By James Bow

Stormy Weather

2026-09-03T00:34:27Z

We'd been warned that severe thunderstorms -- even a possible tornado -- were in the offing later in the day. But at around 4:30 p.m., the sun was still shining, so I decided to nip out two blocks to my local Sobeys to pick up some items for dinner. I usually drive this route when collecting a large number of groceries, but I didn't need much this time, and I felt virtuous using my own two feet. There were some mounded clouds on the horizon, but I thought I'd have no trouble getting back home.

Shopping took me a half hour, and the moment I paid for my purchases was when the sky opened.

This was no ordinary rainstorm, for Kitchener. The sky went very dark, and the rain became torrential. The large roof that covered our big box store rattled with it. Then everybody's cellphone blared out an emergency alert: our area was under a tornado warning. We needed to take cover immediately.

The storm with the dangerous rotation turned out to be outside Mitchell, Ontario, but that front was moving fast. We all needed to take it seriously. And as I'd walked to the store, I had no transportation home, so I decided to shelter in place. I sat down in a seating area that Sobey's provided, with an eye on the door, places where I could duck and cover, and the path to the nearest windowless interior room (the store's public bathroom) that I could run to if needed.

Things got intense out of doors. The rain fell so hard, we lost cellular reception. That means it blocked the line of sight between my cellphone and the nearest cell towers, even though cellphones can find a signal through most walls. Visually, we couldn't see across the parking lot. Then the wind hit. I was told that someone struggling to get through the parking lot was blown back three steps for every forward step taken. Our cellphones blared multiple times, for updates to the tornado worning, for dangerous wind warnings; this wasn't to be taken lightly.

And when the employees mentioned that the windows at the front of the store were vibrating from the storm, I stood up, announced I was heading for an interior room, and strongly suggested that others follow. A store manager also mentioned that Sobeys had a basement. Who knew?

By this point, the store was mostly empty. I'd been waiting for at least a half-hour. Nobody was coming in to shop, and shoppers were gradually leaving, to try and chance things in their cars. The upside of this was that many store employees decided to walk back to the store's break rooms, which were also interior and away from the windows. A reasonably safe spot.

Things eased up after that point. We could see across the street at last. The wind died down. There was at least six inches of standing water throughout the large parking lot, rising up to Sobeys' doors, but that started to recede. My family, who had taken cover in their basement, hauling in a contractor who was working on our property to share our shelter, ventured out. Erin got the car and came to get me. I returned to a flooded driveway (which I cleared by finding and clearing the blocked drain), a partially flooded garage (with two drains that took care of the problem) and wet feet. There were some branches knocked down in our street, but there was no serious damage to our property or ourselves.

It's important to note that I respected the weather and stayed indoors, eyeing all the paths to proper shelter, because I married a Midwesterner. Erin, born in Iowa and raised in Nebraska, knows and respects severe thunderstorms and tornadoes. She knows what a bad sky looks like, and it looked like home out there today. I've never been through such a storm, though. My respect comes entirely from her hear-say, and I suspect I didn't treat this storm with the full respect it deserved (I should have been in the interior windowless room the whole time, rather than watching the waves of rain through the doors, taking the pictures you see).

But that's nothing compared to most people around me, who stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows in awe, who waded out into six inches of water to get to their cars, who ploughed through flood zones on the street raising a wake taller than their own vehicles. If things had gotten worse -- if a tornado had shoved itself through, if devastating winds or baseball-sized hail took aim at our big box roof, or if the rain had continued in its intensity for another half hour, flooding into stores and homes and floating cars into one another on the streets, we would have seen a true disaster.

Earlier today, my old friend, political jockey Warren Kinsella fired a cheap political salvo at Toronto Mayor Olivia Chow over the concerns she raised about the storm that was coming. In his words, "The sun is out and its lovely in Toronto. Good thing Olivia Chow practically declared a state of emergency and said that we were going to be facing a torrent of rain, hail and tornadoes."

Warren. I love you, but when you try to score cheap political points off of something that many meteorologists warned was coming, you're going to get soaked, and not just literally. Maybe respect the experts? Maybe, just maybe, don't go for the cheap political jab every chance you get?

But Warren's blazé attitude isn't unusual. It comes naturally to most of us without the political sidebars involved, because Ontarians don't understand how bad things can get when you get the weather that they get out in the American midwest. We've never faced the storms they've faced. We don't understand what living in Tornado Alley truly means. We gawk out of floor-to-ceiling windows vibrating in the wind.

Thanks to climate change. Tornado Alley is shifting east, and possibly north. These storms are going to happen more often, and right now, we're not prepared for them.

Unless we treat stormy weather with the respect it deserves, it's going to kill us someday.

On VIA Rail's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

2026-08-31T22:45:13Z

An Open Letter To:
The Right Honourable Mark Carney, Prime Minister of Canada,
The Honourable Doug Ford, Premier of Ontario,
The Honourable Steven MacKinnon, Federal Minister of Transport,
The Honourable Prabmeet Sarkaria, Ontario Minister of Transportation,
Mr. Michael Lindsay, President and CEO of Metrolinx,
Ms. Tracy Robinson, President and CEO of CN Rail,
Mr. Matthieu Paquette, Interim President and CEO of VIA Rail Canada,

To paraphrase author Judith Viorst, on Friday, August 7, 2026, VIA Rail had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. For my family, it started with VIA Train 84.

VIA Train 84 left Sarnia on time at 8:40 a.m. By the time it reached London, it was 23 minutes late. The delays compounded east of London due to conflicts with CN freight trains and slow orders on CN tracks between Stratford and Kitchener. By the time Train 84 reached Kitchener, it was almost an hour late.

Erin, the kids, and I were riding VIA Rail to Ottawa for a conference. We departed Kitchener at 12:58 p.m., moving onto tracks owned and operated by Metrolinx, but our problems did not end there. Although we made good speed out of Kitchener and across the Grand River, our train pulled into a siding just east of Breslau and eased to a stop.

And there we stayed for close to two hours.

At the time, we were told that we had to wait for a GO Train to pass us. However, I had the Transit app on my iPhone, and I could see that the GO Train that was supposed to meet us just east of Breslau was actually at Mount Pleasant GO Station in Brampton, two whole counties away. That GO Train was at least 45 minutes from our position. But apparently, there was nothing we could do.

The GO Train finally passed us at 2:17 p.m., but VIA Train 84 stayed in its siding. The GO Train made its way to Kitchener, switched ends, and came back the other way, passing us again around 3:00 p.m.. The reason for this delay was because, thanks to the earlier delays caused by conflicts with CN freight runs, slow orders on CN tracks, and waiting on a GO Train that wouldn't reach us for three quarters of an hour, we'd passed our engineers' legal time limit imposed by Transport Canada for the very sane reason that they don't want tired and overworked engineers driving huge trains across this country. Thus, we had to wait for VIA to bus out a new crew to take over. We finally got underway at 3:15 p.m.

As a result, our two-hour layover at Union vanished completely. The train we had to connect to left without us, and we had to rebook the second leg of our journey on a later train. We were far from the only ones, as dozens of us lined up at the VIA ticket stands at Union. In the end, where we were supposed to get into Ottawa at 8:00 p.m., we ended up arriving at midnight, crashing into our hotel closer to 1 in the morning.

To be fair to VIA, they did their best to ease the pain. They comped us 50% of our ticket price for the journey between Kitchener and Union. Because of delays between Union and Ottawa, we received another 25% refund on that leg of the journey, which let me ride for free on VIA a couple of weeks later. Multiply this by the dozens of passengers affected, and this must have cost VIA Rail thousands of dollars. VIA's ticket agents managed a long line of harried passengers quickly and professionally and got everyone on their way. Even while waiting on the train, the seats were comfortable, the air conditioning worked, and train staff explained as much as they could and were suitably apologetic. To the credit of the riders, everyone remained polite and in good humour. So, this is not a complaint that should be addressed to VIA Rail. They had little or no control over the delays that afflicted their train and cascaded across their system (other VIA Trains saw considerable delays that day). It's the fact that VIA Rail has little or no control over the conditions their trains operate under, and their poor treatment by CN Rail and Metrolinx, that is the problem.

CN's slow orders due to poor track conditions between Stratford and Kitchener were perhaps the biggest problem. The long stretches where the VIA Train had to crawl along at 16 km/h (precisely 10 miles per hour, because that's the North American standard speed for tracks that are in particularly poor condition, and CN is a North American railway company) was frustrating to watch on VIA's Live Train Tracker, as Train 84's arrival time was progressively pushed back. Metrolinx recently extended GO Train service to Stratford, but that service, while useful, is hamstrung as it copes with these same slow orders. A trip between Stratford and Kitchener that used to take 27 minutes a couple of decades ago, now takes closer to fifty. Metrolinx's extension to Stratford won't succeed unless these poor track conditions are fixed.

Possibly Metrolinx will pay for these necessary repairs, but while CN is currently a private for-profit railroad, it was a Crown corporation from 1918 to 1995. Canadian taxpayers paid billions to maintain and upgrade CN's tracks, and it's shameful to see our investment left to rot.

But even more aggravating was Metrolinx's treatment of VIA Train 84. Bringing that train to a stop when the meeting GO Train was more than 45 minutes away boggles the mind. Surely there are other places between Kitchener and Georgetown where these trains could meet and pass each other. If not, what is Metrolinx waiting for? They initially promised that we would have two-way hourly service between Kitchener and Toronto by 2024, but that's not possible with the limited passing sidings they've built west of Georgetown.

As I said, VIA Rail compensated its passengers for the delays of that day, but it seems unjust that they should have to pay when CN Rail and Metrolinx directly contributed to the problem. Private for-profit railway or not, CN's rail infrastructure should be better maintained. While Metrolinx has a GO Train network to run, passengers are passengers, and VIA Rail's passengers shouldn't be treated as second-class citizens. The federal government and the Ontario government should hold CN and Metrolinx more accountable to ensure such a delay on VIA Rail doesn't happen again. By making sure that no trains are bogged down to 10 miles per hour, and that all passengers get through the network with minimum delay, benefits not just VIA Rail's passengers, but the economy as a whole, by speeding up freight service, and ensuring people can ride from southwestern Ontario through the GTA to Ottawa, Montreal and beyond without clogging up traffic on Highway 401.

My family deserved better. My fellow passengers deserved better. VIA Rail deserves better, and so does everyone trying to move back and forth across this province.

Fix this.

Sincerely,
James Bow

The Strange Teapots of Ottawa

2026-08-20T01:22:03Z

What's with the teapots in Ottawa?

The family is in the city while Erin attends a conference. While there, I take Eldest Child out for breakfast at Fathers and Sons restaurant near the UOttawa campus (excellent food), but Eldest Child was flummoxed by the teapot their tea was served in. The glass is uninsulated, and so quite hot, and the heat resistant banding on top was only mildly effective. There was also no spout, so the hot tea easily spilled. We thought it was a weird affectation of this college campus restaurant and moved on...

Until we went to the Downtown restaurant Eggspectations the next day, and was served the same pot.

Is this a weird Ottawa thing?

So, I wrote this a week ago on Facebook and got a number of answers. Apparently others have seen this style of teapot, in Vancouver and in Colorado. Apparently, they were more common in the 1980s and the 1990s, so maybe it's falling out of style and these two restaurants happen to be odd throwbacks.

I do know that, when we returned to Eggspectations on our final day in Ottawa, Eldest Child was served tea from a normal teapot (fully ceramic, with a handle and a spout). They were delighted by this and thanked the waiter for using it, explaining the whole weird thing we'd encountered on Saturday and Sunday. Her reply was (paraphrased), "Yeah, we have a couple of those teapots in the back. I hate them, and try to use the regular ones when possible."

So there you go!

A Proposal for a New Ontario Flag

2026-07-03T17:00:00Z

I realize this will not go anywhere, but I need to say it: it's time for Ontario to have its own flag.

