Recent experiments of cooperative storytelling at geekchick got me thinking about my own works of fiction. I’ve written a number of articles for linux.com posing as a noir penguin. I have a short story that won a prize at a small sci-fi convention. My day job does require to write some marketing materials. So I do have experience writing short fiction.
But I feel this strange need to write a book.
I have an idea for a novel/film based loosely on a friend’s “adult” store … but that’s another story. One book I started and never quite finished is a rather offbeat sci-fi book. It incorporates all sorts of things I like … late-night radio programs, computers, aliens … but I’ve been stuck on Chapter Two for over a year now. Just for giggles, I’m posting the introduction chapter for your review.
Comments are appreciated … theft is punished swiftly.
THE DRAFT OF THE INTRO TO THE BOOK THAT DOESN’T YET EXIST
by Brian Richardson
“I can�t believe you lost it!”
The harsh whisper cut through the noise of the bar. His companion glared back at him over the top of a tall glass of blue fluid.
“Look,” he replied, “I had to hide it! Do you have any idea what would have happened if those animals got their paws on it? We would have been in deep �”
“Yes, I know.” The reply came in a dull, dry tone. ” I know we had to hide it, but why there? If those dumb savages get their hands on it, we�ll be in even more trouble.”
“They don�t know what it is.”
“That�s the danger!” Heron said. His eyes shone with a deep intensity. “They are primitives who won�t know what they have. The technology is too advanced for them to understand. But they are curious, and somewhat inventive. If they try to find out what it is and how it works, they could activate it by accident.”
Heron stared at Feron as he slowly drew more of the blue beverage into his mouth through the straw.
“What are they going to do?” Feron said, still looking down into his glass.
Heron�s reply came slowly in somber voice. “If we don�t get it back, they will all die. We are their caretakers, and this is the key to their survival.”
“Heron, we searched for ages on that stupid planet and found nothing. It wasn�t where we left it, and I couldn�t find the energy signature in the area. I just don�t know where it could be!”
Feron�s frantic train of thought was interrupted by the presence of a hand on his shoulder. Well, he thought it was a hand. The green, fuzzy � appendage belonged to one of the waiters. He (or she � it was so hard to tell with these things) began to speak to Feron, but the words came as harsh clicks and bursts of forced air. The noise this creature produced was incomprehensible.
Heron tapped Feron on the shoulder. “Hey idiot, put on your translator!”
“Dammit, I forgot.” Feron reached into his shirt pocket, producing a small silver cylinder which he placed in the ear on his forehead. He pushed a small red button on the end of the cylinder, which activated the unit. Feron�s translator cut in just after the waiter�s rather colorful insult (something of a visual reference involving Feron, two Fah�Jarns and a container of hull sealant), but did manage to catch the part about shutting up. “Keep it down boys, the show is about to begin.”
Heron and Feron traded confused looks as the waiter headed into the crowd. Heron turned to the bartender and asked, “Hey, what�s this show? This better not be one of those Jehonic strip shows.”
“Nope,” the bartender chuckled, “we don�t do that anymore. The customers couldn�t keep their hands off the performers. You would think that whole acidic skin thing would be common knowledge by now. A few folks lost some fingers, and we had to shut it down.”
Feron sighed in relief. “Good, I�m allergic to painful disfigurement. So what show are you doing now, some kind of vid?”
“Not even close.” The bartender smiled (well, Feron thought it was a smile � but it�s so hard to tell with these things). “This is so much better than that crap. We beam this in by hyperspace from a small planet a few light years away. It�s this signal some data runners found by accident a few cycles back.”
The bartender picked up the empty glasses from the bar and tossed them into the sani-bin behind her (or him � it�s just so hard to tell with these things). “Sometime back, some data runners lost a bet to a Sarlon freighter pilot. So they have to go buzz this primitive planet and pick up some samples in return. You know � plants, soil, rocks, urine samples � typical stuff for a Sarlon vacation. Well they get there and it�s not as primitive as the Sarlon thought. They�re not buzzing about space like normal folks, but they�re not complete throwbacks. While they�re there they start screwing with their satellites, taking some data for fun. They get back, give the Sarlons their samples, they start hacking this garbage data they collected. Some of it looks like vids, some of it looks like data, and some of it is voice.
“They start translating this junk, which ain�t easy since it�s in a few dozen languages, and find this weird audio stream. Seems they still have audio-only entertainment � no music, just people talking. This one signal they find is a whole show about us � life that ain�t from their planet. They don�t really know if there�s anything else besides them in space or not. This whole show is people who think that �aliens� live up here in space. Man, it�s a kick! Every few cycles we listen in to hear if anybody we know is on. Those Sarlons in the corner buzzed one of their colonies, and people called the show about for the longest time.”
Suddenly a burst of static emerged from the speaker behind the bar. “Oh geez,” the bartender squealed, “it�s time.” All of the patrons pushed small blue cylinders into their ears as the random static dissolved into a steady stream of words. The bartender pushed two blue cylinders across the bar. “Here,” he said, “my treat.”
Feron and Heron inserted the blue cylinders into their ears and listened as their new translators began to manipulate the sounds emerging from the speakers. It seemed like a normal audio stream, with blatant commercial promotions and references to other programs. Then the host introduced his guest, an expert on ancient life. This disappointed most of the bar patrons, since they were hoping for an eyewitness account of the Q�Kron Junior Federation�s camping trip. The group had reportedly did a fly-by genetic manipulation after having a few drinks on the way home, but never did manage to keep hold of the test subjects.
Heron and Feron listened intently as this expert, calling himself “Doctor Kerns”, described an ancient artifact that should prove the existence of alien life. “This metal box was found in an Aztec pyramid last year by my field researchers.” The translator was a bit flat, but the guest�s serious tone was still apparent. “Made of an unknown metal, it appears to completely sealed. Without any apparent opening to the outside or visible power source, the box manages to emit a soft purple glow when in complete darkness. Even modern engineering cannot produce such a wonder. It must be of another world!”
Heron�s face was paralyzed, locking him an embarrassing expression of total stupidity. Feron brought him out of the trance with a startled comment. “Hey, is that what I think it is!”
Heron looked deep into Feron�s three eyes. “You have got to be kidding me! Hey bartender, where can I find one of those data runners?”
The bartender pointed a fuzzy finger into the corner. “That guy, the one in the purple robe with the big head. I�d speak to him quietly, though. He�s trying to pass out.”
“Thanks. Feron, pay the bartender � and tip well.” Feron started digging credits out of his left shirt pocket as Heron crossed the bar. The inebriated patron�s large gray head slowly moved as Heron tapped the data runner on the shoulder. “Hey buddy, can you tell me where this planet is? The planet where the signal comes from.”
The data runner�s black eyes rose slowly to meet Heron�s excited stare. “Look, I don�t want to go back there. I hate those stupid animals. They�ve got no style. Look what they did to me.” The data runner�s hand produced a tattered parchment from beneath a purple robe. Below some odd yellow shapes was a fuzzy picture of the gray. “Those bastards! They didn�t even ask. Look at that, I�m not wearing my good skin!”
Heron threw several gold discs on the table in front of the data runner. “I don�t care if you like it there or not. Just tell me how to get there.” The sudden introduction of financial compensation improved the data runner�s sobriety. “Sure three eyes, I can get you there. I just don�t have the faintest clue why you want to go to Earth.”
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