My Seemingly Wretched Novel (Fiction)

Everyone who writes occasionally spits the bit. You may have thought your prose was nothing sort of brilliant--not merely moving but a movement in and of itself. You've poured over the thing, polished it, added this, subtracted a bit of that. Then comes the reveal.

And you discover that you've seemingly laid a turd. Oh sure, your text is moving--bowel moving. People would rather pass anything through their bodies to avoid spending another moment with it. While I am not quite at the dispose of the damn thing and work on something else stage, it does appear that the first two chapters of my novel have left my test readers unwilling to speak to me. Since misery loves company, I thought I would share.

Your comments are of course invited.

Chapter One: I Am Not The Space Police

No signs of a brain box or the wrecked corvette. Central land mass, northern portion, vicinity on the inland freshwater lake chain. Day two of the survey. As per sensor reports, I have relocated here from the central southern portion. Movement to this location was unimpeded and the travel generally more of what I have reported before. The roadway system remains oddly intact, though the top layers, which are made from a tar concentrate have shown signs of flaking, fading and are in a general non-kept manner. I saw absolutely no signs of functioning land roving vehicles and only scattered signs of vehicles in any condition. None were on the main roadways, in any case.

Moreover, I encountered no signs of recent fires, organized scavenger culture, functional family units, packs of persons and no single living stray person. As per procedure, mine, I counted the number of possible cities between travel points and came up with thirty-five, ranging in number of structures between fifty and sixteen thousand. Potential population of the areas is unknown. I did not spot anyone still endowed with skin, ambulatory or animate. My travel started at daylight and has now concluded at sunset.

Animal life is free-ranging within the cities, however the presence of such does not seem to be drawn to the cities. There is little active picking at trash or scrounging for foodstuffs left behind by the population. There is little evidence of trash or foodstuffs left behind. All animals appear to be wildlife, mostly avian and small fuzzy running things of various types. Larger animals, if they exist, have not ventured into the cities as yet. I have no idea which animals are previously domesticated. I have not spotted a single one on a chain or with a collar or possessing a branding.

Currently I am in Sunset City and have found shelter ample enough for myself and my vehicle. Vehicle is still pulling to the left and not holding on autopilot at any altitude. This mechanical problem was pre-existing as of before my landing and was not caused by environmental factors. I have simply not used this mode much—and have neglected implementing the fix its manufacturer sent me. Air-conditioning system is non operative. Possibly damaged when I freed it from a mountain of sleet four days ago, two planets ago. I have rolled down the windows. Air quality is fair. Water is ample and, where it can be found, acceptable. Water shows signs of being damn water. Evidence of unnatural stuff is in it.

I am slightly sun burnt, but that is my fault. I have been stripping off unneeded environment gear. Left the blast shield of my helmet up and got a little too much sun. My face remains cleanly groomed due to cosmetic peal procedure I undertook three days ago. Eyes are a little dry, probably due to a condition brought on by prolonged space flight and not atmosphere, which is Fall-like and somewhat humid. There is a gorgeous harvest moon outside, peeking from a line of clouds made from water.

I am in full dress uniform as is procedure, mine, for making contact with aliens. Navy blue helmet with the golden wings and golden blast shield. Ornamental golden hoops around shoulders. Golden chest bandolier and golden broad floaty thing belt, fully packed with trade goods and greeting tools, all unused. Navy fabric of shirt and slightly too tight snug pants holding up well. If you find my body, that’s what I look like. It’s rather an act of optimism for me to think anyone might care, but convincing folks of such has been my avocation of late, so I will drink my own water for at least a sip. I am an impressive picture of whatever it is I am if anyone should see me.

Sky is orange as light is fading. Encountered rain early in the morning. Shower was mild. No electrical activity. Water drained from surfaces well. Water was water. Storm sewer grate I examined was clear of debris. Sewer seemed functional.

Base camp for morning was a saw mill. Large structure fashioned from pressed natural fibers. In the business of cutting and transporting large planks of the same. Piles of such in yard were warped, faded,  in stacks, on rough platforms made from same. Several mostly iron vehicles also in yard. A pair of steel beams ran across the yard, leading to a line of them parallel with one edge of the property. No other vehicles present. No artificial energy readings. No signs of movement within structure.

Location for base camp was central southern portion, place name Brown’s Ferry. Found no ferry, although there was a river. Contiguous location contained about sixteen hundred structures. Sensors reported no motions of vehicles, sounds of fires nor noises of language during the night.