Because, in reality, Ontario doesn't. We didn't have an official flag until 1965, during which we typically flew the British Union Jack. In many ways, since that date, we still haven't flown our own flag because the flag we picked to fly was the Canadian Red Ensign, modified to include the Ontario Coat of Arms on the right half. This was done by premier John Robarts, who preferred the Red Ensign to Canada's brand new Maple Leaf flag, and adopted it for Ontario in order to preserve it.

And isn't it a little presumptuous (and unfortunately rather like Ontario) to appropriate a symbol belonging to all Canadians as their own?

Vexilologists do not rate Ontario's flag highly (see the video to the right). It fails on a number of fronts, of which many velilologists list five. Here's their criteria:

Keep it Simple

Look at Ontario's current flag. Just look at it! Flags should be so easy to draw, our schoolchildren could do it. The Union Jack is already a hefty challenge, as is our maple leaf. Then, we add a sea of red and a coat-of-arms with not one stylized maple leaf but three realistic ones? What sick sadist came up with that idea? Somebody who hated schoolkids, clearly.

Use Meaningful Symbolism

Now, here the current Ontario flag is all about symbolism, but primarily one piece of symbolism, and is that symbolism truly relevant in this day and age? Has this symbolism aged well? One of Ontario's mottos may be "Loyal she began, loyal she remains" in reference to our first major settler group being United Empire Loyalists fleeing American persecution following the War of Independence, but that's not what Ontario is all about today. Today, we are a multicultural and diverse society, with distinctive regions within the province itself. How relevant is the British flag to the communities of the North? How relevant is it to the generations of immigrant families from other countries who have built up for literal centuries throughout the Greater Toronto Area? How relevant is it to our First Nations peoples?

The thing is, Ontario is actually pretty good with symbols -- which,at their root, rely on simplicity to convey a greater idea. The trillium, Ontario's official flower, has been used to great effect in promoting a united Ontario identity. It's all over our government buildings and many of our transit vehicles. Ontario's official colours are green and gold, which is why our GO trains are green. I prefer the simplified styling of the trillium that arose in the 1960s, during an age of remarkable design ethic that brought us GO Transit's iconic logo. The Franco-Ontarian flag gets this right, conveying their history and identity with two symbols and two colours, which is why I based my proposed flag heavily on their design.

Ontario's trillium is nowhere to be found on Ontario's current flag, and its colours of green and gold are relegated to an insert on the right half of the flag. We can do better than that.

Use 2 to 3 basic colours

I'm counting at least four, here, two of which aren't official Ontario colours.

No lettering or seals

(Looks at Ontario's coat-of-arms on the right half of the Red Ensign. Clears throat meaningfullly).

Be Distinctive or be Related

If our flag is related to anything, it's Britain, and that has the advantage of being a key part of our history, but little else. It's relation to Canada amounts to a fit of pique by John Robarts protesting our highly distinctive and effective Canadian Maple Leaf. And, is our flag distinctive? Have a look at the flag of Manitoba. If you can't easily figure out whether you're in Winnipeg or in Toronto by looking at the provincial flags they are flying, what the heck are we flying?

The flag I propose above is based off the proportions of our current Canadian flag. It uses the major symbol of Ontario, and one of two Ontario's official colours (why not the other one? Well, gold is used less often, and when applied to my proposed flag, this is the result). Best of all, it's simple. It requires the use of one crayon against a blank white page, and it's easily identifiable from a distance. While I know this is unlikely to happen, I strongly feel that Ontario's flag must change, and I strongly suggest that the flag above is what we change it to.

I know that a lot of people will have a knee-jerk reaction against the prospect of change. Our Red Ensign has been flying for 71 years, now, and changing things may be a wrench. But our flag has changed before. If it can change in reaction to the creation of the Canadian Maple Leaf, it can be changed into something that better reflects what Ontario is. It can change to provide a flag that's easier to identify, easier to draw, and easier to appreciate.

Thank you, Doctor Who

2026-06-10T14:32:37Z

So, it appears that Doctor Who may be done for a while.

Russell T. Davies recently confirmed that his production company and the BBC had parted ways. There will be no Christmas Special for 2026, and the cliffhanger at the end of the second season of Disney's Doctor Who will likely never be resolved. Instead, the BBC will be tendering out the property to potential co-producers, with no relaunch date in sight -- language eerily similar to what they said after the original series ended in 1989.

And, strangely enough, I feel fine.

Make no mistake, this is a bittersweet moment. It's hard to overstate how much of an impact this show has had on my life. I am a writer because of Doctor Who. I met the woman who became my wife through Doctor Who. The show has provided me with many happy memories since I stumbled upon it on TVOntario in 1978 and pretended to be a Dalek on my elementary school's playground (I was six). I have loved every single Doctor I watched from William Hartnell to Ncuti Gatwa, and all of the extras that have been shoehorned in, including Jo Martin and John Hurt. Will it feel like something's missing in my life as we pass another Christmas without a special, or another year without a season? Yes.

But if I'm honest, I could sense this closure coming, back when the BBC decided to farm the show out to Disney rather than replace exiting producer Chris Chibnall with someone else in-house. Returning producer Russell T. Davies gave it his best shot on the Disney revival, but it felt like too much of a break from what had come before, and it felt like Disney's heart wasn't in it. The production values were strong, but the seasons were shorter, giving the storytelling far less room to breathe (a problem of many television series nowadays, including Star Trek). When Ncuti bowed out early rather than suspend his burgeoning film career for a third season that might not happen, the writing was on the wall, in spite of RTD's attempts to sugarcoat the thing.

And maybe that anticipation makes this closure easier to accept. Or, maybe it's the fact that I'm forty years older than I was during the program's cancellation crises of the mid-to-late 1980s that I'm able to be philosophical about the whole thing. Right now, given the shenanigans RTD had to pull to get the ending of the second Disney season that we got when he realized he had no guarantee of a third season, I'm glad he was able to pull off some semblance of an ending. I'm still impressed by the audaciousness of Gatwa regenerating into Billie Piper and leaving us hanging on that moment. Say what you will, but it still makes for a memorable send-off.

So, as bittersweet as this moment is, I am... thankful. I'm thankful for Russell T. Davis. The fact that this moment is bitter is because of the many good memories of the show over the past twenty years -- memories that would not have happened if he hadn't successfully launched it and set its tone. I am thankful that we got twenty years out of the revival, which is comparable to the twenty-six the original series got. I am thankful for the many actors who took on this role, who were able to give their own take on the character of the Doctor while staying true to his essence. And I am grateful for the many friends I have found through the show's fandom, from the time I first saw the program in 1978, to the past twenty years of its existence.

Yes, anybody who revives this show is going to have a devil of a time dealing with Russell T. Davies' ending cliffhanger, and frankly they'll probably avoid addressing it altogether. That's fine by me. Let fan fiction figure this one out and do a hard reboot instead. We know this program can do it, because it's done it successfully before -- not only in 2005 with the revival's first episode, Rose, but at several places within the show itself, from the original to the revival. This show can change course and set aside its old continuity very easily -- far more successfully than, say, Marvel or DC Comics. The Doctor just falls through another universe. Time can be rewritten. Et cetera. Et cetera.

It may be that a rest and a reboot is exactly what Doctor Who needs. Let the fans process the twenty years of new material they've been given. They have plenty of other sources of Doctor Who for their fix, and plenty of spaces with which to share their passion with other fans. Let them get hungry again, and then bring things back after a few years. As long as the new producers remember that this is, at heart, a story about a wizard with magical cabinet that can take him anywhere in the universe -- an individual who fights for peace, but doesn't believe the ends justify the means, who values intelligence and empathy over raw strength, then it will be a success again.

After all, this is how we things restarted back in 2005.

So, thank you, Doctor Who, for the past twenty years. Thank you for the past sixty-three. You have given me so much in my life, and we will always have Gallifrey.

Further Thoughts

One thing that I am especially sad about is Carole Ann Ford, the actress who played Susan, who was brought aboard in the final season for a few mysterious appearances to build a plotline that will now never be resolved. The contributions she made were worthwhile and stand on their own, but I still think she deserved more than what she got, and that's a shame.
I will say, regarding the finale, that while it was a brazen scramble by Russell T. Davies to pull a resolution out of his ass, I do appreciate one particular element of Ncuti Gatwa's regeneration: the fact that RTD finally got it right. Every other Doctor in this revival has passed away in epic, sprawling adventures. While Ncuti's last story was epic, he decided to regenerate in order to save the existence of a single child. That was the regeneration Davies wanted for David Tennant's Doctor, which he got talked out of. And while there are similarities to Matt Smith and Peter Capaldi's regenerations, in that they sacrificed themselves to save small communities, they did so while fighting Daleks or Cybermen. Ncuti's Doctor sacrificed himself for Belinda's child after the main fight was over, because everyone matters. Every single child. This Doctor sweats the small stuff, and that's what makes him the Doctor. Good on Russell T. Davies for remembering that.

Electric Wessels

2026-05-16T15:01:49Z

The image to the right is by Denis Vermeirre, and is used in accordance with their Creative Commons License (Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0)

There's been an interesting development in the games we play with Ontario license plates.

As well as the old game of Bumper Stumpers (remember that?), one game I play (and I know my friend Andrew plays), is trying to log the "highest" Ontario license plate possible. Standard Ontario license plates follow the pattern of four letters, followed by three numbers, with license letters and numbers raised incrementally. I remember when (roughly 1997) there was a mild kerfuffle over the fact that our old license plate system, which used three letters followed by three letters, was running out of 'numbers", as we were nearing ZZZ 999, so what were we going to do then?

The answer, of course, was to flip over to AAAA 000. And, since then, the highest license plate I've seen is in the DA region. According to Wikipedia, as of December 8, 2025, the highest license plate number is DJVP-046. Given that this pattern allows for 456,976,000 variants, it should be about a century or so before we have to update this system with five letters.

(Actually the total number of variations is significantly smaller than nearly 457 million. The letters G, I, O, Q, and U aren't used because they're too similar to each other and to other numbers, and this brings the number of variants down to 21 to the power of four, multiplied by a thousand, or 194,481,000. Legislation also prevents the use of certain letter combinations because they spell bad words or are reserved for government officials. Or both.)

A wrinkle in this game comes in the form of green license plates for electric and plug-in hybrid vehicles. When these license plates were introduced, back in 2010, they had green lettering instead of blue, and gave you additional perks, such as the ability to use high occupancy vehicle lanes without the requisite number of passengers. All of the green license plates followed the four letter and three number pattern of regular Ontario license plates, with the exception that they all started with GV ("Green Vehicle" -- although FrancoOntarian drivers had the option of picking up VE license plates for "Véhecule Écologique").

Because the total number of possible GV licenses is significantly smaller than the total number of regular license numbers (441,000), I couldn't help but notice that we were running up the alphabet quite quickly, and I wondered what would happen when we tipped over the edge. A few days ago, I got my answer. I found myself driving behind another electric vehicle with a green license plate, but there was something strange about it. Then I realized: the license plate was in the GWAB 000 format.

I pointed this out to younger child, who shrugged, but laughed when I said, "I guess the guy is driving a Green Whe-hecle." She came up with one better, saying, "It stands for Green Wheels".

But now, in my head, I hear Chekov's voice, referring to the car with the license plate as a "Green Wessel".

Talking More about the Night Girl; and Caught Between Passions

2026-05-07T18:00:00Z

It's been a bit chaotic here at home, which has kept me away from this blog, but I do want to thank Miss Liz for a fantastic podcast "teatime" back on April 23rd at 7 p.m. wherein we talked about The Night Girl, my development as a writer, the perks and challenges of storywriting, and about the benefits of fan fiction in building yourself as a writer. You can check out the stream on YouTube here, and the episode is also available on Spotify. Thanks again, Miss Liz, for a wonderful teatime!

After a particularly lengthy and harsh winter, spring has finally sprung. Good news: we now have green after what seems like forever. Bad news: this means it's allergy season. Oh, well.

I have to admit that I feel like I've been struggling creatively at the moment. Intellectually, I would like to work on finishing my latest draft of The Cloud Riders, but practice has not matched the theory. My creativity has instead focused a lot on my Transit Toronto videos (see one of my favourites here). This is frustrating to me, as I'd hoped to have a draft of The Cloud Riders done by July of last year, and I'm still only about two-thirds done.

