It's workshop time in my literary fiction class, and I've been working on helping everyone else out so much in class that I left out time for my adoring fans (pst, I mean you. Hey, where are you going?!). So, I apologize, but I finally have work to show you.
So my story I've been working on in class has been through some ups and downs, I have a couple other pieces I've sketched out, but need to go through some drafting processes to flesh them out and get them ready. But as for now, I have one lean mean story ready to rock. I'll post it next week if no further progress is made elsewhere.
Furthermore, on the To Slice The Sky front, I finally finished chapter 5's rewrite. And rewrite it was. I ended up writing in a new scene to replace boring ass exposition, and I realized that the 120 page chapter I had originally divided into 3 parts, has now become 4 parts. I may be shrinking down a lot of chapters in the future as well, and I know I have one complete rewrite of a scene coming up in the not too distant future as well as closer to the end.
I've written dozens of shorts, and I've written a few novellas, but I've never done a rewrite on a project this big. Writing a novel really is a whole different beast, and I feel that breaking it down into smaller parts is the whole way to do it without going crazy. Just thinking of writing out 300 pages worth of crap itself is a huge task. And then you have to chop it up and put it in an order that makes sense to other people and not just the fever dream it was when crapped into this world. I'm just hoping I can keep focused and actually have a 2016 release like I was hoping. We're already halfway through April and I'm still rewriting act one. How ambitious I was in January. At least work is getting done, and I'm not putting it off for a whole year like I did when writing the first draft.
And speaking of all that work, here's the fruits of all my labor for chapter 5 of To Slice The Sky as it stands now. And a bonus dog picture for missing last week.
C:\>05_Bright_Lights_Big_City
Decker got off the
train in Clonetown.
At TMZSQR Station he hopped on a line marked with a graffitied
sign for, 'Destiny/Liberty Islands'. At the crowded outdoor train station, his
new ocs adjusted to the lack of light pollution. Once he could see, it was obvious
he was the only non-vat-grown human in the immediate area. After being bumped
into and told "Go frag yourself,” and, “Stupid guvvy," so many times,
Decker made himself as inconspicuous as possible.
There were no maps for this territory. GPS results came back
with errors and it was too dark for satellite view. The closest Decker came to
a layout of Clonetown's collapsed cityscape were pre-war maps. Since most of
the Northeastern Megacity shown went underwater with the rise in sea level, the
maps were good for nothing. Feeling a spirit of adventure overtake his feet,
Decker downloaded a 4.5 rated cartography app and started walking.
Half a pack of smokes
later, Decker's current location was kilometers away from the station. Near the
edge of Destiny Island, the bridge/tunnel/rail networks webbing across the
'Wail Zone' appeared on the self-drawing map. The streets were a jigsaw puzzle
of fragmented concrete and toppled high rises.
In the darkened corners of each building, the same faces of
several archetypes lived their lives like humanity amplified. Their feelings
and reactions to the extreme conditions of a day in Ocean City were diverse.
Wails of ecstasy and horror from every window echoed through the streets. All
of their actions played out like a kinetoscope in flickering halogen light.
Glimmering across the waters, Ocean City’s towering grandeur
mocked the clone's makeshift grid. It illuminated outdated billboards for Roplaxive
products, vandalized and pasted with handmade fliers. An advert promising,
'cheap swill, cheap thrills,' at a bar called The Revolving Door, caught Decker's eye. Fortune had favored him
with a place to grab a drink and rest his feet.
He stepped through the swinging door that used to be the hatchback
of a ‘20s era Honda. Thirty mixed-congruous heads perked up at Decker in the
doorway. After an awkward silence, Decker pulled a stool to the bar and ordered
the advertised cheap swill. The noise in the room rose to hushed tones. The
bartender grabbed a water spotted glass and poured Decker a rusty brown cup of
unfiltered bitter. He slammed it down in front of Decker and said nothing.
Abashed, Decker sat, mumbling out a hasty thanks.
From Decker's right
came a throaty combustion engine turning over that stood in as a laugh. A wall
of a clone, tagged with scars from past stitch jobs, knocked back a shot of
red-brown liquor followed by a long pull from a tin can fashioned into a mug.
He wiped his lips with a massive arm covered in obvious synthetic flesh.
"They're afraid you're gonna start some skag. Even though I
could crack you open like a glowstick if you did try anything stupid.” He belched like a champion. “A guvvy in
Clonetown is never a good thing." The wall of a clone went for another
drink, found his mug empty and wiggled it at the bartender. "I'd finish
that beer and piss off to whatever island you came from," He shot Decker
a, 'just try me,' look and resumed staring at the back bar wall. "If you
know what's good for ya."
Decker took a similar
pull off his glass mug, winced, spun around and leaned against the bar.
"You look kinda familiar. Aren’t you on Capital Punishment or Piss
City or something?” That wasn’t on the list of things to say to someone
that could twist your head off. “I ain't here to start anything, dude," He
lit a cigarette. "I just wanted a drink, and to kick my feet up,"
Decker exhaled. "It's cool for guvvys
to smoke in here, right?" He tried to catch the bartender's stink eye. The
bartender slid him a cardboard coaster folded up at the corners in mock-up of
an ashtray. "Thanks," Decker ashed his smoke and smirked at the tough
guy like he wasn't about to deuce himself. The bar's volume went back to its
usual level, figuring the phantom threat resolved.
