Maroli Tango — The Front Nine

Appended herein are the first nine chapters of a first-draft, first-master-edit novel-in-progress, which I anticipate publishing around July 2024.

Writing is an activity, something I do for fun. Promoting the work is a grind. It takes a lot of effort. It’s expensive, rarely productive, and I don’t have to do it, so I won’t. This little bit I’m doing here is writing. It’s fun.

If you’re an avid reader, or a writer, or someone thinking about becoming a writer, or curious about process, carry on. Nobody exposes this kind of material. It’s in rough shape, potentially embarrassing. I shouldn’t even let Beta readers see this stuff, and yet here we are.

Maroli Tango will be my seventh published novel in twelve years.  It is, as are all my books, a labor of love. So far, 118,000 words, 639 pages, 321 chapters.

First draft. First master edit. Very early in the process. A lot of decisions yet to be made, so what you’ll read here are words that might not make it to the book.

As to why I might excise these chapters …

• The manuscript word count is way over the customary target for a work of fiction.
• The main inciting event takes place on page 71, too late by most metrics.
• I’ve yet to take a cold-blooded look at the mini-arc in this section, with focus on the editing directive that asks, “Why would anyone want to read this?”
• I might shuffle story beats, redraw the overall narrative, cherry-pick ideas, throw away entire concepts for the sake of pacing or whatever, blah blah blah.
• It’s been my habit to perform at least six master edits. I’ve never finished a book in less than one-and-a-half years. There’s a lot left to do.

Literary Science Fiction. I know. Nobody writes in this category. Lucky you, to have found this.

Adventure, Romance, Family Drama. Space soap opera. Hard SF. Large cast. A big story. Epic, if you ask me.

For the most part, wholesome, value positive, the opposite of ugly and pessimistic.

Tell your friends. Comments are welcome.

Chapter 1

Washington DC — 2026 April

When one speaks to the dead, it’s usually an ordinary dream, a conversation with oneself, influenced by feelings of doubt, insecurity, loneliness. Carmen Benequista had doubts —about whether she was experiencing an ordinary dream.

The setting was not the typical familiar place. Surroundings were indistinguishable. She was looking through her own eyes instead of a high-angle camera view.

Anton, her deceased husband, asked a lot of questions. If every actor in a dream was nothing more than an aspect of the dreamer, Carmen had an inner self who didn’t know much about current events.

He remembered her as a tireless fundraiser, a speaker at rallies, a confidante of aspirants to high office who might never have been noticed but for advocates like her.

Anton was shocked to learn she’d come out of nowhere to be elected President of the United States. He didn’t know about aliens from outer space.

Carmen reprised events of recent months. “The AjJivadi showed their faces last end-of-July, but they’ve been here twenty-five-thousand years. Norse gods, Greek gods, gods of ancient Egypt, patrons who eventually became weary of us asking for handouts. They went into hiding around the time of Jesus.”

“How could you not know? Didn’t the military give you a heads up?”

“They could have, but didn’t.” Carmen made a sour face. “I’m an outsider with principles. The entrenched political class hates me.”

Anton glanced at his wrist, appearing startled to notice his watch wasn’t there. He gave her a solemn look. “We’ve been talking for a while. Are you sure you didn’t die?”

Carmen considered the possibility. A neural implant, alien technology, was growing into her brain, taking root where the soul connects. Speaking with the dead was a known short-term side effect. She told him about it.

He rocked on his heels. “Why would you submit to such a thing?”

“It’s an instrument of my pact with the aliens.” The scene appeared to be fading, a stage hand drawing the curtain. Carmen rushed to speak a few more lines. “Is the between-life a good place?”

“Is that what this is? It’s lonely. I have a hard time forming thoughts. I don’t know how long I’ve been here.”

Tears stained her cheeks. “Thirteen years.”

Anton’s hand passed through hers. Disappointment filled the moment. “Find someone to share your life before you’re too old for it to make a difference.”

Carmen Benequista, President of the United States, woke into darkness, heart full of sorrow, a reply on her lips. “I’m not getting older, not anymore. The Anye have a cure for it.”

Chapter 2

A back-handed compliment often given to Carmen Benequista by her enemies was that she won the senior-citizen vote on a resemblance to Sophia Loren, if only the actress had been two f-stops more photogenic.

