Tag: Science Fiction

Maroli Tango ~ Chapter 25

https://marolitango.substack.com/s/read-the-book

The menfolk were smoking cigarettes in the castle driveway, accompanied by a non-elevated size-two fighting maroli named Quill.

Quill was 1.75 meters tall, with 2 heavy-lift primary tentacles, 4 lesser ungula, 6 grav-lift pucks around the skirt, 6 more on the capsule, eye dots all the way around, and a shock wand clipped below the plug cavity.

Carmen Benequista gave the machine a wide berth. Marie Jourdain stepped in for a closer look.

She said, “Can I get one of these?”

General Thorson fished a gas-station butane lighter out of a pocket.

He told Colonel Clarke, “You should see if Incredible might come to work for her.”

Clarke nodded. “I’ll ask him.”

“Well, like I was saying …” Thorson lit another cigarette. “Makes a lot of sense. Two forces. Cadre does political and military. Zirna Zapha handles policing and civil order. Good cop, bad cop; only you don’t tell the troublemakers which is which.”

Carmen reached for the pack of smokes. “It worked on Vidura.”

“And see here, it doesn’t matter whether it works on Earth or not.” He tucked the lighter into her palm. “It’s precedent. We get to tell my constituency we’re going by the book.”

Carmen tapped a cigarette on her thumbnail. “Who shall we cast in the role of space pirates?”

Thorson made a possum grin. “I’m looking at your boyfriend here.”

Brandon rubbed at his nose. “CH Banks is a business. We don’t do policing for free.”

“The Cadre doesn’t do military for free.”

“Who’s my customer?”

“Adopt a Zeze militant enterprise model. You know, like Boschert GMBH Zurich.”

“That’s not in our portfolio.”

“You have 3600 employees, old son. Maybe you could be a little more flexible.”

Marie Jourdain said, “It’s after 10:00 PM in France.”

Brandon’s eyes flicked away. “I’m calling our ride.”

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Maroli Tango ~ Chapter 20

I would really appreciate feedback on these opening chapters.

Click here to start at the beginning.

Pulina Nava, Planet Jivada

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

Erected 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, 138 years old, bearlike in appearance, sometimes referred to on Earth as the Space Pope.

Continue reading “Maroli Tango ~ Chapter 20” →
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The Process ~ 1 of n

My ambition for Maroli Tango, the final volume of a triple-trilogy, is to publish a novel anyone will enjoy regardless of what kind of book they’re in the mood for.

From where I’m sitting today, it seems possible; but then, I can see downstream of first chapters where, 2 1/2 years ago, I settled in, hit a sweet spot, and rode it out.

160,000 words later, my 7th draft manuscript is in transition from a collection of ideas implying a novel, to the novel itself; a phase wherein craft is typically applied in private, witnessed only by a handful of first readers.

I’m doing it in public. We’re not versioning. When I reshuffle the deck, what was is no more.

Fair warning — if you’re interested in process, catch up. Tomorrow, first chapters get a facelift.

Find the serial novel here.

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Serialize This — Chapter 7

Maroli Tango ~ A Serial Novel is at the vehicle assembly building on Substack. Find it here.

I enthusiastically recommend you prepare for this epic event by reading the first two installments of the AjJivadi trilogy.

It's like images of fruit on breakfast cereal packages. Serving suggestion. Not included in product.

Chapter 7

Central America

At 10:37 AM Eastern, the historic airborne estate Ruksa Zila emerged from N-Space encapsulation over the Pacific Ocean west of Panama.

RZ wobbled and swayed. Space tugs rushed in. Audiences on 3 planets — Earth, Jivada and the Anye home world Vidura — held their collective breaths.

Live audio from the descent crew reported, “The lift system is testing the curvature of space within the flight envelope … and we’re now told that Ruksa Zila is flying on its own.”

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Serialize This — Chapter 6

One of the motivations driving artists is a compulsion to record insights from one’s own life experience in a way that profits others. Engineers, architects, sculptors and authors — we’re all expressing what we know in a medium having potential to outlive us.

The work does not have to become famous — all it must do is exist.

That said, I do not oppose becoming famous.

Chapter 6

Arlington, Virginia

While President Carmen Benequista napped in the Oval Office, a senior NSA official joined a discussion panel on a morning news show from his home in a gated community west of Washington DC.

The arrival of AMV Bharamin in orbit was, he said, a red flag event, its mission a sinister ploy to establish dominance at the edge of space.

Glaring into a webcam, he shook a finger at network TV’s dwindling audience.  “The Jivadis are ruthless invaders, intent on enslaving all humanity, frightening everyone with lies about cosmic catastrophe, accusations of corruption within our most hallowed institutions, and anything else they can think of to make you go along.”

At the same moment, Parity Services, a Jivada-based security company, sent out a warning that the tone and volume of anti-Jivada propaganda had escalated to a level at which subscribers should retreat to safe harbor.

The man used the rest of his turn ranting about former subordinate Brandon Lopez, a ‘traitor’ and ‘alien collaborator’, during which the six-foot-tall size-two fighting maroli known as ‘Banger’ performed a Saraf Drive jump into an open area between sofa and China cabinet.