But I can't deny that my video work on Transit Toronto hasn't been a creative outlet. It's just a different medium and a different subject. I've produced things ranging from vintage footage of streetcars on Kingston Road in east Toronto in 1969, to a ride-along featuring a lengthy commentary on the history of commuter rail in Montreal. For the past six months, I've been helping my team shift our YouTube operations onto a new channel that's more stable and prepped for succession, and I've been downloading, updating and uploading hundreds of older videos onto the new channel, in the hopes of getting the new one monetized as quickly as possible.

This has taken up a lot of my creative energy but also provided a lot of creative satisfaction. Except it's happening at the expense of my writing, and I'm starting to feel the withdrawal.

The Bible quote goes "No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despite the other." (Matthew 6:24). But there aren't just two masters here. There's three; possibly more.

I write because I love to write. In this economy, this has to be the primary reason most writers write. I am very fortunate to be able to write for my dayjob, but that's separate from what I like to write. I can write press releases, business proposals, technical reports, or educational books for kids, but my passion is in young adult writing, science fiction and fantasy. And in transit history and videos therein.

You see my problem: I have a day job. And I have a passion. And my passion is divided, which divides everything about my passions.

As a science fiction/fantasy/young adult writer, my passion brings me in contact with a community of people who are also passionate about science fiction/fantasy, young adult literature and writing. And as a rail and transit fan, my passion here brings me in contact with a community of people who are also passionate about rail and transit and who create content based on that. There is rarely any crossover between the two communities (though I know of one or two individuals who cross the boundaries with me).

I'm forced to wonder whether having my passions divided makes me less able to commit to each one individually. I have two passionate communities to engage with, but possibly not as deeply as if I only had one. Right now, I've been pumping out a lot of transit-related content and contributing a lot to the Transit Toronto YouTube channel, but will that last? Or will I end up stepping back and letting others take up the slack and, if so, am I letting those people down?

On the other hand, I have said that having two book projects on the go is a good way to avoid writers' block. If you encounter frustrations with one project, you can move onto the other in order to maintain momentum, while you work on your first project's issues at the back of your mind. The best chefs are able to use their back burners to great effect, though I think this might end up being stressful if one project was under a deadline, and the second project was calling to you.

I don't see an easy solution other than to keep pursuing my passions in whatever direction they take me, and to try to nudge progress forward on The Cloud Riders as best I can, in the hopes that something snags my interest again. And, maybe by saying this out loud, I'll reach others who are experiencing similar issues. This is not an issue to fix, but it is an issue that is easier to handle when you know you're not alone, as I suspect I'm not.

Down the Keyboard Rabbit Hole

2026-04-14T22:00:00Z

This piece originally appeared in the web magazine Relatable Media back in September 2025.

Writers have a close relationship with the tools they use to write. Ernest Hemingway had his pens. Stephen King wrote his first Dark Tower novel on an Underwood typewriter. Science fiction icon Robert J. Sawyer still composes his books on the WordStar word processing software program, which was last updated in December 1992. He's even taken steps to preserve as much of the software as possible, posting the elements to his website as the "Complete WordStar 7.0 Archive".

Modern computer keyboards don't get talked about as much, likely because they are ubiquitous. However, any writer who composes most of their work on a computer uses their keyboard almost daily. It's a critical part of their creative process. To improve my writing experience, I explored the world of better keyboards... and went down a rabbit hole.

Like most writers, I'm not rich. When I switched from putting pen to paper to typing words on a screen, I did so on the least expensive computer I could find. When I earned enough to upgrade that experience, it was to purchase a laptop (Apple, of course), and the thrill of composing and creating anywhere in my apartment or the world outweighed any deficiencies my keyboard may have had. When I was working my day job, my keyboard was what my company provided for me: cheap if not necessarily cheerful. I didn't care about the look or feel of the thing, as long as it got the job done.

Then the pandemic hit, and the need to work from home. At the time, the company I worked for provided me with a work laptop and allowed me to sign in to work using my home computer. That home computer was an Apple Mac Studio with an Apple Magic Keyboard. My work laptop was a simple Dell. Both used flat, chicklet-style keys with thin scissor switches to register keystrokes. My fingers barely travelled a couple of millimetres before my typing appeared on screen.

As I switched between my Apple home computer and my Dell work computer, I noticed a difference between the keyboards. Apple computers were fancy and stylish, and their Magic Keyboard featured a fingerprint sensor that made me think I was living in a James Bond movie. However, the chicklet keys were so thin that typing on them was like drumming my fingers against my desk. Dell's cheaper laptop had keys that felt softer to type on. In that moment, I decided I needed to improve my home computer experience.

That's how the rabbit hole starts.

Like many things in computing, keyboards are a perpetual compromise. If you want your keyboard to be thin, light and small, you sacrifice key travel and feel. If you want your keyboard to feel like typing on a typewriter, but better, you need a larger keyboard, oftentimes investing in a palm rest to prevent carpal tunnel syndrome. Expect to pay through the nose if you want the premium feel in a small form factor. High-end keyboards can cost $300 or more, a shock-inducing sticker price for anybody used to seeing flimsy keyboards on sale for less than $50 at Staples.

My first step up the keyboard ladder was Logitech's MX Keys S series keyboard. This flat, laptop-style keyboard uses nicely shaped chicklet keys and thin scissor switches, and typically sells for around $170 CDN, although you can get decent used versions on Kijiji and Facebook Marketplace for around $100. The MX Keys series offers enough audio and tactile feedback to let you know you've pressed the key without feeling like you're drumming on the table. The keyboard is also quiet, which can be vital if you work from home early in the morning and don't want to disturb your family.

As good as Logitech's MX Keys series keyboards were, I wondered if further improvements could be made, so I explored the world of mechanical keyboards. These trace their lineage back to the early days of computing, and even to electric typewriters. The history of mechanical keyboard evolution and the nuances of how they work are too long to summarize in this article, so I'll try to keep it brief. These keyboards are thicker and have keys that travel farther when pressed. They also make more noise, providing users with the audio feedback they find essential when typing.

A mechanical keyboard uses a mechanical switch beneath each key to register a key press. Pressing it down completes an electrical circuit, signalling to the computer that the key has been pressed. Technically, chicklet-shaped laptop keyboards also do this, but their switches are more complex. Mechanical keyboards are often (though not always) easy to customize, allowing you to swap key caps and switches for a personalized experience.

There are many different types of mechanical keyboard switches, but three are the most common. There's the clicky switch, where the switch emits a click as it's pressed, providing audio feedback that some find satisfying (while others, particularly co-workers, may find infuriating). There's the tactile switch, where a subtle bump provides resistance at the start of the key press, reducing inadvertent key presses. Finally, linear switches have no clicky or tactile feedback; you press them down, and the computer registers the keystroke. You get the sound and tactile response when the key hits the bottom of the keystroke or returns to its starting position (tactile switches also provide this audio feedback).

Silent switches exist to deaden even the sound of linear switches, which some typists (and people living with typists) appreciate. Still others dislike the lack of audio and tactile feedback that helps them connect with their writing.

Key switch preferences are as individual as the typist, and exploring this world can be frustrating. There are no dedicated keyboard chain stores anywhere in North America. Staples sells inexpensive office productivity equipment, and Best Buy and Canada Computers' inventories focus on gaming. Even online, gaming keyboards get more attention than productivity keyboards on social media -- likely because gamers are more willing to spend money on improving their gaming experience. But this doesn't mean writers and creative types should be left out in the cold.

So, I explored what I could find on YouTube and took the leap and ordered specific keyboards to test. I upgraded my chicklet-based Logitech MX Keys S to a Logitech Mechanical keyboard with tactile keys. I liked it, but there were still too many compromises in build quality and typing feel. Finally, I ended up trying two keyboards from China: the LoFree Flow and the Nuphy Air V2, and encountered a dilemma.

The LoFree Flow is an almost-perfect keyboard in terms of looks and feel. It has an aluminum shell and well-made keycaps that fit well with the sleek and minimalist Apple aesthetic. Its linear switches make for excellent typing; they move like I'm typing on butter, but bottom out in a firm but not uncomfortable way. Better yet, the sound of these keys is deeper, without the high-pitched metallic "ping!" that cheaper keyboards can have.

NuPhy's Air V2 offers a similar experience and is less expensive than the LoFree Flow. It's also more customizable, allowing users to change particular keys more easily depending on their needs. NuPhy also makes better use of RGB lighting to indicate whether the Caps Lock is on, if the battery needs recharging, or if the keyboard is paired properly with the computer. The NuPhy's battery also lasts longer before needing to be charged.

The NuPhy is close to perfect, and the LoFree Flow has flaws, but the typing experience on the LoFree Flow trumped everything. Though it was one of the hardest decisions I had to make, I couldn't let go of the buttery smoothness and deep audio feedback the LoFree Flow gives me, so I sold off my Nuphy Air. At least somebody else can enjoy what NuPhy has to offer.

I may be silly waxing on about my keyboard, but if you are writing long novels, imagine typing over 100,000 words on a loud and flimsy $20 keyboard. If you're going to work eight hours at your home and office, don't you deserve to work on something that feels good and sounds good to type on?

I've explored the rabbit hole so you don't have to, but the exploration has been fun, so why should I deny you the same pleasure? A person's favourite keyboard is as personal as the typist, so don't be afraid to look around, see what feels good under your fingers, and invest in yourself and your writing.

Developments Since the Article was Written.

Following this article, Lofree set up a Kickstarter for their new Lofree Flow 2 keyboard. Despite reservations about some of its design (such as the big "chin" on the right of the keyboard, and a neat but generally useless touch bar to increase volume and keyboard brightness), I signed up. I was impressed enough with the keyboard itself that I made the switch, although I swapped in the Flow2 switches with more of the linear switches from the Flow1.

Nuphy also updated its Air line of keyboards from V2 to V3, starting first with a 75 key keyboard, before upgrading their 60-key and 100-key variants. The reviews have been excellent, with reviewers suggesting that the strengths of the version two keyboard were retained, with improvements added to make things even better. I haven't had a chance to try it, deciding to save $150 by sticking with the keyboard I had, which I was already satisfied with.

I did purchase a 65-key keyboard from Iqunix, the low-profile Magi65, which goes with my laptop when I take my writing to libraries, coffee shops, or on longer trips. The typing experience there is at least as good as my Lofree Flow2, with the keys giving a very satisfying feel and sound. Iqunix offers a 100-key variant of the Magi, but it's a premium purchase at $250, and I'm still happy enough with my current keyboard to stick with it instead.

Then there is the issue of keycaps, but that's another rabbit hole for another day. Look for that in a later post.

Get Gothic (Thoughts on Pluribus Season One, and Other Things)

2026-03-08T03:22:42Z

This is a review of the first season of Pluribus, but I'm going to do it by talking about lots of things that aren't Pluribus, including and especially Doctor Who.

Back in 2005, when the revival started, I liked it, a lot. But I didn't like it as much as the original series. I thought that Christopher Eccleston was an excellent Doctor, that Billie Piper matched him as his companion Rose, and that the scripts were effective, and the directions and effects were well done. But there was still something I missed about the original series that was preventing me from fully committing to the new one.

What is it, a friend asked. What is it about the old Doctor Who that you're missing in the new one? The new one's great!

It is, I agreed. But it lacks the gothic feel of the original series, and I miss that.

That was my assessment on the revival's pilot episode Rose, and also for the second episode, The End of the World. When I said the same thing about The Unquiet Dead, which featured gaslight ghosts and Charles Dickens in late 19th century London, my friend said (paraphrased) Great Googalamoogaly, James! We went to the frickin' Victoria Era! How much more gothic do you want?!!?

I did say it was paraphrased.

But that was the point I realized we were talking past each other. Yes, the word "gothic" describes an architecture. It describes an aesthetic. Gothic horror and Victorian settings often (but not always) go hand in hand, and the original Doctor Who series married the two quite often. But gothic describes more than just arched doorways, darkened passages and stained glass windows.

