightly cynical final analysis to the story. Paradoxically, the epilogue also offers, in some ways, a mildly humorous side to the story, the lack of humanity from the man reading the report, worried merely about the economics, helping us to detach from the situation, our sympathies moderated by his callous lack of appreciation of the team’s efforts.
The two characters in the epilogue represent all the problems of corporate capitalism and bureaucracy, emotionally uneffected by the outcome of distant events. The lack of concern for the report, representing all the efforts and events of the story, adds to the sense of futility, expendability and defeatism experienced by the reader. When he replies to Wilmount, “Oh, bin it.”, he summarises the depressing lack of interest in the case and the pointlessness of the attempt. This is very similar to Michael’s feelings towards the dead engineers: clinical, precise and uncaring.
Deep Blue is, in many ways, a depressing and downbeat piece, the initial exhilaration and youthful vibrancy systematically replaced with a long decline into the past, and, eventually, death. Travelling away from the light above, the characters are systematically destroyed in the depths of the ocean and the soulless Institute, their efforts increasing worthless and unnoticed.
Deep Blue is not designed to leave the reader happy, satisfied that all ended well. It’s a attempt to criticism the lack of humanity, often shown by those removed, by distance, from the savagery under their control, and at the technological dependence, through artificial systems, humanity has created. If there is any hope in the story, it is in the immense power that nature still holds in this encapsulated, controlled future and in the raw, untamed power of the reactors. In some ways, Michael’s failure liberates both him and the core. The core from the confines of humanity’s mechanical prison, Michael from his body’s declining shell. The ocean and the core symbolise strong, magnanimous forces, free from mankind’s confinements and filters. Life free from human control.
There is hope in those blue depths.
E-mail: maop08@dial.pipex.com
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