Sour grapes, repeated by the entitled super-rich, their minions and thought-slaves, unions, associations, financial institutions, industrial conglomerates, the Mafia, the cartels and so forth, ad infinitum.

Because Carmen ran her campaign for President of the United States in opposition to those guys, and if she hadn’t hitched her wagon to Jivada’s technocracy after the Disclosure, she might have been found hanging from an improvised noose in a White House laundry room with an unsigned typewritten suicide note pinned to her nightgown.

And that was still a possibility, Anye-technology fighting drone bodyguards be damned.

Waking up from an unsettling dream under the Presidential Suite’s looming twelve-foot ceilings, surrounded by hideous flocked wallpaper and fragile antique furnishings, Carmen did not feel safe, nor at home, nor hopeful.

She gave the tassel end of a lamp chain a good yank, half expecting to see her valet Pascal leaned against the far end of a triple dresser, asleep.

That’s where he was, although not asleep, a size-one maroli labor appliance, gutworm-tech tentacles spilling out of a waist-high egg-shaped grav-lift chassis, a machine/bioform hybrid out of some ancient AjViduri engineering team’s worst nightmares.

He said, “Carmen cried. This one woke.”

She wiggled out from under the duvet cover. “I dreamed about my deceased husband, speaking to me from the between-life.”

Pascal glided across the room. “Is Carmen sad?”

“I was. Now I’m agitated.” She fussed with slippers. “I’m a sixty-year-old widow with no prospects, and Anton reminds me I need to find a partner.”

He followed her to the bathroom, tentacles quivering. “Is Brandon Lopez not an acceptable suitor?”

“He’s fifteen years my junior.”

“The immortal soul is ageless, timeless.” Pascal averted eye dots while she sat on the toilet. “He speaks about you often.”

Carmen said, “You know an awful lot about a man you’ve met twice.”

“The Oma reasoning engine is vigilant.” Pascal backed halfway to a linen closet. “Has he told you who he was in a previous life?”

“I can’t say that’s something he’d share with me. Did he get his soul image recorded?”

“He heard a rumor.” Pascal drew a circle on checkered tile with the lower bout of his capsule. “Brandon Lopez is the reincarnation of Mayur Upanaya, a Cadre general on old Vidura, remembered as a man of virtue.”

“You are such a gossip.” Carmen reached for a primary tentacle. “Help me up.”

“This one speaks out of turn only when it serves the good.” He tugged gently at her wrist. “He would be a loyal friend, a reliable companion, a fierce protector.”

“I have no doubt.” Carmen led him back to the sleeping chamber. “Maybe I should let my guard down.”

“Perhaps.” Pascal waited at the side of her bed. “Will Madame sleep?”

Carmen tucked her feet in. “I’ll try. Thank you for keeping me company.”

He wrapped a lesser ungula around her hand. “As always, your devoted servant.”

She awarded him with a smile. “You’re a sweetheart.”

Pascal replied, “This one knows.”

Chapter 3

Pulina Nava, Planet Jivada

It was Wednesday morning on the east coast of the United States, Friday morning on the west coast of Jivada’s main continent.

Offshore of PN, a stately Tuscan Renaissance villa drifted at a thousand meters altitude, aimless, nudged along by the wind, meandering on gravitic tensors as though sliding on ice.

SagGha House, circa 1438, the work of Italian/AjJivadi architect Mechelozzo, a prototype for Palazzo Medici, Florence, Italy, circa 1444.

Erected nearly six-hundred years in the past atop a surplus grav-lift marine construction barge, commissioned as an owner-managed airborne luxury residential complex, then serving as a monastery, a college and a reform school.

Until occupied by SagGha Prefect Samuel Orsa — priest, scholar, family man. A furry Anye Mahat Limar, one-hundred-thirty-eight years old, bearlike in appearance, sometimes referred to on Earth as the ‘Space Pope’.

Guru Orsa was in the habit of spending Fridays ministering to a congregation at the Star Forge cluster, eight light-years distant, about fourteen minutes via Saraf Drive.

He was up early. Showered. Groomed his ruff himself. In a mud room off the owner’s kitchen, Charles the maroli applied a number-two clipper guard to buzz the rest of him, saying, “This one sees a lot of skin.”

