I’ve recently given myself the objective of crafting an opening to the current work-in-progress so compelling that every reader will be enthralled, no matter what kind of book they’re in the mood for.
Exhibit 1: An early-draft description for Maroli Tango:
Sometimes, no matter what’s going on, you have to make it about you.
Visited in a dream by her deceased husband, United States President Carmen Luisa Benequista gets a wake-up call. Anton Benequista, gone these past 13 years, tells her, “Find someone to share your life.”
It’s not a rocket science proposition. Carmen’s steady companion, Space Mafia kingpin Brandon Lopez, 15 years her junior, is waiting for a signal. Done deal, if she wants.
First-contact survivor Mason Fowlkes, soon to be 16, is growing up fast as an apprentice Ship’s Mechanic aboard the Anye migration vessel Anuraga. The work life is great; the home life not so much.
French Air Force lieutenant Marie Jourdaine is on the rebound after a brief stint as the world’s youngest female fighter pilot. Things are kind of working out, and kind of not.
Caught in the middle is Chester, an elevated maroli labor appliance, a product of ancient Anye technology, monstrous in appearance, sweet of disposition, intent on discovering his place in the universe.
It’s been a bumpy ride, fraught with challenges. Maybe it’s time for our heroes to take care of themselves.
It’s a rotten excuse for a blurb, but we’re spitballing. So, here’s the situation: Elbert, the first book of this trilogy, starts off with a sort of Victorian-era Huck Finn vibe.
Or, that’s what I think it is; which brings us to Problem #1 — objectivity about one’s own work is nearly impossible for an author. Here are the first words from Elbert. Tell me I’m wrong.
August 16, 1928 — Black Rock, South Dakota
It was an hour before sunrise, too foggy to see more than a couple of feet. An Edison bulb glowed from a lamppost at the end of the walk, making a rainbow in the mist. As Tom Bjornson drew closer, he spied a possum, drawn by the aroma of dairy products.
The possum slinked away, babies hanging on for dear life. Within the delivery box, a wire basket and empty bottles. Tom’s appointment with the dairymen was on schedule.
The milk truck, a Ford Model T with an overlong cargo bed, tended to shimmy when loaded heavy in back. Its headlights bobbed and weaved, easy to spot through pea soup, though distance was hard to judge. Sooner than expected, the vehicle brushed up close.
“Wait a minute”, you might say. “This is science fiction?”
Yes. Adventure intrigue family drama literary science fiction. Never seen anything like it, have you? It’s easier to say what it isn’t than what it is, and maybe that’s why I’m not famous.
But we digress. I’m thinking Maroli Tango might prosper from a hard-boiled-detective-story nuance in the opening salvo.
Las Cruces, New Mexico
At 6:03 AM Mountain Time, 26 minutes ahead of sunrise, a Wi-Fi camera on Russell Torrance’s front porch recorded a black Chevy Suburban parking on the opposite side of the street, two houses away.
It was 43 degrees Fahrenheit in town, 35 in the desert, mostly clear. The eastern sky shone pale blue with a tinge of pink.
To the northwest, still dark and full of celestial wonder, a colorful ionized-gas display marked a position downrange of the solar system’s galactic path, where Star Forge Partners, Jivada, was suctioning space dust into an electrostatically charged funnel.
Aliens from outer space and their human partners, on a mission of mercy, mitigating the potential of a cosmic-gas-fueled micro-nova burning half the Earth to a crisp, 15 years hence.
Which begged the question as to why United States federal agencies were still pestering AjJivadi constituents, especially since President Carmen Benequista had ordered them to back off.
Russell’s wife Nancy crowded in at his shoulder, peering through a window. She said, “Leave those guys alone.”
He shuffled toward the front door. “I’m just going to mess with their heads a little bit.”
Who doesn’t love that kind of story? Maybe it’ll buy me some time, involve the reader, earn a look at what comes after.
By way of saying, I’m trying to be a better writer and give the customer what he wants. Comments welcome.
John Dyer Writes 
Is Russell going to be a main character? Because he doesn’t appear in your blurb.
Or is this one of those horror/crime openings where you introduce a Mr. Expendable, let us get to know him for a page or two, and then he gets killed?
If not, I’d suggest you open with Ms. Benequista being contacted by her dead husband. That was the most emotionally compelling thing in the blurb, to me as a lady at least. If you can hook me emotionally into her situation, I’ll be compelled to read on and willing to put up with more of a learning curve, like what the heck is Jivada. I like sci-fi, but I do have to have some emotional investment in a character early on. That’s why I stopped reading Foundation.