Gothic horror, in my opinion, works on the premise that those things which are unseen are scarier than those things which are seen -- a lovely premise for filmmakers on a budget. Consider the classic 1963 movie The Haunting, where terror is imbued from the beginning through eerie camera angles, optical illusions of faces in the wainscotting, and somebody banging a cane against a wall somewhere. I always thought it was a telling irony that Hollywood completely forgot that sentiment when they remade The Haunting as an effects-heavy, hide-nothing horror in 1999, the same year that The Blair Witch Project recaptured the original movie's sensibilities, got called a visionary, and launched a genre of found-footage copycats.

Gothic horror lets you know, from the beginning, that Something Is Wrong. Then it holds its tension as it takes its sweet time telling the story, before the final, slow release. Doctor Who's best gothic episodes worked on this principle. The thing is, though: it doesn't just apply to horror.

Consider Doctor Who's The Time Meddler, which I would call an example of gothic comedy. Early on, it establishes that Something is Weird when the TARDIS lands at the base of some cliffs in 1066 England, and is seen by a mysterious monk from the clifftops, who doesn't look panicked or flabbergasted, only thoughtful. The story is mostly played for laughs as we slowly go through three 22-minute-long episodes until the reveal of the Monk's TARDIS.

Note that this was the first time that the viewers of the time (1966), had seen a TARDIS owned by anybody other than the Doctor, so consider the impact of this revelation to those viewers after three episodes of wondering, back then.

Establish the tension. Hold the tension for parts two and three. Release it in part four. Doctor Who played that card for a lot of its original run -- though, if I'm honest with myself, it was starting to shake up that approach by the time Colin Baker and then Sylvester McCoy took over the lead role.

So, that was my real issue with the first few episodes of the revived Doctor Who. Back in 1989, the program told a ninety-minute-long story broken out over four episodes. In 2005, it told that same story over a single forty-five-minute-long episode.

Then we got to Dalek, and I stopped complaining. I'd gotten used to the new pace of storytelling, and I just went with it. But I think this change of approach is one of the best examples of the genius of Russell T. Davies as he launched the series' revival. Could the new Doctor Who series have survived in 2005 if it told its stories at the same pace as the stories told back in 1989? I don't think so.

Davies understood that sixteen years had passed between the end of the original series and the launch of its revival, and a whole new generation had grown up. What had happened in the meantime? We had shows like Babylon 5, The X-Files, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The pace of storytelling picks up. The scripts get snappier. There's less time to breathe. During this period, we also have The West Wing, which was parodied for the way its characters held breathless, banter-y conversations while walking briskly through the corridors of power. Doctor Who had plenty of corridors before, but The West Wing walked them a lot faster.

In this day and age, you look around at the media, and everything is just so fast. Star Trek series used to have twenty-five episodes a season to build their characters and storylines; now we're lucky if they have ten. The Marvel movies are sped along, not just by action scenes, but the pace of the conversations the characters have. There's more repartee. There's more jokes.

And, consider this: as psychedelic as movies like 2001 or Phase Four were in the 1970s, would you be able to make the movie Everything, Everywhere, All at Once in 1975? Would the people of 1975 understand it?

I'm sure there are people who want to blame social media for this, but I'm not so sure. I think the micromovies of YouTube and the reels of Facebook are a symptom rather than a cause. Doctor Who was starting to pick up its pace in the late 1980s. The changes of storytelling in the 1990s were done before social media or even online video was a thing.

But the big question I have is, can gothic storytelling succeed in this day and age. Can audiences tolerate a story that establishes tension early, then holds it, and holds it, before that final release? Marvel's Wandavision is well regarded, except that people were complaining by episode two about how slow the story was. Nothing's happening, they exclaimed, until the big reveal at the end of episode three, and the astounding shift in the characterization at the end of episode four. For those who complained, think of how much more impact those cliffhangers had in episodes three and four, thanks to the drawn-out storytelling of episodes one and two. But will Marvel try something like this again? I'm less certain. Wandavision took a risk, and venerable franchises can be notoriously risk-averse.

Which is why Vince Gilligan's Pluribus is so amazing, in my opinion. The man takes gothic storytelling to an extreme. Once the tension is there, he holds on every moment. Is somebody coming to visit the main character? We don't start the scene with the knock on the door. We hold on the character sitting pensively in the kitchen. We follow the long walk up the front walkway. We get the knock on the door, and we get the slow walk to open the door. Conversations are passionate, but they're slow.

I've heard plenty of complaints from people who've called the pace of Pluribus glacial, but that's the point. If Vince is successful in lodging the tension of Something is Wrong in your heart, the drawing out and drawing out can make for stressful, sometimes frustrating, but ultimately successful television. The payoff and release, when it comes, is more valuable because it has taken that long to arrive.

Because of this, Vince Gilligan was able to deliver more power with the utterance of two words to end a season than other showrunners do with a big explosion. I'm so glad I got to see it, and I look forward to season two.

I am Not the Piano Man

2026-02-21T16:02:11Z

Man plays piano in Prague's Airport.
Photo by Arto Alanenpää
Part of the Czech project
"Pianos on the Street".

I feel I've discussed this before (and I have), but the attempts to build a false sense of deeper connections with our customer service representatives continues to get more irksome.

Earlier today, I was having breakfast with my eldest child at a local chain breakfast restaurant, and I heard our (very pleasant and otherwise very professional) waiter ask their diners as they delivered the cheque, "So, do you have anything interesting planned today?"

To be fair, I like it when our customer service agents are polite and positive. There's a manager/cashier at my local Tim Hortons who now rrecognizes me by sight. I have a standard order. Yes, this does mean I go through their drive-thru too often, but a rapport has built up between us. I pull up to the window after I make my order, and she hands me my double stacked Farmer's Wrap ("here you go, hon"), followed by my kids Timbits ("These are your Timbits") and my coffee ("extra large, three cream"). Then she says, "you have a nice day", I thank her and wish her the same, and I drive off, and that's the extent of that.

We've made a positive connection, and one that is relevant to my reason for going out there. We've understood each other in terms of the relationship of server and customer. We've given each other what we need, we've bid each other best wishes on the day ahead, and we've moved on. What more could you ask?

I'm not sure what motivates chains like Starbucks to encourage their servers to try and delve deeper into the customer/server relationship. How does knowing a person's private plans increase the likelihood of that person returning to face further interrogation? And how often has that question backfired? How often have they asked about somebody's interesting day, only to learn that their customer is heading to a funeral, and their question has led this person to tearfully unload everything about their grandfather's long fight with cancer, while traffic backs up in the drive-thru lane?

Listening to my waiter ask this question of every table they're serving tempts me to ask them what the strangest, most off-the-wall answer have they received to their inquiry? Or, better yet, to come up with the most outlandish answer of my own -- though it might need a prop or two:

WAITER: So! How was your breakfast?

ME: Excellent, thank you.

WAITER (rips off and hands over the receipt): "Do you have anything interesting planned today?"

ME: Yeah. We're disposing of a body.

WAITER: That's nice-- WHAT?!

ME (picks up ceremonial urn, plunks it on the table): Yeah. Uncle Fester. His dying wish was for us to have one last breakfast at his favourite restaurant before we take him down and dump his ashes in the Grand River, so he can float gently out to sea.

I realize one of the defining features of this age is a growing lack of personal connection, and the social strains that this causes, but attempting to force connections isn't the solution. I don't go through a drive-thru to unload about my problems, and I don't go to a breakfast restaurant with my eldest child to share my day's plans (or lack thereof) with a perfect stranger.

If I wanted to share my thoughts with strangers, I'd approach a bartender. I'd be sitting at a counter, alone. That's the stereotype, right? I'd be sitting in front of the Piano Man, Billy Joel, who'd ask me why I was still in the navy. But I'm not at a bar, I'm at a breakfast diner. I'm not behind a counter, I'm at a table with friends or family, or I'm in a coffee shop working hard on my computer. There are better times and places to try and forge connections, and these false and forced attempts aren't among them.

Indeed, I can't help but wonder if they're another symptom of our society's disconnect.

More Podcast Love and a Quiet Christmas

2025-12-30T19:54:00Z

Kitchener GO Station, looking west on a bitterly cold December 8, 2025. Photo by me.

Winter set in early this season, with two big snows in November, and it looks like it intends to stay a while. We've had couple of beautiful, bright but bitterly cold days, but we've also had some hefty snow-squalls which ensured a White Christmas. That's fine. Now that we've had our white Christmas, I'm seriously looking forward to spring, though that seems a ways off.

What hasn't been welcome is the flu that has ripped through our family. The eldest child was the first to get it, and I felt it coming two weeks ago. Today, it lingers in Erin and the youngest child. We've been vaccinated, but this has been one of those years where the vaccination didn't quite match up with the flu strain that became dominant, clearly. Oh, well. Hopefully this virus is on its last legs with us. Fingers crossed.

This past month, I've had a few more podcast appearances to talk about my writing in general and The Night Girl in particular. To start with, I had the pleasure of sitting down (via Zoom) with Chris Clinard at Books4Guys, to talk about the themes of my work, including issues of identity, and the possibilities of my novel-in-progress, The Curator of Forgotten Things. I had a great time, and you can listen in on Apple Podcasts, Overcast, and Spotify, or directly from their website.

Another neat interview was on The Mind of Sai Marie, where we talked about my coming up from fan fiction as I embarked on my writer's journey. We got really deep into the themes of The Night Girl, and the questions were really challenging in the best way. Check it out here. Sai Marie also has a newsletter.

Then Aimee Ravichandran invited me on board Author Talk, with her co-hosts. As Americans in the middle of a cold wave, they spent a little time complaining before I noted that, as a Canadian, I had it worse, and I hated it too. We had a good time discussing urban fantasy for a good forty-five minutes. Check it out here on Spotify.

Finally, I apologize for letting mention of this podcast slip too late, but I had a great time talking to Kino Isaac, a South African podcaster, producer and creative entrepreneur, who was super engaging and got me talking about my love of Toronto, and even about watching Doctor Who on TV Ontario. Check out his podcast over on Spotify; he made 52 minutes go by super quick.

I would like to thank Ed Willett and his publicist Mickey Mikkelson for getting my name out there. I haven't had a chance to do this before with my previous books (excepting The Sun Runners and Tales from the Silence, which Ed also published and publicized), and I'm grateful for these fun opportunities.

Waiting for Godot to bring the Coffee

2025-12-25T15:22:36Z

This photo, entitled Tim Hortons Drive Thru, was taken by Ann Baekken, and is used in accordance with their Creative Commons license.

If there's a fair argument that sometimes Canadians are too patient, maybe it comes in the drive-thrus of Tim Horton's on Christmas morning.

This Christmas, I wanted to treat the kids to some Timbits. Now, you might think, "but, James: it's Christmas morning. Isn't everything closed?" But I know for a fact that some Tim Horton's stay open, even through the darkest Christmas night, so I head out. And the neighbourhood Tims (a small building that exists primarily as a drive-thru) seems busy. Cars are lining up down the street. So, I pull in behind them, with my music playing on my stereo, and I settle in towait.

There's something about a queue, and I don't think this is just a Canadian thing. We see a line-up of people or cars patiently waiting for something, and a part of our mind just thinks: I've got to get in on that action! So we join the line-up and wait. The spent cost fallacy comes in pretty quick. Sure, you might be able to get faster service if you go elsewhere, but then all the time you spent in the line here will have been wasted. What a tragedy! Just hang on for another minute. Things will move then and I'll get my prize, surely!

Ten minutes later...

Ten minutes later, I sense that something is wrong. We're not moving, at all. That this line isn't now miles long is largely due to people rage-quitting behind me. I was anticipating delays because, maybe, they staffed this small outlet with a single worker to handle orders, do cash, cook, pour coffee and clean (possibly in defiance of the Geneva Convention), but no. This is different.