The offender rose from his chair, fumbling for a remote

Banger whacked a collarbone with a beavertail sap. He said, “Here; let me help you with that.”

The man fell back into his chair, shouting at the top of his lungs. An alarm horn sounded. A dog barked.

Injury was delivered to kneecaps, thighs, wrists and ankles. The news show’s ratings soared. Banger took the victim’s phone.

And without saying another word, he flashed away.

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Serialize This — Chapter 5

By now, on Page 16, a typical 3-act-form novel would have wrapped up introductions to place, time and cast.

If this was Fantasy, the Saracens would already have ridden in and cut everyone’s heads off.

Romance: bodice-ripping would be in-progress.

Sci-Fi adventure: a reptilian space admiral would be pacing the bridge of Battle Cruiser Krang, shouting threats at beautiful but reckless space pilot Candy Bootylicious while she undulated, heaving breasts straining against a tight and revealing space uniform.

You know, if I ever want to be successful, the first thing I should do is finish that story.

But no; I decided to write literary science fiction family drama.

Chapter 5

The Between-Life

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.

She stood in her deceased husband’s office at his family’s title insurance agency, a place she hadn’t been since a) he died and, b) his parents pushed her out of the company.

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Serialize This — Side B

I started this novel in December 2022. A year later, according to MS Word, I had 943 hours in it.

Jeez. And here I’ve been telling folks I didn’t retire just to go out looking for another job.

I took inventory last year at 138,000 words, and understood that Mason Fowlkes and Marie Jourdain were principals, not supporting cast. This discovery required moving their story arc from the middle of the book to the front.

Hence, a lot of material went to the ‘excised’ document, including this scene, discarded for more demerits in the writer’s craft column, including the one that says nobody reads 800 page books anymore.

A lack of faith on my part perhaps, so here it is -- an example of exclusive content for subscribers. Step right up, folks.

Chapter 6

AMV Anuraga, The Dust Cloud

It was 8:40 AM United States Eastern time, and Mason Fowlkes did not want to be late for his big day. First on the agenda, pre-meeting, collect his sister at a music studio on RD-19.

Erin’s piano teacher had a question for him. She asked, “Why isn’t air circulating on this deck?”

Mason replied, “I don’t know, but I’ll call it in.”

“It’s been that way all morning.”

“We’re short-handed. Half a dozen shipwrights are off on a mission.”

“Doing what?”

“Retrieving AMV Bharamin from storage near Saturn.” Mason made a sheepish expression. “I’d be there myself if I didn’t have an appointment today.”

“I thought Bharamin was lost.”

He shook his head. “Nope; just hidden.”

The lady made wide eyes. “I’ll bet there’s a story behind that!”

“There is, but I’ve already said more than I should.” Mason took his younger sister’s hand. “I promise, if we had a serious ventilation fault, I’d be on the job.”

On their way out the door, Erin asked, “Do you have your phone turned off?”

He nodded. “They’ll find me anyway.”

The finding took place at the elevator bank, doors opening to reveal a male shipwright, human, and furry female apprentice, Anye Iravat.

Mason said, “You guys look tired.”

The man replied, “We’ve been at it since midnight. Why’s your phone turned off?”

“I have a meeting with my counselor.”

“Yeah, well I have Chester the maroli stuck in a dead-end crawlspace between RD-18 and Cargo-3.” He raised eyebrows at Mason’s sister. “Hey, Erin.”

Erin raised eyebrows back. “Hello Mark. Sheila.” She peeled her phone off her wrist. “How long is this going to take?”

The elevator dropped. Sheila took control, opening doors while the lift was in motion. “Depends on your brother.”

Mark pushed a grav-lift tool box to one side. “Drone inspection called out a high-pressure ventilation duct with the spigot backed way out of the downstream slip-joint. Cafeteria on 18 is straight underneath, full to capacity.”

Sheila laid her perky ears out, then back. “We didn’t turn off the gravity. Chester tried to winch it back in, and it fell. We cleared out the cafeteria and turned off the gravity, but it didn’t help.”

Mason unfolded a pair of disposable coveralls. “I’m listening.”

“The duct’s jammed, won’t budge. One end is hung up on a backup power supply cabinet. No breach, yet, but it’s possible. Chester’s fuel port snapped off. Butane bled out, so he can’t run his propulsion system. And, he’s pinned on his side, can’t get leverage with his tentacles.”

“Crap!”

“Oh, yeah. It’s bad. I’ve been in there two hours trying to pry him loose. I’m worn out, and if you can’t do it, we’ll have to use a molecular cutter on the duct.”

The coveralls were too large. Mason had to roll up the legs. “What’s Chester say about that?”

“He’s scared, and he should be. The radiation could kill his processor.”

The car crept down, slowly passing Cargo-3, where a mechanical indicator set into an access hatch warned, ‘If piston is flush, other side is vacuum.’

The car stopped short of RD-18, revealing a dark, forbidding between-decks 1.5-meter-gross-clearance crawlspace.

