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Why I Love (and Hate!) the Wheel of Time

Submitted by Christopher Wright on

If you're not familiar with the Wheel of Time, the series created by Robert Jordan and finished by Brandon Sanderson, this article won't mean a whole lot to you. I'm writing this primarily for other people who have read the series, primarily because I'm curious as to whether they can see the same things I see, or if it's just me. If you've never read it… well, there are probably spoilers.

I never managed to finish the Wheel of Time. I'm frustrated by this, especially since the story has been finished, and I'm invested enough in the story, even now, to want to know how everything works out. But even wanting to know hasn't been enough to sustain me. I'm one of those people who feel like the WoT dropped off in quality, pretty severely, somewhere around the middle, and I always wind up giving up. I don't think I've ever made it to book ten. I'm pretty sure I've never finished reading book nine.

Project Recall: Part Four

Submitted by Christopher Wright on

Robert's office has been transformed into a miniature auditorium.

Rows of chairs fill the first two-thirds of the room—six chairs on each side with an aisle down the middle—and Jenny recognizes almost none of the people sitting in them. She vaguely remembers the faces of one or two of the people who were present at their arrival, and she catches a glimpse of Alihmah Mahmoud, the president of Thorpe Industries, sitting in the very last row. Everyone else is wearing a Thorpe Institute badge. The first row is reserved for her and her companions: Twelve chairs, each with a nametag. Curveball. Zero. Regiment. Red Shift. Street Ronin. Vigilante. Scrapper Jack. Dr. Artemis LaFleur. David Bernard. Alan Grant. Lijuan Hu. Peter Travers. At present, the only chairs that aren't filled are Vigilante's, Jack's, LaFleur's, and Bernard's. Jenny remembers something about David being in the infirmary for some reason.

Project Recall: Part Three

Submitted by Christopher Wright on
Somewhere Else

David Bernard sits cross-legged on the cracked stone floor in the not-dream of the old dojo.

The old dojo still sits in the endless grassy plain. The sky is still a canopy of clear, deep, blue. The alien power that dwells within him still murmurs occasionally, slithering through his mind, but it hasn’t actually done anything since it tried to break him earlier. He doesn’t remember how long he’s been there, methodically sifting through Artigenian’s memories, suppressing his revulsion as he examines each in turn, a menagerie of remembered horrors. The lore that Artigenian remembered teaching a younger Artemis LaFleur was nightmarish in itself, but the lore that Artigenian had decided not to teach him—the lore he’d decided his pupil wasn’t ready to accept—that was far, far worse.

He closes his eyes, forcing himself to learn, forcing back the bile that rises in the back of his throat as the knowledge stains him. He sees exactly how Artigenian had been trying to reshape LaFleur’s perceptions, nudge him down a path of nihilism and self-destruction—where he had succeeded, where he had failed, and how, when the opportunity had presented itself, he had set the would-be monarch on a path that would end in the world’s annihilation…

…and how he had, ultimately, failed… which was fortunate for everyone in the world, except the doomed citizens of Esperanza.

Project Recall: Part One

Submitted by Christopher Wright on
Thorpe Island, Secure Recovery Room

Vigilante’s eyes open.

He lies in the middle of a large, empty cube, naked and curled tightly into a ball. The floor, walls, and ceiling all gleam dull white under the harsh lights recessed in the high ceiling. He’s in his cell. Or his recovery room. At a certain point in the process it’s the same thing.

He isn’t alone. Immediately he sits upright, turning to face the three men watching him. He knows two of them very well, and he has some history with the third. Street Ronin carries a sports bag looped over one shoulder, and Red Shift’s left arm is in a sling. They’re both out of uniform, which is unusual, but he’s pretty sure the third man—a slim, tall man, reddish-brown hair with graying temples, leaning heavily on a cane—is the reason why.

“Gladiator?”

The man hesitates. “Not for a long time.”

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