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Russell’s POV is transient, and the passage a leftover from a discarded plot thread. So, if I go with this idea as written, Russ and Nancy have 5 pages on stage, during which Brandon Lopez, Mason Fowlkes and Carmen Benequista are introduced – 3/4 of the central cast,
I dropped Carmen’s dream scene 2 edits ago, with some regret.
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 enormous convenience.” 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. He said, “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.”
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The last few lines are great, really grab you. He gives her a message, and then she wakes up before she can tell him it’s irrelevant.
For the rest of it … I could use some lines of dialogue closer to the beginning. I could use some shock from Carmen at seeing Anton, maybe a physical description of how he looks to her and a quick flashback to his death. Does he look like he did right before he died, or does he look younger? What is he wearing? Some kind of heavenly robe, or his usual uniform? Are these indistinguishable surroundings covering him with fog or mist, producing any breeze to blow his hair, anything like that? Does he seem healthy? Happy? Weary and sorrowful?
I’d like to hear Anton’s shock (and maybe pride) when he finds out that she’s President, and his surprise about the aliens.
Also, if I were Carmen, I would wonder whether Anton might not have found out about the aliens when he died. Do the aliens intersect with the spirit realm, where the dead are? Are the dead able to watch events on earth after they go? If I were her, I’d be asking these questions kind of close to the front of the conversation.
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We seem to be workshopping the story a little bit, and I’m down with that.
Chapter 1
Las Cruces, New Mexico
At 6:03 AM Mountain Time, 26 minutes ahead of sunrise, an Anye-tech fighting drone hovering under a portico at the Fowlkes residence spotted a black Chevy Suburban taking a position on the opposite side of the street, two houses away.
It was 43 degrees Fahrenheit in town, 35 in the desert, mostly clear. The eastern sky shone pale blue with a tinge of pink.
To the northwest, still dark and full of celestial wonder, a colorful ionized-gas display marked a position downrange of the solar system’s galactic path, where Star Forge Partners, Jivada, was suctioning space dust into an electrostatically charged funnel.
Aliens from outer space and their human partners, on a mission of mercy, mitigating the potential of a cosmic-gas-fueled micro-nova burning half the Earth to a crisp, 15 years hence.
It was old news by almost a year, begging the question as to why United States federal agencies were still pestering AjJivadi constituents.
President Carmen Benequista had ordered the alphabet bureaus to stand down. CH Banks was backing that up with muscle. A shootout in July the previous year, between USAF police and a lone AjJivadi emissary armed with fighting drones, should have sealed the deal.
But there they were, two Feds in an SUV, sticking their noses where they shouldn’t.
Young Mason Fowlkes and his sister Erin peeked out through a window in the living room. The lights were on, their silhouettes visible from the street.
Erin said, “You’d better leave those guys alone.”
Mason edged toward the front door. “Uh-uh. I’m going to mess with their heads a little bit.”
“You’ll get yourself arrested.”
“I’ll tell my drones to uncloak.”
“Dummy dick.” She turned on the porch light. “If Mom finds out, you’re toast.”
Drones Titter and Tatter dropped concealment on the way across the street. Agent One, on the driver’s side, rolled his window down, a startled expression on his face.
Mason said, “Are you here for us, or did someone tell you about the runaway drone?”
The man opened his mouth to reply. Mason kept going. “I don’t know what I’d do if I came face-to-face with it, considering what’s going on with the ship’s Oma who sent it down here. You know what I’m saying?”
The agent stammered. “Not exactly.”
“Well …” Mason lowered his voice. “Mahacamu’s OMA has PTSD, on account of being ordered to kill its crew.”
Agent Two leaned across. “Say what?”
“A hundred years ago, on Jivada. The crew were hijackers, but the Oma thought they were legit, until he found out they weren’t, and then he had to kill them. Everyone’s scared of him now. They think he might be a little crazy.”
“And this ship’s Oma sent a fighting drone here? To do what?”
“He won’t say, but the ship’s curator thinks the drone might be coming down to talk to Nancy Torrance.”
Mason pointed west. “Two blocks over. Nancy’s a shaman, strong in the spirit world. Not her husband. Russell’s a jet mechanic, born to make arrowheads is what he’ll tell you, but Nancy can speak with the dead which, you know, is likely what’s going on with the large-scale Anye reasoning engines.”
The wind kicked up, sending a chill breeze down the street. Mason performed a stage shiver. “Catholics would call it demonic possession, but in Native American culture, it’s thought natural for restless spirits to reach out through inanimate objects, make their voices heard.”