Orsa’s wife Maryanne, human, Norwegian/AjJivadi, arrived on the tail-end of the procedure. She said, “Is this all you, or did someone shear a long-haired ox.”

Guru Orsa looked in a mirror. “My pelt is thinner than it was the last time I got a shavedown.”

Brandon Lopez told him, “When I was a kid, I did my dog that way. He went and hid under the porch.”

Charles the maroli offered a comforting tentacle. “Nobody will see Guru Sam naked today.”

Brandon had come down from his apartment with groceries. He put prepared cinnamon roll dough in the oven, eggs in a poacher, bacon on a griddle, Pablum, goat’s milk and soy powder in a saucepan for Charles the maroli.

SagGha House turned the exterior courtyard passage east to face a rising sun. The wind was coming from the same direction. Charles the maroli activated radiant heat under the pavers. Guru Orsa helped him set a table.

The breakfast party sat with fly-away paper napkins anchored between thighs. Brandon reported on his week. “Last Friday, an IDF think-tank analyst walked into the CH Banks storefront in Tel Aviv asking for an appointment.”

Guru Orsa shook his head. “After being told not to bother the Space Mafia detective agency.”

“It was an offer to share resources. Economist, early fifties, nice guy. Had dinner at his house, met his wife who is, by the way, a real sweet lady and something of a character.”

“Productive?”

“Maybe.” Brandon nodded at Maryanne. “I see you fidgeting. What’s up?”

Maryanne Orsa said, “I spoke with our glamorous President of the United States this morning. Her neural implant came online. Dull throb behind the left eye. I told her to call me if it doesn’t go away.”

“Did Carmen say anything about me?”

“She asked about Mayur Upanaya.”

“Oh, yeah? Who shared the rumor?”

“Pascal.” Maryanne gave Charles the side-eye. “And I wonder who told Pascal.”

Charles the maroli rotated to face her. “This one is innocent.”

Guru Orsa said, “We’ll see Carmen tomorrow, assuming Glenn Mehrenholz gets Bharamin running.”

Maryanne made a wistful expression. “I wish I was going with him. What an adventure. Ancient Anye migration ship lurking out by Saturn, active again for the first time in twenty-five hundred years …”

Brandon poured coffee. “I tried to invite myself. Connie Sorenson said her shipwrights had enough to do without more tourists on board.”

“Darn.” Maryanne lifted her chin at him. “You know, maybe you should get your soul image recorded; find out if it’s true that you are, in fact, the reincarnation of a famous warrior priest.”

“Wouldn’t that be a hoot?” He shrugged. “What do you bet someone’s already taken my picture, without permission, and that’s how it got started.”

She frowned. “It wouldn’t have been the Cadre Policy Office. Louise Karnak would never consent to invade your privacy.”

“Her boss would.” Brandon stacked tableware and cups on his plate. “Did Carmen say anything else?”

“She intends to visit her daughter in New Zealand, today.”

He pushed away from the table. “And there’s my cue. Great visit, everyone. Gotta go.”

Chapter 4

AMV Bharamin – in Orbit around Saturn

The expedition to retrieve the Anye migration vessel Bharamin from long-term parking was something of a picnic, attended by the ship’s title-successor, his parents, his wife, and her grandmother.

To which complement was added AMV Anuraga’s custodians Tom and Jennifer Bjornson, a half-dozen shipwrights and a cooler full of drinks and sandwiches.

A one-by-two-kilometer fleet ship, lurking among Saturn’s rings, emerged from an N-Space cocoon. Eighty-two decks. Accommodations for fifty-thousand. A ship’s Oma, silently waiting for the reincarnation of Jasu Tvastar, a furry Anye Mahat Raja, who’d been its patron in olden times.

Now reborn in modern times wearing the name Glenn Mehrenholz. A food products packaging engineer. Oregon native. Germanic farmer stock. Two cats, Eddie and Miriam.

A casualty of past life emergence, keyholder to a perpetual trust established by Jasu Tvastar for his own benefit in a future life.

Jasu Tvastar, who was himself the reincarnation of physicist/inventor Amil Leyta, another important figure in Anye history.

It was, as Glenn’s shipwright friend Connie Sorenson said, “Almost unbelievable”, although not unprecedented. Title to the Anye Migration Vessel Anuraga had transferred in a similar manner, although the beneficiary in that case had been only one famous person instead of two.