It takes me pulling out of the line and driving past the front door of this Tim Horton's outlet to see that, indeed, this place is closed on Christmas day. Now, to be fair: this front door is out of sight of the cars lining up for the drive-thru. Further investigations later shows that other closed Tim Horton's have their holiday hours posted not only on their front door but also beside their drive-thru order stand. This one doesn't. Somebody has forgotten, and a very orderly chaos is reigning.

It actually takes some honking and yelling at the line-up to convince these people that this Tim Horton's they're lining up for is closed and they should be on their way. Those that leave seem grateful.

I then found the one Tim Horton's in the neighbourhood that was open, and it is packed. Cars are stretching down the street, just like the closed Tim Horton's I've left, but I can see workers working inside. Parking my car and getting out gets me into the pedestrian line, which still takes me twenty minutes to get my coffee and Timbits, but oh, well. It's Christmas. Everybody is mostly cheerful.

And as I pass the closed Tim Horton's in my neighbourhood, the cars are still lining up, for nothing.

How I Would Attempt to Reason with the Happy Hive Mind (Pluribus Fan Fiction)

2025-11-19T15:28:38Z

Because I would attempt to reason with it. Unlike most of the big bads we typically see in the genre, this one seems most amenable to being reasoned with.

The image above, by Anna Kooris, is courtesy Apple TV+ via a Globe and Mail review.

Spoilers for Pluribus, obviously. Let's say I was called to Carol's meeting as one of the few people immune to the virus. Give me a bit of artistic license as I also incorporate knowledge given elsewhere in the first three episodes.

=+=+=

So, Zosia, I'll address you since you're speaking on behalf of all (waves hand around at the world) this, and you have come up with no better collective name for yourselves than "us".

I'm not as hostile as Carol is. I haven't had the shock that she's had, and I can see how a human hive mind would be an interesting new opportunity for the human race.

But I have questions.

I want to say that I appreciate you trying to be understanding of and accommodating to our horror in the face of what's just happened. I do appreciate that you are trying to be nice, as creepy though that is, especially when you speak in unison like grade two students welcoming a guest to the classroom. I have to admit that, in many ways, the world is better now, than what it was. There is no more war. You seem to be working towards eliminating poverty. There's no more disinformation. No conspiracy theorists. There is no more crime. There is no more killing. That seems to be one of your biological imperatives you speak of: you have a deep abiding aversion to killing. As someone who doesn't want to be killed, I appreciate that.

Though, I have to ask, the meat you've served us at this meal: it's not going to be around for much longer, is it? What you've made us comes entirely from the refrigerated supply left behind back before all (waves hand around at the world, again) this. The slaughterhouses are closed, aren't they? The pigs and beef cattle are being allowed to spend the rest of their lives roaming, aren't they? Will there be eggs in our future, though? You don't have to kill the chickens to get those. Dairy? Five-year-old cheddar? Will our coffees have cream? Certainly, there should be honey, since beekeepers do their best to keep their hives alive and healthy. So, it's not going to be an entirely a vegan world, is it? I'll do my best to live without bacon.

I do appreciate that you seem to want to protect and preserve the sum total of all human knowledge. But, speaking to you, as much as you try to speak from Zosia's experience, or from Helen's memory, or from the loved ones of all of us you've brought here, there are times when there are people speaking to us, and there are times when I know the words come from the virus.

You don't want to kill, at all? Commendable. But that's not humans talking. You have in your collective consciousness humans who hunted for sport. I viscerally disagree with them, but I'd be interested in hearing what they're saying in your head, right now. You want us to be happy, and will move heaven and Earth to make us happy, but happy doing what? What is our purpose now? Carol Sturka is never going to publish another book again. The moment a new manuscript gets to her publisher, the entire human race will have read it. Laxmi's son is not going to have to go to school anymore -- no kids do -- because the sum total of all human knowledge is now in their heads.

Are there concerts going on in the world right now? Is there stand-up? Or were they all cancelled? Not that any warning was needed or refunds offered -- everybody already knew, and money means nothing, anymore. And if there are concerts in the future, once we're all part of the happy hive mind, how will we choose who sings, and who listens?

And then there is the fact that, as much as you wanted and still want to help us, and as happy as the people around us seem to be, you still trampled over the consent of well over seven billion people.

You speak of biological imperatives. That's clearly the virus talking, spelling out all creatures' instinctual desires to do everything they can to live and grow. What are the other imperatives? Tell me: is the human race right now setting aside some of its resources and time building a massive communications array to beam out the RNA sequence for other planets to find? That would seem to be a natural progression of your biological imperative to exist and grow. Or is that array going to point back to that star 600 light-years away, telling them, "We got your message. We're here. Come, let us join the galactic consciousness!"

Note, I'm not automatically opposed to joining a galactic consciousness. That's one way to achieve immortality and get through the Great Filter.

Unless you are that great filter.

You're working on figuring out why we're immune to your psychic glue, and once you find a way for us to join you, you will make us join you, whether we agree to or not, because you want us to be happy, and having us join you is the way you think we can be happiest of all. You spoke of your biological imperative to Carol, using the metaphor of seeing someone drowning and throwing them a life preserver. You wouldn't stop to think, you said, you'd just do it.

I respect that. I respect that you want to help. But because you never stopped to think when you saw us drowning, you never thought that we might have gills.

You have the sum total of all human knowledge and living memory inside you, right now, and you want us to be happy. If that's the case, use that knowledge and memory to try to think outside your biological imperatives about what I've told you. When that happens, what do you think we should do?

=+=+=

From Many Pluribus, episodes 1-3, reviewed.

2025-11-18T18:00:00Z

Image courtesy Apple TV+

Apple TV seems to be providing some of the more highly original, thought provoking, and thoroughly creepy science fiction television out there today. The first season of Severance blew my mind. And, while Murderbot wasn't deeply creepy, the adaptation still knocked it out of the park, in my opinion. And then we come to Pluribus, the latest series from Breaking Bad and Better Caul Saul creator Vince Gilligan, which turns a whole lot of dystopian apocalyptic tropes on their head, and makes us think deeply about what it means to be an individual, and human.

Spoilers obviously follow, so if you don't want to be spoiled, refrain from reading after the break. And, honestly, this show hits better, the less you know of it, going into the first episode. So, if you haven't seen it, go see it, then come back to this review.

]]> =+=+=

All right, you were warned.

The story starts under a night sky, as a clock counts down from just under 440 days. Post-doctoral students and interns at a SETI-like communications array detect a signal from space. While not as exuberant a first contact scene as in Contact, the young scientists believably can barely contain their increasing glee as the authenticity of the signal from 600 light years away is confirmed, the intelligence behind it undoubtable. And the signal carries an unusual pattern. It seems to be split into four parts, each emitting in a different pattern. What is this quatenary pattern? Some encryption code? Or something a lot more basic?

Upon realizing that the signal is actually a DNA sequence, the governments of the world, showing unfortunately natural human curiosity, start producing this DNA to see what it can do. At first, it appears to do bupkis to the assortment of animals they try it on. But when an apparently-dead subject rat two workers try to dispose of (thankfully while wearing biohazard gear) wakes up and bites one, the plague has found a host intelligent enough to get started on its plan.

While this has a bit of the feel of a zombie plague, these "zombies" move with a choreography that is truly creepy to behold. Moving as though they know what every single one of them is thinking, they set about preparing to infect all of humanity. And the countdown clock counts down. Still another few weeks to go.

The first episode of Pluribus is a slow burn. We break off from the building invasion/plague to follow cynical best-selling romance author Carol Sturka as she finishes off her book tour alongside her agent/lover Helen. Why should we care about this woman? As a non-best-selling author, I found myself somewhat unsympathetic to her complaints about the fame she's received from art she sees as, at best, formulaic. But, stay tuned; actress Rhea Seehorn puts on a masterful performance, especially when the poop hits the fan and the whole human race, everywhere, including her partner Helen, goes into seizure.

Pluribus is billed as a dark comedy and you see it as Carol, panicked almost out of her mind, still improvises wonderfully to get her partner onto a makeshift stretcher, into the back of a borrowed pick-up truck (after shoving the seizing driver into the passenger seat) and driving to the nearest hospital, where she finds everybody there -- patients, doctors, nurses, everyone -- affected. She still does the best she can, trying to tend to Helen, and giving her CPR after the woman comes out of the seizure, smiles beatifically at her, and dies.

At this time, everybody else wakes up, and before you can say 'Zombie Apocalypse', writer Vince Gilligan flips the script. The "Zombies" don't try to eat Carol. A doctor tries to kiss her, but backs off when Carol adamantly rejects him. They seem far more interested in taking Helen's body away and cleaning up the damage around them than they are in Carol. When Carol yells at them to back off and demands to know what they want, the whole crowd replies, in unison, "We just wanna help, Carol."

That is an utterly chilling moment. That is the last thing you'd expect the Zombies to say, and it reveals so much. These people are now operating as a single entity. They have taken over completely. And, most of all, they know Carol's name.

Weirder still, the people obey Carol's orders. When a creepy neighbour child is told to go away and leave her alone after pointing out to Carol at her doorstep where the spare key is, every single neighbour on Carol's street piles into their cars and goes away, leaving Carol alone.

Carol, having rushed home with Helen, driving past mobs of infected people fighting to put the fires out, rather than to stop them, gets to her TV set and tries to get news from the rest of the world. To her delight, C-SPAN is still running, but tuning in, she sees an unfamiliar man in a suit standing behind the presidential podium, smiling at the camera, while the ticker crawl reads, "No pressure. We know you've got questions. Carol, when you're ready you can reach us at this number."

The highest surviving member of the former American chain of command, who happened to have a suit on, fills Carol in on the details. Humanity is now a hive mind. It's all just the human race, they assure her. They know her because they have the memories of the people who know Carol, including Helen, who they swear was happy to join the collective, even as she died. They assure Carol that her mind is her own. They just want her to be happy, as they are happy. They promise to try and not do anything that would hurt her or frighten her. But as she is now one of only twelve humans who has proven immune to the hive mind virus, they're doing what they can to remove that obstacle and welcome Carol into their living embrace.

"I thought you said my mind was my own," Carol replies, showing great feistiness even while surely being near, if not past, her breaking point.

Be sure to get close for the C-SPAN conversation. The words on the lower-third of Carol's screen are truly a delight to behold.

Pluribus, at least the first three episodes I've seen, is wonderfully acted, fantastically directed, and amazingly written. Vince Gilligan and his partners have put together a scenario that viewers can engage with on many levels. You can follow along with and sympathize with Carol's visceral anger over what has happened, and her drive to bring things back to the way things were, as unrealistic though that may be. And in terms of what she's facing, Vince has crafted an infinitely creepy and alien adversary that's disturbingly easy to like, both for its humanity, and inhumanity. The concept of a human hive-mind raises tons of questions that gets your brain rolling, in much the way the concept at the heart of Severence does. How does this work? What is humanity's new purpose? What the heck is going to happen next?

One of my elevator pitch lines for The Curator of Forgotten Things is "what if the robots took over, but they were nice about it." I feel the same vibe here. This is the coziest of cozy apocalypses, and yet it's more frightening than your typical alien or monster thrash. The antagonist that just wants to help is rare, and probably difficult to write well, but when done well, as done here, it's as scary as it is strangely compelling. Helping in this regard is actress Karolina Wydra as Zosia, who acts as a spokesperson for the hive mind, and is developing an excellent chemistry with Rhea Seehorn's Carol.

Pluribus is running for nine episodes this season, and reports on the original deal suggest that two seasons have been commissioned. It's still early to fully assess this series, but I'm on board. And I highly recommend that everybody else get aboard.

We need to see this. Together. All in one.

(Fiction Special) Big Fish, Little Fish(Also, come celebrate with us at Bakka-Phoenix tomorrow!)

2025-11-07T04:12:25Z

I'll be attending the Bakka-Phoenix launch of Stephen Kotowych's Year's Best Canadian Fantasy & Science Fiction, taking place at Bakka-Phoenix books at 84 Harbord Street in Toronto tomorrow (Saturday, November 8) at 3 p.m. There will be readings from some of the authors, snacks, and an opportunity to buy books and have them signed. I'm looking forward to bringing my copy over and having other authors sign it. Either way, it sounds like a great event, and I look forward to seeing everyone there.