Agent One gave him the hairy eyeball. “I thought Mrs. Torrance was a psych counselor in the school system.”
“And Native American. Russ is Chumash. Born on the rez in California, so you got that old hippie vibe going on, but Nancy is Algonquin, east coast tribe, from a clan that honors the old ways.”
“Mrs. Torrance speaks to the dead.”
“Believe it or not, the Anye have been studying the soul for 70,000 years. You should check out ‘The Between-Life: What We’ve Learned’ on the Jivada Open Library.”
“I might do that.” The agent tilted the SUV’s steering wheel out of his lap. “But to answer your question, we’re not here to chase a rogue drone. It’s about the spaceship in your back yard.”
Mason returned a sheepish grin. “Me and my sister needed stuff from the house.”
“You’re Mason Fowlkes?”
“Yessir. How you doing? Are you NSA?”
The agent shook his head. “DIA; and I have to say, we wouldn’t bother you, but our boss at DOD is a slow learner.”
“I hear there’s a lot of that going around.”
The man shrugged. “It hasn’t even been a year since we found out about the Anye migration. Give it time.”
Mason took a breath. “I was gigging you about the runaway drone.”
“I caught on right there at the end. It was a heck of a story. Good for you.”
“No hard feelings?”
“Naw.” The man leaned back. “Where are you living now?”
Mason pointed his thumb at the sky. “AMV Anuraga.”
“They got a school for kids up there?”
“Yeah, but I’m in vocational rehab, apprenticed to the Shipwright Guild.”
The man laughed. “Dude! How’d that happen?”
“Day of the gunfight at Alamogordo, I was two weeks short of turning 15.” Mason held thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “This close to going steady with my first girlfriend, and all of a sudden my family’s hiding out from the law on an alien spaceship.”
“Sounds pretty cool to me.”
“For about two days, then you’re stuck in a windowless, closed environment, with no orientation for the clueless Earth kid, and 8,000 AjJivadi citizens going to work every day.”
Mason’s sister crept up on his left side. She said, “What are you doing, telling your life story?”
He shuffled his feet. “Sorry. We got to talking.”
Erin nodded at the agents. “Hi.”
Agent One nodded back. “Good morning, Miss. So, what happened to get your brother sent into the juvenile correction apparatus?”
“He stole a couple of Mom’s gummies and came back to the apartment stoned.” Erin made a toothy grin. “She threw him out.”
Agent Two made a sympathetic look. “That’s harsh.”
The sun peeked up over the horizon. Pink skies blossomed in the east. The next-door neighbor came out with a fourteen-year-old Chihuahua on leash, who then immediately barked herself wheezy and had to be picked up.
The neighbor’s wife appeared with their granddaughter, the latter still in pajamas, who then trotted across the street, waving her hands like a beauty queen on a parade float.
She wrapped Mason in a bear hug, palpated his shoulder blades, and said, “Oh, my God! Have you been working out?”
Agent One threw his voice at Erin’s ear. “Is that the girlfriend?”
Erin replied, “Was.”
“How old are you?”
She sniffed at him. “Eleven.”
“You kids are grown up for your ages.”
She nodded. “We’ve been through the wringer.”
“Are those your brother’s fighting drones?”
“He calls them Titter and Tatter.” Erin made a wicked grin. “Mason has an implant, operates drones for a living, and runs with the Samudri clans on ship.”
“Woo! Don’t want to mess with that.” He offered a handshake. “Nice to meet you, young lady.”
Erin stood up straight. “Have a good day, sir.”
Meanwhile; Lisa, Mason’s former almost steady girlfriend, was crying her eyes out.
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I feel like the dialogue part of it orients me decently. I now expect Mason to be the main human character.
I’m a little confused by the fact Lisa apparently found out Mason is dumping her from something his sister said to the cop. Why? Is this a throwaway or is it going to be important later?
Also, after getting through the first six paragraphs, I feel kind of stupid and like I’m already behind on the worldbuilding for this book. What’s Jivada? Who or what is CH Banks? How many of these new entities will be introduced and explained again later, how many am I supposed to remember after just one mention, and are there any that will never be mentioned again, that I don’t have to sacrifice valuable brain space keeping track of?
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I ran the text past my wife, who does not like SF at all. A good test subject if I actually hope to draw in uninterested readers, and sure enough, she hated the first half of the chapter.