Electromagnetic survey of the evening was the same as the day before. There are about fifteen hundred metallic and composite objects in various stages of orbit around the planet, some of which are still broadcasting stagnant or automated data streams. Many things are still watching all this nothing to be watched. My conclusion is that this is no central library, but rather a collection of idiosyncratic tools. The interest I have in such things is limited.

What I wouldn’t give to see a smile or hear a laugh. Technology, I have.

This seeming humanitarian side trip of mine has taken a turn for the demented. This is being recorded for the benefit of this planet’s benefactor, Countess Rezvulga of the Red Star fleet, upon her return from the fool’s errand I sent her on. Sadly her sense of urgency in this matter does not appear to have been timely. Justified, but not timely. But that’s just this moment’s observation and is mine alone. I have not consulted Windy as yet. As yet, I see little justification for doing so. One spaceman with impaired motivation is enough.

At two days in, I fear this investigation is now just one of morbid curiosity. Which is to say I have not detected the active threat nor entirely deduced the cause of these observations.

I am a monk. I am a political refugee, whose presence in Combine space is at the sufferance of the nether things running it. I am in the Combine Garden, on planet Tiamore, at the behest of Countess Rezvulga and under the sponsorship of Brother Elmaty. I am no authority here. Nor is it my intention to portray anyone that I have mentioned as having implied that I should be here or that they have the authority to do so. I am here on my own. I am not the Space Police here. I am not the Space Police anywhere anymore.

In any case, I feel the call of Justice though, and she is my worship. The god and gods in their heaven and heavens, above and below, instill her in us first—first just to make things and then to make them right. Happenstance determines the size of your stride and the range of your concerns. To those whom the most is given, the most is expected--and to her first.

On the other hand, sometimes stuff just happens. And there might be little you can do about it. None of this is a good reason not to try.

     The highlight of my second day of trying found me at the Cordan Middle School. As is procedure, mine, I have been paying extra special attention to large structures on broad avenues, which I judge to be the public type. The lot of this structure had nearly a hundred vehicles arranged neatly around it. Their wheels were flat and flaking and the glass in them pitted, smudged and in some cases cracked. That is the way I have found all of the vehicles.

     The windows of this building were dark, nearly black. Black as a color. It’s a film within the windows or a shade drawn behind them. The windows of the six doors I approached were clear, although meshed with wire inside. I found all of the doors locked.

     I looked back at the lot and across to the overgrown lawns. Poles sprouted up here and there from the uneven turf of red and blue blades. In the middle of the lawns there was a circular structure. Gaming field, I guessed. Places to stretch the bodies out. Things to play with.

     My helmet opened the door. It plays tricks with sound and nothing mechanical can defy it. A heavy chain drooped from the handles on the other side of the door and clanked to the floor. I yanked on the handle and went in.

     The air was flat, motionless. No lights. No sounds. I cleared the cement floor of the large entry chamber and began going down halls. All totaled, I found some twelve hundred juveniles and over a hundred adults. No signs of trauma. No signs of a flurry of activity. No objects sprawled or windows broken. Everyone on the floor where they had once been standing or sitting. As per previous incidents, their stiff clothing seemed somewhat oxidized. There wasn’t any smell. It had been that long ago.

     My appetite has been in steep decline. Justice has not whispered in my ear to take this another day further, but I did have another reading. If I am any judge of the contours of this geography and the principles by which they had generated power, the location of this reading would make a  poor place for one of their hydroelectric damns.

     Thus far, damns seem to be all they have and all they need. A standardized dry cell with a trickle battery powers nearly every device they have. These objects draw their energy from the air itself, broadcasted by arrays of towers. This technology makes their population centers rather compact and radial in shape. Not that they were beyond transferring power by wire and there do seem to be competing systems here and there. So it’s either a functioning power plant of unknown design or something unconventional and hopefully tended to.

     From what I can tell, these people were not particularly peace loving, but they don’t seem to have been at war with anyone. Anyone from off of their planet, that is.  Had I met them, I would have been the first alien encounter they had ever had. They were masters of chemistry, but they had some strange ideas about how light worked. Or they are not very visual.

     They don’t make pictures. They don’t have any visual representations of themselves. That could be religious. That could be poor visual acuity. Everything they make has a lot of texture, though. And these people aren’t much for colors. Lots of monochrome.

     I have nearly completely ruled out that they died at their own hands—although the entire world has the aspect of an experiment having suddenly gone awry. I am also unsure if what has transpired happened all at one time. Begging me on is the idea that it may still be happening.