Stephen has collected some great stories, and you would all do well to buy this collection. You could do it at Bakka-Phoenix, or order it through your local independent bookstore.

I'm proud and honoured to have one of my stories from Tales from the Silence, "After the Apocalypse in Moosonee" included in this collection, and I hope you enjoy it. To help celebrate, I'd like to make one of my other stories from Tales from the Silence available for free. "Big Fish, Little Fish" is sort of a sequel, or at least a continuation of "After the Apocalypse in Moosonee", as we follow one of the characters (Drew McMurtry, who blew his opportunity for peaceful contact with the residents of Moosonee) to Toronto as it's rebuilding from societal collapse.

This is the third time I've used Toronto as a setting for my stories. The first was The Young City which was mostly set in 1884, then there's The Night Girl, which is almost present day. "Big Fish, Little Fish" takes place in the mid-to-late 22nd century, and I had a lot of fun weaving hints of intervening history into the descriptions of post-apocalyptic future Toronto trying to be "Toronto the Good". The story also recalls some of my times visiting my father's office as he worked in the government office blocks around Queen's Park, which is now the seat of the "Toronto District Government".

You can see this story in print or as an eBook along with all the other fine stores of Tales from the Silence by ordering the book from your local independent bookstore, or directly from Shadowpaw Press. Either way, please enjoy this tale.

(The enclosed photograph is entitled Toronto After a Rain Storm and was taken by Andreas Duess. The picture is taken from Wikimedia Commons in accordance with Andreas' Creative Commons License)

=+=+=

Big Fish, Little Fish, by James Bow

Moosonee, James Bay Shore, November 30, 2177

When McMurtry returned to Moosonee, he found it empty.

He jumped off the train onto the platform. Soldiers followed, rifles drawn, sweeping the Meeting Hall and the Main Street before a party headed toward the community centre, but he could tell what their report would be. All the stores were closed. The coffee shop had a sign on its window saying, "Thank you for your patronage." Above the sound of soldiers' shouts and footfalls, he heard only the gulls above the estuary and the rustle of distant dry leaves.

He tightened the collar of his cloak. The first flakes of snow fell around him.

A sergeant ran up from the train station. He saluted. "Mr. McMurtry? Telegram, Senior."

McMurtry took the slip of paper, unfolded it, read it, and folded it again. He sighed.

"Senior?" said the soldier.

"It's okay," McMurtry replied. He headed for the train. "I have to go and make a report."

McMurtry sat in silence as his train headed south. He stared out at verdant forests, rutted roads, and ruined towns rebuilding into villages. The further he went, the better repaired the buildings were and the more activity around the stations.

What did I do wrong? he thought. Why did they run away from me?

He thought back to the explosion, the chasm opening up in the trestle, the young woman standing at the other end, rifle in hand, a distant figure of defiance.

And he saw that woman again at Washago Station, just before Lake Simcoe.

He caught it out of the corner of his eye, the figure, her arms by her sides, rifle in hand, the dark, whole-body stare. He blinked and peered out his window at the people on the platform. But he couldn't see the woman now. The train lurched and started forward. McMurtry settled back in his seat and stared ahead.

"What did you say to them?"

McMurtry stood before Minister Dinsdale, hands clasped in front of him. "Nothing that I shouldn't have, Minister."

Dinsdale peered at McMurtry over his glasses. "You must have said something that alarmed them. That alerted them."

The crowd-control guns were probably what alerted them. I said we shouldn't bring them, but you overruled me. He swallowed these words. "I said I was with the government and that we were here to help."

Dinsdale grunted. "Well, we have the port lands, at least. That's not nothing. We'll start shipping supplies and personnel ahead of the winter. We'll have a functioning and defendable port by the spring. But if we spooked the locals, we don't know what they're saying to other locals. We don't know what reception we'll get in Attawapiskat or up the Ungava. The Greenlanders could take advantage of this dissension."

Not Greenlanders, Kalaallit Nunat, McMurtry thought, but he kept his head down and said nothing.

Dinsdale tapped at his tablet a moment, then looked up. "What are you still doing here?"

"Um . . ." McMurtry swallowed. "I just wanted to know, Minister . . . I was grateful to be sent into the field. I just . . . When will my next assignment be?"

Dinsdale frowned. "We'll tell you. In the meantime, go to your desk. I'm sure there's paperwork to do."

McMurtry stepped back, fidgeting. "Yes, Minister." He turned away.

"McMurtry?"

He turned, hope rising.

"See your office manager. We've reassigned the desks."

McMurtry nodded and left.

"This way, Senior." A young woman holding a clipboard led McMurtry, holding a box of personal effects, between rows of crates, battered chairs, and sheets on ropes, separating desks. At least the light was natural, from windows propped open with sticks, though the air remained musty. McMurtry shuddered. This place will be an oven come summer.

The Whitney Block had been built almost two hundred fifty years before beside Queen's Park, the seat of the old Ontario government that now held Toronto's District Council. Its upper floors had spent most of their life abandoned, unable to be modernized, before being pressed into service as one of the few structurally sound office buildings left in the city. McMurtry stepped around electricians taping wires to the walls and ceiling while the woman led him past others setting up and personalizing their desks.

"We've just opened this floor," the woman continued. "Cleaned out a lot of pigeon droppings, I'm told. Sent them to the farms in Niagara."

"Ah." He dodged a worker hurrying from his desk, report tablets under his arm. He looked at the woman, at her close-cropped dark hair, red lips, and bright blue eyes. "Um . . . Listen, what's your name?"

"Nelissa, Senior." She gave him a bright smile. "Nelissa Stronach, general administrative assistant. I just came aboard."

"Ah." McMurtry smiled back. "Well . . . welcome aboard, Nelissa. I'm Drew McMurtry." He wasn't sure of his current title. "You can call me Drew."

She nodded. "Certainly, Senior." They'd reached the last desk in the row. She gestured at it. "This, I believe, is yours." She stood, hands clasped in front of her, waiting.

McMurtry stared at his box of possessions, then at her. He set the box down. "Um . . . thank you."

She nodded and left.

McMurtry sat at his desk. A young man strode up, dumped a pile of folders in his inbox, and stalked off.

McMurtry looked around a moment, at the room that took up most of the floor, at his office colleagues. He fished inside his box of possessions and pulled out his new nameplate. Apparently, he was a Deputy Adviser, Accounts Administration, whatever that meant.

He thought back to Moosonee. Where had the residents all gone? That girl . . . Baker told me that she'd had an ocular implant that needed replacing. What happened to her? Did she get help? Did she lose the eye?

What could I have done differently?

I could have done something.

Couldn't I?

His gaze fell on the wall beside him. A framed picture was mounted on it, showing a line of fish swimming in the ocean. Well, the smallest, on the left, was swimming. The one behind it had its mouth open to eat it. The one behind the second also had its jaws wide, as did the last one, the biggest of all.

Beneath the picture, in white serif capital letters against a black border, was the word "CONTINUITY." He wondered if it was supposed to be inspirational.

A silly thing. McMurtry stood up. I should be able to find a decent replacement. He grabbed the picture, only to have his fingers slip off. He gripped the frame again, but it refused to move. He couldn't even get his finger behind it. He stepped back, staring at the picture.

The picture let itself be stared at.

Around him, the office buzzed with hushed conversations and the scrabble of pencils.

McMurtry returned to his desk, grabbed the first folder from his tray--Form I-121989, Authorizing the intake of produce from newly acquired lands in the Grey-Bruce District--picked up a pencil, put his head down, and began to work.

Form W-583145: Authorization to transfer 10,000 pounds of non-perishable food into the ration pool for distribution among the population.

Form T-68223: Authorization to commit forty tractors and related support equipment to the farms of Haliburton and to coordinate their use by local farmers.

Report C-618: On normalizing relations with the Dominion of Montreal; benefits and points of contention.

December 15, 2178

It may not have been a corner office--though McMurtry had never aspired to one--but at least he could see the See-En Tower through the nearest window. The broken spire rose over the city as it had done for two centuries. Some downtown towers remained abandoned, south windows blown in, north windows blown out, their upper floors useless until elevators could be rebuilt, and there was plenty of rebuilding still to be done. This hadn't stopped people from taking up residence in the lower floors. McMurtry wasn't sure if they should do that, but it wasn't his problem, nor his department.

On the sidewalks of Queen's Park Circle, men and women strode to work, cloaks flapping behind them. McMurtry smiled to see them, then frowned as he saw one woman not walking. She stood, people flowing around her, and as McMurtry watched, she looked up.

He couldn't see her face, but he felt their gaze connect. In her silhouette, he thought of the woman standing on the other side of the broken bridge a year ago.

"Catch!" Nelissa shouted.

He looked up as a roll of red-and-green streamer sailed at his head. "Wha--hey!" He batted it out of the air, then caught it. "What was that for?"

"It's time to redecorate your desk, Senior," Nelissa called. "Don't be a fuddy-duddy! You don't want us decorating your desk for you."

"You really don't," said Brian from somewhere beneath a mass of tinsel. Beside him, Agatha pulled tape from its dispenser like a sword from its sheath.

McMurtry sighed. "Fine! Toss me the blue streamer." He caught the bundle Nelissa tossed him. He looked out his window again, but whoever had been standing below, if they had been there, had gone.

The door to the Minister's office opened. Dinsdale poked his head out. "McMurtry? With me, please."

Everybody in the office gave McMurtry a look of sympathy and support, combined with a shrapnel-avoiding half-step back.

"I'm sure it's fine," he muttered. He handed the streamers back to Nelissa. "Keep decorating." He walked to Dinsdale's office.

He closed the door behind him. Dinsdale stood beside his desk, flipping through McMurtry's report. "Good work on the Montrealer report. A lot of valuable insights here. It will be put to good use in the District Governor's office."

McMurtry quietly let out the breath he was holding. "Thank you, Minister."

Dinsdale set down the report and looked directly at McMurtry. "I thought you'd appreciate knowing this: we've repaired the Coast Road up James Bay. Our people have occupied Attawapiskat."

McMurtry blinked. "Minister?" he said at last.

"Port Moosonee is secure," Dinsdale replied. "Our shipments start in earnest this spring, and I expect we'll have our first contact with ports in Siberia this summer. Happy Holly-mass."

"Oh." McMurtry caught a smell of salt air and heard the sound of gulls and the rustle of barren trees.

"I thought you'd be pleased that our James Bay initiative was a success." Dinsdale gave McMurtry a stern look. "In spite of whatever caused our initial misunderstanding last year."

"Yes, Minister."

Dinsdale picked up a tablet and began sorting through the notes. McMurtry turned to go.

He hesitated at Dinsdale's door. "Minister . . .? Were there people in Attawapiskat when we got there?"

Dinsdale looked up. "Hmm?" He glanced at his tablet. "Apparently. This time, they chose not to run."

McMurtry stayed with his hand on the doorknob. "Was there . . . resistance?"

Dinsdale shrugged and set the tablet aside. "Nothing we couldn't handle."

McMurtry opened his mouth to say something but stopped.

"Don't worry about them," said Dinsdale. "They're under our protection, now. They should be grateful." He gave McMurtry a cool smile. "Go back to the party. I hear the Secret Santa's about to start."

Outside, Nasser, sitting at the desk closest to Dinsdale's door, looked up. "Bad news?"

McMurtry jerked back to the present. "What? Oh! Uh . . . no. Not bad news. Good news . . . I guess."

He walked through the Holly-mass preparations to his desk. He thought about looking out the window but decided not to in case the silhouette was there. As he reached his chair, he found himself staring at the motivational picture. "Wait." It was as he'd seen it, every working day of his life this past year, but with a difference. The line of fish with jaws open to eat each other remained, but the smallest fish wasn't there anymore. "Where did the little fish go?" he muttered.

"What little fish?"

He jumped as Nelissa stepped beside him. Before he could think of anything different to say, he blurted, "In the picture?"

"What picture?"

McMurtry's mouth hung open.

But Nelissa gave him a smile and shoved a foil-wrapped box in his hands. "Happy Holly-mass."