Camping out in a never-occupied lower-deck cabin, atop freshly unwrapped bed linens, Glenn Mehrenholz snuggled up to his wife’s posterior.

Arya Kali Saraswati Kaur Khalsa Mehrenholz, a Sikh of Punjabi/Indian heritage, pulled his hand to her breast. “Imagine you’re in a tent, facing a green meadow. The grass is wet. A loon calls out in the distance. All is well.”

He yawned. “Thank you.”

An air handler cycled on. It rumbled for a few minutes, then shut off. A few seconds later, a loud clank rang through the central core. Glenn rolled onto his back. “I hope that wasn’t anything important.”

She patted his thigh. “If it is, the ship’s Oma will tell Connie about it.”

“The Oma reasoning engine doesn’t always do what it’s supposed to.”

Arya went to her back. “I feel confident about these ships. The people who built them …” She squeezed his bicep. “You and I, for instance, in previous lives, were good at what they did.”

“All those thousands of years ago.” Glenn sighed again. “I told Connie I can’t see myself as Amil Leyta.”

“How so?”

“Athlete, adventurer, science hero, warrior, leader, a man’s man. You know, bigger than life.”

She nuzzled his neck. “You don’t have to live up to all that.”

Glenn laughed. “Sweetheart, I’m pretty sure I do.”

Chapter 5

The White House, Washington DC

At noon, Carmen Benequista skated across the President’s Patio eyes down, trying not to trip on an errant shoelace, toward a compact armored spaceboat hovering centimeters off the pavers.

When she looked up, Brandon Lopez said, “You have a substitute bodyguard, Madame President. I hope that’s all right.”

She batted eyes at him. “Captain Price sure did send a handsome one.”

He made a sheepish smile. “I told him I need the right situation to ask you out on a date.”

“Good timing.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I accept.”

“Oh.” Brandon made wide eyes at her. “Okay. Good.”

“Keep your feet on the controls in case I do something stupid.” Carmen gathered her skirt, placing a foot on the pilot’s step. “I didn’t sleep well. Disturbing dreams.”

“Sorry to hear it. Need a boost?”

“No, I have it.” She slid into the pilot’s seat. “Where are you taking me for a first date?”

“The Bharamin expedition intends to drop a flying house into atmosphere, maybe tomorrow. I’m invited to board as soon as the house is declared airworthy.”

“That’s a heck of an inducement. I’m glad I accepted up front.”

He started around the front of the boat. “It’s a consolation prize. The lead shipwright waved me off the trip to Saturn.”

Carmen released the starboard hatch, shouting through the opening. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

He buckled in. “Ought to be a lot of fun.”

She pulled up on the boost lever. The White House lawn dropped away. The windscreen fogged over for one second, then cleared up among a sea of Earth, Moon and stars.

Carmen reached over to pat him on the thigh. “I’m not the most approachable girl in town. You went out on a limb to ask me. I appreciate it.”

Brandon watched the spaceboat’s instrument panel. “I’m really looking forward to meeting your grandkids.”

She patted her chest. “Now I’m nervous.”

“Do you want to break the tension?” He leaned in. “We’re courting. Kiss me on the lips.”

Carmen dithered. “Now I’m very nervous.”

He tugged at her hand. “Come on.”

She released her seat harness. “One kiss.”

“Carmen …” Brandon caressed her cheek. “I have a terrible crush on you.”

“I know you do.” She closed her eyes. “I’m coming around.”

“I’m grateful.” He landed a gentle kiss. “Thank you. Feel better?”

“A little.” She put her forehead against his. “Good job, sailor.”

Brandon squeezed her ear. “Take us to New Zealand.”

Chapter 6

Canterbury, New Zealand

The predawn sky shone pink behind New Zealand’s Southern Alps. Stars and moon added enough light for Carmen to land the spaceboat among hill and dale by the seat of her pants, without incident.

In the northwestern sky, a colorful ionized-gas display marked a position fifteen years downrange of the solar system’s path through the galaxy, where Star Forge Partners, Jivada, was vacuuming up space dust in anticipation of cosmic calamity.

A pair of sheep came out to visit. Carmen scratched them behind the ears. Outdoor lighting illuminated the eaves of a house three hills away. A dog barked. Another dog barked. Someone whistled.