I am loathe to write a prologue but this is, after all, the last volume in a 9 book series. If the uninitiated must be coached, it will have to done in either a prologue or right up front within first chapters. If I choose the latter, I will have to be clever to produce scenes that are both atmospheric AND richly informative.
I’m not going to say that’s impossible. Perhaps a prologue exercise will light the way. Watch this space.
In the meantime, I can see opportunities in this version to expositate (I know; it’s not a word) without loss of rhythm. Hence …
—————————-
The neighbor’s wife appeared with their granddaughter, the latter still in pajamas, who then trotted across the street, waving her hands like a beauty queen on a parade float.
She wrapped Mason in a bear hug, palpated his shoulder blades, and said, “Where’d all this muscle come from?”
Agent One threw his voice at Erin’s ear. “Is that the girlfriend?”
Erin replied, “Almost girlfriend.”
“How old are you?”
She sniffed at him. “Eleven.”
“You kids are awfully grown up for your ages.”
Agent Two spoke into his walkie. The sun started to throw shadows into the street. The neighbor and his wife escorted their wheezy Chihuahua back into the house. Mason and his former almost-girlfriend took their reunion to the opposite sidewalk.
Erin asked Agent One, “Do you know who John Sinclair is?”
He nodded. “FBI director. President Benequista’s man.”
“Mr. Sinclair says my brother and I are growing up fast because we have to.”
“Friend of the family?”
“The Sinclairs have an apartment on Anuraga, on the other side of the swimming pool from where we live. I babysit the kids.”
He cracked a smile. “I’m starting to get a picture.”
Erin smiled back. “I’m dropping names.”
“I can see that.” He pointed. “Are those your brother’s fighting drones?”
“Until the ship’s master tells him to turn them in.” Erin made a wicked grin. “Mason operates drones for his job.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not here for a fight.” He offered a handshake. “Nice to meet you, young lady.”
Erin stood up straight. “Have a good day, sir.”
Mason and his former almost-girlfriend had retreated to the Fowlkes residence front porch, there to process an abrupt separation eight months prior, and a final goodbye.
Lisa was crying her eyes out.
——————-
My wife says Erin cannot be as grown-up as portrayed, but I have an investment in this aspect of her character. It’s how she is.
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OK, that makes more sense about Lisa. Thanks for at least letting us know what’s going on with her.
Yes, if this is the last in a series, I think the book might benefit from a prologue to get late joiners up to speed. Many sci-fi books have that sort of thing.
Precocious kids are a sci-fi staple, and 11-year-old girls can be real know-it-alls, so I don’t find Erin too unrealistic.
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Und zo …
Previously
The effective date of the Anye Disclosure was arguable, conceivably pointing back to 1928, when the executive host of an AjJivadi-patronized South Dakota tourist destination revealed herself to Doctor Elbert Holland Harrison, a rural physician of the human persuasion who, up until then, had not been in on ‘the big secret’.
“Good evening”, she had said, lemur fangs concealed behind a demure smile. “We’re from the Sasquatch chamber of commerce.”
The proposition was not as risky as one might think. Doc Harrison, an 83-year-old veteran of the American Civil War, was a person made stoic by a lifetime of experience with suffering.
Confronted by a furry foxlike princess wearing a tailored western-cut maternity blouse, culotte skirt and cowboy boots, he thought to himself, ‘Aren’t you the prettiest little thing?’
Earth’s secret history was explained — 25,000 years as a backwater campground, and yet humans were not the unwitting subjects of a celestial master race.
“No” she told him. “It’s more like having a rich uncle who stopped returning your phone calls.”
Jivada, an Anye colony world, was one-hour-forty-five-minutes away via Saraf Drive. A third of Jivada’s citizens (AjJivadi) were human, welcomed into Anye clans since the Migration.
The AjJivadi had homestead claims on Earth, anchored by business enterprise, dual citizenships, voluntary submission to taxation, and so forth. Their invisibility, a practice formalized around the time of Jesus, was not to be interpreted as consent to be marginalized.
Evidence two symbols of Jivada’s militant agency on Earth:
The ancient and noble order of Zirna Zapha; Sanskrit – The Broken Claw; Colloquial – The Space Mafia.
CH Banks International, a private security firm, incorporated 1929, Black Rock, South Dakota.
In 2025, nearly a hundred years after Doc Harrison received a lesson in clandestine symbiotic co-occupancy, the Disclosure finally got enough traction to make headlines.
By then, the idea of ‘First Contact’ was preposterously out of date. The Disclosure was a ‘Gazillionth Contact’ event; only this time, it was meant to stick.
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