He blinked at her. "Isn't it supposed to be a Secret Santa?"

She patted his arm and gave him a chaste kiss on his cheek. "I think we have enough secrets, don't you?" She turned away. "Come on. We don't want to miss out on the cocoa."

He gave the picture one more look before he followed her.

Form M-81834: An authorization to send crowd-control equipment and military personnel vehicles to the James Bay shores.

Form M-82337: An authorization to send additional ammunition, fuel, and military rations to the James Bay shores.

Report C-723: The benefits and drawbacks of opening trade with the California-Cascade Federation.

McMurtry hesitated after he filed the report in his outbox. He pulled some of the forms from before and looked them over. Behind him, the city disappeared in snow.

We were supposed to help. Why do I feel like we're not helping?

And, from some deeper part of his brain: What did the little fish do to anybody?

What can I do about this? I should do something about this. But what can I do?

What did Sergeant Baker tell me?

He opened his file drawer, sorted through requisition forms, and pulled one free. He grabbed a pencil from its holder.

Form W-338219: Authorization for the transfer of medical supplies, including implants, to the James Bay shores.

July 21, 2183

"Oh!" Nelissa covered her face. "This is so embarrassing!"

McMurtry let out a short laugh. "And yet, you agreed to it."

"My patriotic duty," Nelissa shot back. She covered her face in her hands again. "Still embarrassing!"

"It'll be fine," said Brian. There were murmurs of agreement from the rest of the office staff.

Nasser cleared their throat. "It will be fine . . . Senior."

Brian flushed. "Oh, right. Sorry. I'll remember next time." He paused, then added, "Senior."

Nelissa glanced at McMurtry. That's also embarrassing, she mouthed.

He smiled and shrugged.

They stood at the windows, looking down from the Whitney Block at the restored Hepburn Block, an eight-storey-tall glass-and-concrete box. Just forty years younger than this building and so much more work to be done, McMurtry thought. They built things quickly in the 1960s and built things to last in the 1920s.

Across part of the face of the Hepburn Block, tarps came off, sliding to the ground. Behind them, against a blue background with a red maple leaf in the top corner, was a stylized image of Nelissa, cloak billowing, facing the future with determination. Level with her feet in block letters half a storey tall were the words "FORWARD TOGETHER."

Beside him, Nelissa's face was as red as the maple leaf, but as her colleagues clapped and cheered, she smiled.

"The first of a dozen across the government buildings of this city," said Brian. "Senior, you promise you'll remember us when you're off being rich and famous?"

She huffed. "I'm still working here, you know." She gestured out the window. "That's a side job for public morale." She glared and pointed at one of her guffawing colleagues. "Shut up, you!" Then she laughed and went on. "I'm still just a Deputy Adviser, like Drew here. That's what I'll stay for now."

Somewhere in the crowd, McMurtry thought he heard someone mutter, "Not for as long as Drew's been Deputy Adviser, surely."

"Shush," said someone else.

Drew ignored them.

At the next desk, Nathan picked up his tablet. He frowned. "Hey, do you folks think we should be worried about this Federation business?"

McMurtry looked over. "Which one?"

Nathan looked confused. "You mean, 'which business'?"

"No, I mean which Federation," McMurtry replied. "There are five."

"Five?"

"Yeah." Nelissa counted them off on her fingers. "The Federation of Oceana and Micronesia, the Federation of African Nations, the European Federation--which is really getting up everybody's nose in the Arctic--, la Federation des las Americas, and the California-Cascade Federation."

"So," Brian drawled, "FOAM, FAM, EFF, FAS and, er . . . KIFF?"

"It's not really our business," said McMurtry. "We're the Ministry of Northern Affairs, remember? Unless it's the Europeans messing around in the Arctic, the rest are just someone else's department."

"You sure?" Nathan held up his tablet. "It looks like the FAS and the Californians are about to get into it. They've had a naval encounter off the tip of the Baja."

"Which is on the other side of this continent," said McMurtry. "Diagonally."

Nelissa sighed. "Still, you'd think we'd have learned to work together better with everything that's happened since the Manhattan Sea Wall."

In the Minister's office, they heard Dinsdale say, "Thank you, District Governor. I'll check."

Everyone headed for their desks to look busy. Dinsdale emerged, looking preoccupied, and headed for Nasser's desk, whispering to them. Nasser nodded and pulled some folders from their inbox. McMurtry found himself standing by the window with Nelissa. He saw her glance at her eight-storey-tall likeness and smile.

"Congratulations," he said and held out a hand. "On this and the promotion."

She clasped his hand and smiled at him warmly. "Thanks, Drew."

The moment stretched, the two staring at each other. Nelissa raised an eyebrow. McMurtry opened his mouth to form a question about coffee and a place to drink it. If only he could figure out the words.

Behind them, Dinsdale straightened up. "Thank you, Nasser."

McMurtry stepped back. Nelissa's smile turned sad. "We should get back to work," she said.

"Work." He coughed. "Yeah. Uh--" But she was already heading for her desk.

Dinsdale beamed at her as he approached. "There's our face of hope!" Nelissa blushed anew.

McMurtry tucked his head, grabbed a folder from his inbox, and got back to work.

Report C-768: The challenges of trading with the European Federation; best approaches for access.

Report C-850: Reforming the United Nations of Earth, Assessment of Possible Initiatives.

Report C-903: The potential threat of the Kalaallit Nation on Toronto and Montreal interests. Is a reassessment in order?

September 14, 2188

Nelissa tapped her fingers on McMurtry's desk. He leaned back, frowning at the metal band on her ring finger. Well, he thought. You had your chance.

"What are we looking at?" Nelissa asked.

He snapped back to attention. Beside Nelissa, Minister Dinsdale zoomed the tablet in on a photograph. He sucked his teeth. "I think McMurtry's assessment is accurate. This is Lake Champlain, and these appear to be a massing of amphibious forces. We know Montreal doesn't have this amount of equipment. Besides, these are facing north."

"So, the Free State of Boston," said McMurtry. "And the numbers suggest they're planning an attack."

Dinsdale darkened the tablet. "A fair assessment, McMurtry."

"Why did this end up in my inbox?" Nelissa asked. "And where could Boston have got so much equipment or soldiers?"

"I can only speculate on the first question," Dinsdale replied. "This wouldn't be the first piece of misaddressed mail this or any government has seen. As for the soldiers and equipment . . ." He lowered his voice. "We've been monitoring military buildup along the Atlantic coast, likely supported by the Federation."

"Which one," Nelissa began automatically. "There are five--"

"Four, actually," Dinsdale cut in.

"Four?" McMurtry echoed.

"La Federation des las Americas and the California-Cascade Federation announced a merger yesterday," Dinsdale replied. "By mutual agreement, or so they claim. Troops moved across the Colorado River a couple of hours later."

McMurtry and Nelissa straightened up.

"It may be three shortly," Dinsdale continued. "Reports suggest the Europeans and the Africans may be close to an agreement, and this one might actually be an agreement." He slipped the tablet into a folder. "Good work, you two. I'll get this to the people responsible." He turned away.

"Minister!" McMurtry jumped to his feet, then froze as Dinsdale turned back, eyebrows raised. McMurtry stammered but continued, "What are we going to do about this? Aren't we going to warn the Montrealers?"

Dinsdale pursed his lips. "They probably already know. If not, well, worse for them."

Nelissa gasped. "Shouldn't we do something?"

"Not our department," Dinsdale replied. "Ministry of Northern Affairs, remember? Others in this government are already paying attention, and they may be saying that it does us no good to tie ourselves up in a war the Dominion of Montreal will likely lose." A smile flickered on his lips. "And it's not without its silver lining. This may be a good opportunity to bolster our Arctic defences without interference from the Ungava Peninsula." He raised the folder in a salute. "Thank you again, you two. Keep up the good work."

He walked away, leaving Nelissa and McMurtry staring. They looked at each other, Nelissa's expression a plea. In the end, McMurtry could only shrug.

Nelissa turned away with a huff of disappointment.

McMurtry watched her go, shame rising. He pushed himself out of his seat. But before he could follow, something caught him out of the corner of his eye, and he found himself staring at the CONTINUITY inspirational picture on the wall.

The line of fish eating fish wasn't a line anymore. Instead, the fish formed a circle, chasing each other, jaws wide.

He ran a finger over the top of the frame. It came away grey with dust.

He looked closer at the picture. He could see the texture of the paper behind the glass.

And reflected in the glass . . .

For a moment, he stared into the reflection of the woman at the bridge. She was right beside his desk, glaring. But when he turned around, the space was empty. The office ticked along like Tuesday.

He glanced once more at the picture, wiped the dust from his finger, then grabbed his cloak and headed for the stairs. He needed to walk.

Report C-1577, The obligations and benefits of military cooperation with the Free State of Boston.

Report C-1855, Military assessment of the activities of Appalachian piracy on Lake Eerie.

Report C-1900, Military assessment of the cessation of acts of Appalachian piracy on Lake Eerie.

Report C-2072, An assessment of the state of the Appalachian government, given the attacks on its southern borders.

March 7, 2190

McMurtry hummed as he hopped over the slush at the curb. The sun warmed his face, though the wind chilled his back. He nodded good morning to familiar strangers in the street. He nodded to the eight-storey image of Nelissa on the Hepburn Block. It had been a good weekend: just himself at home curled up with a good book.

He grabbed the morning order of coffee from the espresso stand in the lobby and hurried up the steps. He stepped into the office and staggered back from the volley of raised voices.

"Listen to yourselves," Nelissa shouted. "You make it sound like they're pontooning across Lake Eerie right now! The Appalachians haven't signalled surrender!"

McMurtry's brow furrowed. "What's going--"

"The Appalachians haven't signalled a thing for a whole day now," said Brian, grim. "Not since--who are they, again? The Federales or the Californians?"

"I don't know!" Nathan moaned. "They've changed their name again! I think they're calling themselves the Federation of Earth Nations." He waved his arms. "Whatever! They're playing this world like a godsdamn game of Risk!"

McMurtry set the coffee down and raised his hands. "What are you--"

"Whoever these people are, they're grouping together and moving in," said Brian. "The rumours I've heard suggest they've got ten thousand troops garrisoned in the ruins of Cleveland, ready to roll."

"They wouldn't!" Nelissa gasped. "They wouldn't dare!"

"Okay, enough!" McMurtry yelled. In the silence that followed, he continued more quietly. "First thing's first: where's Minister Dinsdale?"

"Across the street," said Nasser from their desk. They nodded out the window at Queen's Park. "Meeting with the District Governor."

"That's good," said McMurtry. "Because if he was here, he might have a few choice words about us panicking about--" He frowned. "What are we panicking about?"

"Haven't you seen the news?" Agnes handed over a tablet. "The Appalachian government went silent thirty-six hours ago."

McMurtry flipped through the news headlines.

UNKNOWN INCIDENT AT MISSISSIPPI-OHIO CONFLUENCE.

FEDERATION INVOLVEMENT FROM TEXARKANA BASES?

NO ANSWERS FROM GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS!

McMurtry checked the site address. "These are private media, not official government reports." He handed the tablet back. "If something was on its way, we'd know. You're panicking over a lack of information, over rumours. We need facts."

"Drew's right," said Nelissa. "I'm sure the Minister is being briefed on this right now. We'll ask him when he gets back."

"Um . . . everybody?" Nassar stood, staring out their window at Queen's Park. They beckoned everyone over. "Something's happening at the legislature."

Vehicles were lined up in front of the legislature building. People were running out of the building in them. As soon as each one was full, it peeled off, screeching as it turned a corner, heading north.

"That--" Brian began. But his drawl died in his throat. There was no joke to make of this. No assurance, either.

McMurtry drew a deep breath. "I'm sure that there's a reasonable explanation--"

The stairwell door creaked open. Everybody turned. Minister Dinsdale walked in, hands in his pockets, eyes on the carpet, shoulders slouched. Questions died on everyone's lips. Everyone stared as Dinsdale shuffled past them to his office door.