Headlights approached, bobbing and weaving across rough ground. She wrapped him in her arms. “How about another kiss?”

She squeezed the stuffing out of him. Passion ensued. Brandon’s hands wandered to her posterior.

Carmen wiggled free, apologetic. “We’re about to get caught.”

Brandon winced. “Sorry.”

“I’m not mad.” She brushed her hair back. “Wow.”

Robbie’s pickup truck broached the final incline, lurching to a stop. Border collies leapt from the cargo box. A visiting sheep trotted down the hill.

Carmen’s daughter Monica said, “Did we just now see you guys making out?”

They gathered by the open cargo door, warm air from the spaceboat’s heater taking the edge off April’s bite.

Monica’s husband Robbie said, “We went up to the Anye spaceship last week. Invitation from Jivada Food Wholesale. Kids went, too. They’re all excited to tell you about it.”

Carmen said, “Jivada Food Wholesale invited you and who else?”

“Sixty producers. Great show, about the value of trading in Jivada Tal during turbulent times.”

“Did you sign delivery contracts.”

“Yes. Was that a mistake?”

She shook her head. “It’s likely to be better for you than for them.”

Monica shouldered in. “What’s going on?”

“Another Anye migration ship is about to make an appearance in orbit. I’ll give it a couple of days, then tell Treasury to default on foreign debt.” She raised eyebrows. “I’ll say I’m striking a war posture, but that’s a lie. It’s a means to an end.”

“The central banks will shit bricks.” Robbie covered a yawn. “Goodbye Kiwi dollar.”

“Don’t be surprised if your customer cancels the order.” Carmen squeezed her daughter at the elbow. “By the way, I spoke with your father last night.”

“Say again?”

“In a dream. It was either a séance, or just me talking to myself. Regardless, it wasn’t a happy experience.” Carmen moved fingers in the air. “I sent you an essay about the between-life.”

“Thank you, but I don’t know if I’ll read it.” Monica mimicked her mother’s gestures. “Your neural interface came online.”

“Just this morning. I want you and Robbie to schedule the procedure.”

Monica stuck out her tongue. “Ick.”

“Think about it.” Carmen closed the cargo hatch. “At the rate I’m making enemies, you might need a tactical edge.”

Chapter 7

Robbie and Monica’s son Bren was twelve, the daughter Skye, nine. The kids waited under a portico outside the kitchen door, staying clear of stray tidal forces until the spaceboat settled, then rushed their grandmother.

Bren asked, “Did you fly it all the way here?”

Carmen pulled him into a hug. “I did.”

“Still like it better than helicopters?”

“It’s more fun when you know it won’t crash.” She kissed Skye on the top of her head. “Take me inside. It’s cold.”

The girl dragged her into the house. “We went to the big spaceship.”

“I know.” Carmen hung her jacket on a hook. “What did you see there?”

“Furry people.” She made a pensive frown. “The ones with big teeth talk funny.”

“Anye Kopin. Their fangs make them speak with a lisp.” Carmen pointed over her shoulder. “Would you like to meet my friend Brandon Lopez?”

Bren gave Brandon the eyeball. “Is Captain Price okay?”

“Absolutely. Sometimes he’s your grandmother’s bodyguard, and other times I am.”

“You’re number two at CH Banks.”

“Yep.”

“Did you really shoot Gramma’s enemies at the Pentagon, or were they just trying to pin it on you?”

Monica barked a laugh. “Bren!”

Brandon made a sober face. “It was me. I did it.”

“I thought you were supposed to be Mexican.”

“Nope. Filipino. Born in Cincinnati.”

“Do you know any furry people?”

Brandon nodded. “A few.”

Bren made a wide grin. “We had an Iravat tour guide on Anuraga. She was pretty.”

Monica put a carafe of coffee on a side table. “A delegation of French nuclear engineers was there to learn about legacy Vidura power plants. I was wondering, where’s the American NRC?”

“They declined to attend.” Carmen coaxed Skye into her lap. “Did you go on the art tour?”

“Most of it.” The girl squirmed. “They wouldn’t let me see the naked paintings.”

Bren sidled up to Brandon. “Pop took me to the action show on Zaramalla deck.” He pointed at his forehead. “They loan you this headset that shoots lasers into your eyes so you can experience augmented reality. It was fantastic.”