A trio of drones lifted out of the tool crate, lamps blazing. Mason told them, “Lead me by five meters. Keep your lights out of my eyes.”

He paired his neural implant with the drones’ cameras, inviting an Ultra-Vision 3-D render into his brain’s optical center. Mason’s sight picture ballooned. He swayed, off-balance.

Sheila held on to his shoulders. “Whoa, tiger. Give it a second.”

He stuck out his tongue. “Uck.”

She staged a self-propelled tool tray on the crawlspace deck. “I wish I had spherical vision.”

“I wish I’d skipped breakfast.” Mason leaned into the crawlspace, allowing null-gravity to take weight off his torso so Sheila could push him in.

After that, it was a free-fall swim through a low-ceiling, claustrophobia-inducing obstacle course, terminated by a full-height section beam, making the compartment one-way-in, same-way-out.

Chester was quiet, incommunicative, tentacles limp. Mason patted him on the capsule. “Hey buddy. Wake up.”

A ready light winked on. Tentacles stirred. Chester spoke softly, as if telling a secret. “This one had a terrible dream.”

“I can imagine.” Mason tugged on a jackpost. It was cranked up tight enough to lift the duct, had one end not been hung on a waste pipe, and the other wedged against an emergency power cabinet, containing a toxin-laden petrogas-converting fuel cell.

Chester touched Mason’s hand with a lesser ungula. “Mason Fowlkes. This is a dangerous place for you to be.”

Mason eyeballed the power cabinet. The service panel was half-open, bent beyond any hope of closing it. Light bounced off the fuel cell within, a sturdy device, but it could be breached and that would be a non-trivial event.

He said, “Yep. It’s scary, all right.”

Chester replied, “You must bring waldoes, seal the compartment, cut the duct. There is no other way.”

“Nah. I’m not giving up on you; not yet.” Mason grasped a virtual joystick in augmented reality, guiding a drone toward the power cabinet.

He said, “Sixteen, calculate how many cans of shock foam it would take to fill up the empty volume in that cabinet.”

Mark the shipwright spoke in his ear. “This is why we like having smart guys in the department.”

While waiting for supplies, Mason coated Chester’s capsule with spray lube. A strap, fastened to a lift ring on the ceiling, gave the maroli something to pull on, making it possible for him to expose his filler port.

The port was easily replaced. Mason recharged Chester’s fuel cell with a Dollar Store butane cylinder, restoring propulsion.

Sheila filled the offending power supply cabinet with shock foam. The material turned into a stiff jelly within minutes.

Anuraga called General Quarters. Everyone on board went to emergency stations.

A strap was fastened around Chester’s capsule. Mason, Mark, and Sheila waited in the elevator, clad in spacesuits. A power winch wound up slack and pulled.

Chester came out of between-decks like his tentacles were on fire. He told Mason, “This one will always be grateful.”

He told Mark, “This one resigns from the maintenance department.”

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Serialize This — Chapter 4

Are you ready to get in on a closely guarded best-selling-author secret of success?

Yeah. Me, too. Maybe the ghost of John le Carré will post something in the comments.

In the meantime, I will confess that Maroli Tango’s early-draft first chapters were nothing like what you’re reading here. Not to say the audience will never see them — it was great material, only in the wrong place, too slow for an opening salvo.

And so, I’ve been chapter-shuffling for weeks, moving my tastiest prose toward the front of the book, and guess what?

Maroli Tango is the last volume of a trilogy, concluding a massive story arc. If I lead with explosions, readers will say, “Who are these people, and why should I care what happens to them?”

I tried the old swapparoo — heads roll, flashback. My first readers went for it, but they’ve read the other books. You and I have not built that kind of relationship.

Yet.

Chapter 4

AMV Anuraga, The Dust Cloud

Residential Deck 41, also known as Tourist Deck A, was busy-busy.

The outer ring bustled with hospitality staff, the middle ring a spawning ground for linen buggies, the central column festive with open stateroom doors and maroli cabin stewards wearing adhesive bowties.

Mason did not expect to see his workmate Chester waiting on the threshold at 4137, a two-bedroom, deck level patio suite.

Continue reading “Serialize This — Chapter 4” →
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Serialize This – Chapter 3

I recently discovered that publishers of serial novels like to get their victims on mailing lists before explaining the proposition. I’m on too many mailing lists. It’s ‘unsubscribe’ here, ‘Stop’ there, ‘Block’ over yonder.

But, I did allow myself to get suckered enough times to assemble a custom plan, just for my Internet friends, but I’ll need your email address before I can tell you about it.

Nah. I'm kidding. There's no plan. Tell me what you want, and I'll see what I can do.

Chapter 3

The White House, Washington DC

It was another sunny day at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue where, at 8:00 AM sharp, Colonel Theodore Clarke, USAF retired, appeared on the President’s Patio outside the Oval Office.

She let him in through a side door. “You could come in the front, you know. Maybe check in with Captain Price.”

“Tune into the Anuraga Channel.” Clarke gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Bharamin’s in orbit.”

Continue reading “Serialize This – Chapter 3” →
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