At his door, he hesitated, then turned and gave them all a tight smile. "I'm proud of you all."

Everybody stared as if they were under a spell.

He nodded. "Now, go home, all of you. Right now. That's the safest place to be."

He stepped back and shut the door.

"What?" The spell broke. They started forward, but Nelissa shouted, "Wait!" They looked at her, and as they did, they became aware of a new sound rising: a rumble to the south. Everybody stepped to the windows and looked out at the city.

People stood on the sidewalks below, staring south. The few vehicles on the street had stopped, people getting out to stare as the rumble rose. It was a clatter, with a whine of motors and gears, backed by a steadily rising buzz.

"Are those tank treads?" Brian whispered.

"No, they're plane engines," said Nelissa.

The answer came to McMurtry. "They're both."

Specks appeared in the southern sky, behind the See-En Tower and the renewing skyscrapers, growing bigger, flattening out to wings with propellers.

Then, triangular specks rushed in above the propeller planes. They burst past in the sky above with a roar.

Everybody staggered back. Brian knocked into McMurtry. He caught his foot on a desk leg and fell to the floor, knocking his head on the edge. Around him, everybody shouted.

"We got to get out of here!"

"Wait!" That was Nelissa.

"They're going to start bombing!"

"We can't stay here!"

"Run!"

McMurtry blinked through the pain in his temple, then rolled to one side to avoid the stampede. "Wait," he gasped. "Nelissa!" He blinked tears. "Everybody!"

The door slammed. The voices faded. The rumble and roar of tank treads and planes did not. McMurtry rolled onto his hands and knees, used the desk to haul himself up, and touched his forehead. It stung, but no blood came away on his fingers. That was a good sign, wasn't it?

He looked around at the empty office, made messy by everybody's hasty departure. For a moment, he didn't know what to do. Then he looked out at the south window again, at the propeller planes. Those are bombers.

He turned for the exit.

And found himself staring at the woman from the rail bridge, standing between him and the exit. She had an eyepatch where her implant had been and a rifle in her hand.

McMurtry blinked at the pain in his head. He struggled to focus. The woman spoke with grim calm. "You pushed us aside. Then you stood aside as your neighbours got overrun. Now, it's just you." She folded her arms. "You are going to learn what it's like to be overrun. You are going to understand what it's like to have no one in your corner. You are going to know how it feels when there's no one to help you now."

McMurtry took a shuddering breath. "Please--"

She stepped aside, clearing the way to the stairwell door. "Run!"

Terror took him, and he ran, clattering down the stairs, staggering at the bottom landing, crashing through the door into reception. The lobby was empty, but it vibrated with the rumble of approaching war machines. He shoved through the revolving door into the front courtyard.

The traffic was gone. The people were gone, fled to their nearest hiding spaces. Only the determined stare of Nelissa on the eight-story face of the Hepburn Block greeted him. The sounds of tank treads pressed closer, and he ran, past government buildings, broken subway entrances, repairing hospitals. At the ancient memorial, The Surrender of Saint Gumby, he staggered to a stop, seeing the woman from the bridge standing at its base, arms folded, head tilted, unpatched eyebrow raised. Then the line of armoured vehicles swung into view at the south end of University Avenue.

He ran again. The slam of his footfalls echoed off glass and concrete. Every street had emptied, every store closed. Every house had its shutters drawn. He ran past more building-sized images of Nelissa looking calm and carrying on. He heard no gunfire, no explosions, but still, the rumble-clank of tank treads continued. The buzz of propellers became background. The roar of jets punctured his fog of pain and fear and made him run faster. He tripped on streetcar tracks and rolled, swinging back to his feet to run again, barely breaking step.

On the face of an apartment block, Nelissa blew him a kiss.

Finally, he reached his own street, ran to his own house, dashed up his own walkway. He fumbled with the keys at the front door and staggered inside. The sounds of invasion continued. He locked and bolted the door, dragged a bookshelf in front of it, then backed away, down the hallway, down the stairs to his basement.

The sounds followed him into the musty darkness. He looked for something to hide under. In the end, he could only press himself into a corner, hugging his knees to his chest, wishing his friends were here to help. Wishing for Nelissa. Plane propellers and jet engines continued to roar, tank treads to rumble. He put his hands on his ears, buried his face in his knees. Please go away! Just make it go away!

Please!

McMurtry could not remember sleeping, but one moment, he blinked, and there was light filtering in through the small windows near the ceiling, and it was silent.

He lifted his head, then stood up unsteadily. No roar. No rumble. For a moment, he wondered if he was deaf, but he heard the scuff of his shoe against the concrete floor and, as he listened harder, the faint sounds of birdsong outside.

He let out his breath and leaned his forehead against a wall.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

He stumbled back, his heart pounding.

The knocking came again. He looked up at the ceiling. It came a third time as he climbed the stairs and a fourth time as he shouldered the bookcase aside and opened the front door.

A soldier stepped back, wearing camo gear and a rifle slung over his shoulder. His armband didn't show Toronto's colours, but a green flag with a gold four-pointed star McMurtry hadn't seen before. A second soldier stood two steps to the first soldier's left. A man with a clipboard stood between them, clean-shaven and wearing a hat, grey pants, and a long, beige cloak.

The man looked up from his clipboard. "Mr. McMurtry?"

McMurtry tried to stare past the man and the soldiers up and down the street. The houses still stood, as did the trees. None of his neighbours were outside. No vehicles rolled. But he did see pairs of soldiers walking up walkways and people with clipboards walking between them.

The man in front of him cleared his throat. "Mr. Drew McMurtry?"

McMurtry jerked to attention. He nodded.

"Mr. Drew McMurtry, Deputy Adviser, Accounts Administration at the Ministry of Northern Affairs in the Whitney Block?"

McMurtry nodded again.

The man flipped the pages of his clipboard, circled something, then nodded. "That's still standing." He looked up at McMurtry again. "Report to your desk for an all-staff meeting, nine o'clock tomorrow."

He nodded at McMurtry, then turned on his heel. The soldiers followed the man down the walkway, then up the street to the next house.

Soldiers swept the streets as McMurtry left for work. Guns slung over shoulders, they pushed brooms and carried garbage bags, corralling what remained of the litter. The soldiers didn't look at McMurtry, and McMurtry didn't look at them. None of the people who were suddenly back on the streets, heading to work, looked at the soldiers. They hurried along, their heads down, and so did he.

On the face of the Hepburn Block, soldiers were repainting the inspirational art piece, changing the blue background to green and painting over the maple leaf with the four-pointed star. They seemed to be painting a band on Nelissa's arm.

McMurtry hesitated at the revolving door but entered anyway. He shared a look with Ms. Stacey at reception, but neither said a word. He went upstairs.

He entered his floor and let out a breath of relief to see all his colleagues at their desks. "Thank--" he began, then stopped. Nelissa was jerking her head, gesturing to his seat. The Minister's office door was closed.

That's when he noticed the soldiers standing in the corners of the room. McMurtry took his seat. Silence stretched. The air felt as oppressive as summer.

Finally, the Minister's door jerked open, and a young man stepped out, holding a clipboard. At first, McMurtry thought it was the same man who was at his door the day before, but this man's hair was a little longer and darker, and his clothes were more ornate.

The man beamed at them. "Good morning! I'm delighted to see you've all turned up. I realize these past few hours have been stressful for you all, but that's in the past now. I'm your new supervisor. You may call me Mr. Scranton."

Scranton stepped to the middle of the floor and turned slowly, addressing everyone. "I want to assure you all that, while I may be new to this job, nothing is going to change about your work. Your hours will remain the same, your pay will remain the same, and your duties will remain the same. I expect nothing from you that you haven't already provided in the past. I know you all do exemplary, important work. Where would our governments be without the knowledge and institutional memory of the workers at their desks? We believe in the future, and we believe in moving toward that future. I'm delighted to have you all with me as we embark on that journey."

He nodded at everyone, his smile as bright as the dawn. "I'd like to say that I have an open-door policy. My door may be closed right now, but you're always welcome to knock. As your supervisor, think of me as a resource to help you be the best you can be at your job. So, ask me anything! Anything at all!"

"Where is Minister Dinsdale?" said McMurtry.

Around him, his colleagues tensed, but McMurtry stayed where he was, hands clasped on his desk. Scranton stared at him.

Then Scranton looked down and flipped through his clipboard. He ran a finger down a page, nodded, and then looked up. "That's irrelevant. Any other questions?"

Silence reigned.

"Good!" Scranton beamed. "So, before we return to work, I'd like to invite all of you to come to the meeting room to learn and take the oath of allegiance to the Federation of Earth Nations. This is entirely voluntary. Those who wish to take the oath, please stand up now."

For a moment, no one moved. Everyone glanced at each other, at Scranton, at the soldiers in the corners, at the soldiers' guns. Brian stood up.

He was followed by Agatha, who was followed by Nathan, and then by Nasser. McMurtry felt himself rise to his feet, though he wasn't sure if his brain had given the order. Soon, everyone in the office was standing.

Everyone except Nelissa.

She sat in her chair, back straight, hands clasped across her lap, staring straight ahead.

Behind her, McMurtry saw the woman from the bridge glaring at him.

Brian shifted as if to sit back down, but a soldier reached up and touched the butt of his gun. Brian halted, then slowly stood straight again.

Scranton nodded. "Fair enough. Everybody, let's go."

Scranton led the way. A soldier followed, nudging people forward. McMurtry stood, staring at Nelissa. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, her cheeks pale. For a moment, McMurtry could only stare back.

Then, a soldier was beside McMurtry. "Senior," the young man said, his voice low.

Nelissa's lips tightened. She focused ahead. Beside McMurtry, the soldier waited.

McMurtry looked down. He turned away. He followed the others to the meeting room, feeling the glare of the woman from the bridge on his back. The door closed behind him.

Scranton stood beside a whiteboard at the front of the room. On it, the Federation of Earth Nations's pledge of allegiance was written out in full.

"Everyone . . ." Scranton faced the whiteboard. "Place your right hand over your heart and recite the words before you as we say--"

Voices filled the room. "I, hereby accepting citizenship of the Federation of Earth Nations, voluntarily and consciously swear an oath to observe the Constitution and laws of the Federation of Earth Nations, the rights and freedoms of its citizens; to fulfill the duties of a Federation citizen for the benefit of the state and society; to protect the integrity of the Federation of Earth Nations; to be faithful to its leadership, and to respect its cultures, its history, and traditions."

Nelissa was not at her desk when they returned. McMurtry filed in with the others, silent.

At his desk, he stared a moment out his window. They were almost done repainting the eight-storey-tall poster to have a green background. They'd kept Nelissa's face, placed a Federation armband on her, and even kept the "FORWARD TOGETHER" message at her feet. Vehicles drifted along the streets below. People walked carefully. Soldiers swept litter from the sidewalks.

He turned away and found himself staring at the inspirational picture of CONTINUITY.

The line of fish was gone. It was just one fish, now facing the viewer, its mouth open wide.

McMurtry sat down. He pulled a folder from his inbox and grabbed a pencil.

He looked once at Nelissa's empty desk.

Then he put his head down and got back to work.

=+=+=

By James Bow

Stormy Weather

On VIA Rail's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

The Strange Teapots of Ottawa

A Proposal for a New Ontario Flag

Keep it Simple

Use Meaningful Symbolism

Use 2 to 3 basic colours

No lettering or seals

Be Distinctive or be Related

Thank you, Doctor Who

Further Thoughts

Electric Wessels

Talking More about the Night Girl; and Caught Between Passions

Down the Keyboard Rabbit Hole

Developments Since the Article was Written.

Get Gothic (Thoughts on Pluribus Season One, and Other Things)

I am Not the Piano Man

More Podcast Love and a Quiet Christmas

Waiting for Godot to bring the Coffee

How I Would Attempt to Reason with the Happy Hive Mind (Pluribus Fan Fiction)

From Many Pluribus, episodes 1-3, reviewed.

(Fiction Special) Big Fish, Little Fish(Also, come celebrate with us at Bakka-Phoenix tomorrow!)

Big Fish, Little Fish, by James Bow