     The condition of the dry cells themselves indicates that this is not the case. The chemistry is so poor that they no longer hold a charge at all. In fact, from what I can tell, they never would have been able to hold a charge. So none of these vehicles and devices ever functioned? This seemingly uniform amount of degradation would have taken millions of years. The idea that the degradation is uniform itches me.

     He didn’t blow up their machines, he killed their power sources. He didn’t kill the animals, just them. My fantasy also finds evidence that the vehicles were halted and then dragged off the roads. An ultimatum, followed by defiance, followed by demonstrations of his final solution. Oh, I am so ahead of what I can really know.

     I have made a search of my current base here in Sunset City, a place called the Fort Port Dodge, which is a small marina. Arriving at a place called Sunset City at sunset was too tempting of an omen for me to pass up. Further, my sensors caught long wind of something I had not detected before: radar. I suppose a radar station could be powered by a windmill or a water churn and that would explain just about everything. I am, however, spent. I have no desire to appear on radar right now, even if no one is watching.

     No one is in Fort Port Dodge, which is settling to me. There are some places people left and didn’t come back to. Maybe they are seasonal or maybe it was the time of day. I insist on camping in places without bodies lying about and am thankful to find such.

     Being out of season would explain the lack of boats here. Only my conveyance floats at the covered pier. There are racks for the storing of boats on the shore, but no boats themselves.

     I have seen no airports or airstrips, much less air planes. So who needs radar? They do have satellites, so they must have rockets. Or did I let my lack of curiosity about the satellites get the best of me?

     Inside the shack here at the pier of Fort Port Dodge there is little to be curious about. The door was locked, which in itself is an act of optimism. The array of miniature pneumatic spear guns still have tags with numbers on them. Her cash drawer is locked and the mechanical adding device next to it is well oiled. That nice comfy cot in the middle of what would have been her sales area is a little odd.

     I am no one to question the presence of a nice comfy cot right now.

  

Chapter Two: Not the Space Police Dispatches Itself

Unencrypted communication to Countess Rezvulga, my supervisor Elmaty, my love Toovy, all eavesdroppers and assorted lurkers everywhere. Central land mass, northern portion, vicinity on the inland freshwater lake chain. Day three  of the survey. I am about to leave the prime material plane.

     Presently I am standing before a ceramic casing, roughly my height of six feet and weighing about seven hundred pounds. It is my belief that this is the focusing element or business end of an inter-dimensional, post dimensional, intra-dimensional, transmat, teleporter thingy. It is similar to the Collubian Light Box or the High Guard Devotional Chamber. In fact, it may be a Devotional Chamber, although I wouldn’t know one except by reputation.

This possible Devotional Chamber is jury rigged, not by my hand,  by indirect means to an incompetently refurbished implosion generator and powered by an amat chamber. You can trust the word of Captain Meteor on the subject of technical incompetence. I wrote the book.

     The amat chamber has a serious leak, which by my measurements should have gone critical. It is possible that it is being held together by force of will projected through the transmat portal gizmo or by very good glue. The glue is a guess. I have readings on the projection, if that is what it is.

     Should anyone in the future contribute technical jargon to this, I am in no position to refute it. Those should be my final words.

The amat generator and atorec do seem to be commercial class, of the type typically found on drone freighters. They are the same color and have the same imprint on their casings. The interface between the two, a ceramic hoop array, seems to be integral and not a fusion. Not that I am an authority on pottery. Although I am one on drone freighters. The guess is based on size and in comparison  with the systems on my own conveyance, a two ton military class corvette which is sans interceptor missiles or a missile rec. I do have the charliq system and the expanding deflector dome unit, which are both energy draws, so I might as well tell you that my ship is hunter green for all the good that will do you. My ship is hunter green with dark brown and sandy splotches. And that is a custom job.

     The implosion generator is not a match for the amat or atorec systems, which is a no no. Not even the same frequency. Actually grounded into its own housing. Quite the sight. It’s industrial class, stationary non space craft or very old. In any case, it is on its side and has a large gouge on the side facing the hole it is venting into. The floor is eight inches of prefabricated concrete. Which has a hole in it, also gouged. Or irregular. He tore a hole in the side of the generator and then tipped it over to cover the hole in the floor. The unit is venting partially decayed antimatter flurry. I cannot give you the type of decay nor degree of partiality, inasmuch as this is as close to the stuff as I have ever gotten. The globs are the size of a fist, are luminescent puce and are leaking into a storm sewer directly below this structure. By leaking, I mean they are eating their way through the sewer, which is common composite clay. The water is bubbling dramatically and releasing small pink poofy mushroom clouds. Not to be too technical.