Robbie poured coffee. “It’s a history lesson.”

Monica shook her head. “It was too violent.”

Skye drew a long face. “I had to stay with the little kids.”

Carmen pinched her cheek. “First time your parents allow it, I’ll take you.”

Skye tugged on her grandmother’s ear, whispering, “Is Brandon your boyfriend?”

Carmen took a deep breath. “Yes.”

The girl gave her a wink. “Good catch, Gramma.”

Chapter 8

Goodbyes were exchanged when it became time for Robbie and Monica to get their kids ready for school.

Carmen dithered at the spaceboat, then said, “Can we talk for a while?”

The hill where they first landed served up grass soaked by freshly deposited dew. They stood apart, silent, gazing at a brightening sky, wispy clouds pierced by crepuscular rays, heaven’s splendor gracing the firmament.

Brandon sidestepped, looping her arm in his. “Are you cold?”

“Getting that way.” She held his hand. “Listen; I haven’t been playing hard to get. I just didn’t know how to deal with this.”

“Me neither.” He cleared his throat. “The last few months have been so weird.”

“My grandson asked if you shot my enemies. What the hell? Who are we?”

“When I was thirteen, working at my parents’ restaurant, I wondered if I’d ever be anything except a busboy. Today I’m the guy who had to answer the question.” Brandon guided Carmen’s hand around his waist. “I’m not being fresh. I didn’t wear the right jacket.”

“My feet are freezing.” Carmen walked in place. “When I was thirteen, I was in convent school, learning how to take care of everyone except myself.”

“Kids need it. They’re selfish by nature.”

“I learned the lesson too well. My life zoomed by, and all I ever did was work, work, work.” Carmen let out a deep sigh. “Finally, a change of pace. This could be good for me.”

“We’ll have fun, I promise.”

She snorted. “We’re going to have fun, all right.”

He laughed. “I wasn’t thinking about that, I swear.”

“I am.” She pinched his bicep. “Woo, boy. Got my attention.”

“Do you want to fool around?”

Carmen shook her head. “I have to go back to work.”

Brandon shifted weight from one leg to the other. “Yeah, me, too.”

“I just wanted to touch bases, make sure we’re both okay.”

“I’m okay.”

“So am I.” She tugged at his elbow. “Let’s go home.”

Chapter 9

Previously

When Sattva Pala was five years old, her adoptive father related a story about an invention he’d created with friend and collaborator Amil Leyta — a trans-dimensional imager, which shortly thereafter led to the discovery of angels escorting souls to and from the between-life.

“We called them AptakArin, a word meaning ‘faithful servant’.”

She’d asked, “Why didn’t you call them angels?”

He replied, “We wanted you to have your own place in our history.”

That’s when she found out she was a ghost, her spirit anchored to a quantum device instead of the customary natural body, because, “We didn’t know any other way to bring you among us.”

The ‘way’ had been, (1) a functioning virtual model of the Anye biology, (2) a massively granular bio-recording of natural gestation within a mother’s womb, (3) a team of foster parents poised to raise children in the Anodyne Virtuality and, (4) a lure.

Sarvaga Pala and Amil Leyta were not careless men. They wrung their hands over the moral implications of fishing for angels for many years, even after things turned out well.

AptakArin philosopher, priest, warrior and seer Isa Kaviza once said their success was proof of God’s existence. “Forget the amazing science you brought to the table. It was a crazy idea. It shouldn’t have worked. The fact it did means it was supposed to, and who could have allowed it except God.”

It was a good argument, but not a great one. Around 2,500 BCE, the AptakArin Sattva Pala, Isa Kaviza and Kharva Brahmarsi met a Hebrew prophet at Paestum, when Southern Italy was still ruled by Greece. He told them about Kabbalah, and the importance of the number one-hundred-thirty-seven in science and mysticism.

Sixty-five-thousand years (objective) had elapsed since Sattva, Isa and Kharva were born. They were, presumably, the last AptakArin extant in the material universe.

But during the Anye Golden Age, there were one-hundred-thirty-seven of them. Amil Leyta had put out bait for years, but that’s how many were caught. No more, no less.

It was an intriguing observation, but Sattva Pala would have preferred God explain his intentions in a more personal way, perhaps by whispering in her ear. He never spoke to her or, as far as she knew, any of them.

For most of her life, she resented it.