     In this chamber I have also found five man-sized glass tubes with spent filaments inside them. The glass is bubbled and opaque blue. I also found three other tubes with clear glass and unspent filaments inside them which I rendered utterly non contiguous through force of my rubber sheathed nightstick and perhaps not a little frenzy. Also of possible scientific interest is a room or two of very delicate looking antennas and blinking objects which I reduced to microscopic slag with a radial sonic burst from my helmet. I have also melted the wall behind me with a deployment of charliq so that I could fit my corvette into this room. The wall I melted through was made out of something that burst into flames and melted. Not that it was my intention to disrespect the façade of a wedding chapel, which is what this building was.

     It’s a very nice view out the wall here. It’s the highest point in town in the town of Hope Heights, population of a quarter million at one time. It’s a religious vacation destination for newlyweds. Or it was. The tubes are weapons designed to permanently disable, scramble, short circuit, fry the neural centers of, specifically, the former intelligent inhabitants of this planet. 

     The tube weapons killed everybody. It makes this flash. The creature powered one up, perhaps to deploy it on me. The other devices feed the transit, transmat, to wherever it is that is on the other side of that portal. It also took something with it that I didn’t break, before it ran out the portal.

     I have the systems in my corvette holding the portal on the last known reading. The readings are based on a statistical snapshot I took about three seconds after the creature bolted through the transmat object. I did not take any readings of the transmat prior or after, so I have no idea if the readings fluctuate. Also thanks to state secrecies, academic pride and the general contempt of pointy heads for common spacemen, I have no information available to me on the working physics of the Voliant Wave. Thanks to my own thrift, I did not have an interceptor missile, which could have solved any number of problems.

     I am relatively uninjured and any danger I may be in is of my own making. Speaking of which, I have set the corvette’s systems to test the elasticity of the force of will, or whatever it is, in hopes of snapping the creature back through the portal. This may be a counterintuitive move, inasmuch as this force is probably the only thing keeping the amat from exploding.

     It is my hope that this creature has a nice crisp neck that I can snap between my hands!

     I am climbing through the canopy of my vessel, a type six, which is my personal possession, awarded to me for my military service in the cause of the last authority I have ever had any faith in.  The ship was in fair but not perfect working condition when I came to this planet three days ago. I came here of my own volition, at the whim of curiosity, in hopes of restoring the stillness of my soul through contemplation, meditation, convincing aliens that the universe is not indifferent to the plights of intelligent creatures, or,  at the least,  meeting nice new people. All of this in the furtherance of my new profession as a monk.

     I would have blasted the creature, but I mistook it for drapery.  I kid you not. The creature’s name is Sulfur. Or Suffer. Hold. I don’t know what it was saying. It wasn’t thinking anything. I only know how what it was speaking sounds like.

     It did most distinctly deploy a weapon on me. A quite conventional alpha wave blaster. Essentially a miniature version of the tubes. Which was very effective. But it won’t work on me next time.

     For the record, I am pursuing, am in theoretical hot pursuit of, this creature, Sulfur, whom I suspect of the murder of everyone on Planet Twelve shade one of the Combine Garden. I am doing so at my own prompting. I am following the thing through the portal, assuming that this can be done. I did not see it kill anyone. It did fire on me. It ran. I am chasing.

     At any rate, it appeared like every other dead person here only it was wearing a black shroud. And it was moving. The other dead people here don’t move. In its hands was a blade on a pole, a pole arm, I think a scythe. It was the smell more than anything else that interacted, perhaps drawing experience from my consciousness. Cheap trick. Unless my cosmology is entirely wrong, mythological figures do not need atorecs, and, if they did, would know how to hook them up properly.

     Upon my exit from this chamber through that portal transmat job, I have the autorec rigged to fragment. The resulting implosion ought to contain the spread of antimatter as well as sending this malefactor’s factory of evil to kingdom come. I think. By the god and gods in their heaven and heavens, above and below. May the sea of peace embrace me.

     My corvette is currently channeling 230% of its power capacity, which is a not for long event. But it’s a good ship. Yes, you are, Honey.

     This is being sent as a delayed  unencrypted radial broadcast without distress signal overlay. In keeping with procedure, mine, if it is to be, it is up to me. So listen up you overlords, you crime lords, you neglectful inheritors, kleptomaniacs, perverts and do nothings. There is no reason to send a rescue party. I will no longer be here. In one sense or another. Everyone else on this planet has been murdered.

     My final words: Should anyone in the future contribute technical jargon to this, I am in no position to refute it.

     Kick it, Honey.