"What are you
really here for?" The big guy moved a couple stools closer. Decker tensed
at his approach, choking on his smoke. The clone scoffed.
Decker's coughing fit
subsided, "Well," *cough*, "back home, I used to look for work
in bars," Decker's face soured after finishing his beer. "Tonight,
just going where fortune moves me."
"A bored guvvy,
getting drunk on piss, and looking for work on the wrong side of the
Bridgeover?" The clone gave Decker an ocular pat down, "You're not
packing. You look useless in a fight. What kind of work could you even offer
us?"
"I'm a slicer."
Decker felt like a devin saying that in this type of joint.
The clone's hard
features shifted in their quarry of a face. "Taps, get this punk another
drink," He got up from his seat and moved into the sitting area. As an
afterthought, he addressed Decker, "Stay here. Drink your beer. I've got
someone who might find you interesting."
Decker took the
clone's new advice, opposed to making a mad dash through the Revolving Door and towards the rail
lines. The clone talked with a guy in an open jumpsuit tied off around his
waist. The second clone's weak chin, hidden under heavy black stubble, bobbed
up and down in response to the big guy. His Heterochromia eyes locked with
Decker's glowing ones. The two clones made their way back to the bar counter.
"You've got weird
eyes, guvvy," the new clone half-shouted over the din of the bar.
"I was thinking
the same about you, dude," Decker played social bomb diffuser with a
smile. "What do they look like, anyway? I haven’t checked a mirror before since
my new implants integra–"
"Whoa, whoa,
whoa, pump your brakes kiddo," The scruffy clone held out a halting palm.
"New implants? Brawl17, this jaggoff sound like grade-A-whiz material to
you?"
Decker said, “Kiddo?
When’s your fraggin’ spawn date?”
Jigsaw-Puzzle Face
screwed into an uglier sneer, "Probably one of them--whatever ya call
'em--darwins or some stupid guvvy word."
"Devins?"
Brawl17 shrugged.
"What? No, I'm
not some devin, hot from the corner shop. I mean, I did just get my new rig
installed, but–-"
"--Butbutbut,” Ugly
waved off Decker, “shut it. I've got a serious to do that needs doing and I
don't need some greenhorn–"
"--Hey, I don't
need to prove anything to you, dude.” Decker crossed his arms “You approached me. I was going to drink Clonetown's finest, provided by our friend
Taps," Decker motioned to the barkeep. "And maybe try to make a skag day,
kinda okay." Decker took the last drag of his cigarette and downed the
bottom half of his glass. His health widget assured him the new nanobots
swimming in his bloodstream were breaking down carcinogens. An uncontrolled
belch came out with a cloud of smoke as he pinched the cherry into the glass.
Brawl17 cleared the
air with a wave of his catcher mitt hand, "We might be a little over
hostile.” Brawl17's glare caused his companion to straighten out its DNA
puzzlebox face. "Since we're trying to conduct business, maybe all parties
should be properly introduced."
"Call me,
Sweeps." Blenderface extended a calloused hand that Decker shook.
"Decker,"
PheroTone labeled Sweeps' state as apprehensive optimism. Decker turned his
gaze towards Brawl17, labled with cagey, "So big fella, if you don't mind
me asking, what's with the seventeen?"
"There were
sixteen of my template that couldn't stay alive." The conversation in the
room died for a moment at the end of the sentence. The next song cued up on the
jukebox. "Well fifteen. Apparently the first one was too much trouble and
was sent to The Colony." Static hummed and crackled giving way to a
pulsing heartbeat, screaming and psychedelic rock.
It clicked in Decker’s
head, "That's where I've seen you. Fragging Capital Punishment. I think he goes by Bronson now."
"Good to know, if
I ever get sent West."
"What about you Sweeps?" Decker braced himself.
"Custodian. Gene
trash division, organic matter reclamation."
"You guys really need
to brighten up," A nervous laugh from Decker.
"I'm not sure if
you've noticed but clones don't really get a fair shake around this city,"
Sweeps mismatched features mocked glibness.
Decker tried to get
comfortable on his stool, "So, like, are we going to spare me the sob
story and to get to the job? I was already given the idea it'd be smart for me
to take myself back to the Bridgeover and get the frag outta town."
"The sob story is
the job," Sweeps stared hard into Decker's bored face. "They're
glowing blue behind skag brown, b-t-dub."
"What is?"
Decker cocked his head.
"Your eyes. You
asked and we got sidetracked. If you ask me something, I'll supply the answer
for you. I'm not the type to do things half assed, I wasn't grown that
way." Sweeps straightened up a little and leaned in, "We, the clones,
we need a voice. Something to unite us and hopefully shake things up. We need
something to connect us in the way the guvvies have the net. Where we can
communicate off the grid with clones from across the continent."
"We heard about
the demonstrations back west," Brawl17 added. "They give us hope that
it’s bad enough all over, and maybe we’ll have the balls to stand up for a
change."
Decker's mind sprang
to life with the saplings of a dozen methods. He sat there half grinning like
an idiot before he caught himself, "How much can you pay?"
"The movement is
small at the moment," Sweeps said, cautious optimism lingering in his
pheromone cloud.
Decker's body language
closed off. "I'm guessing not many other slicers come happening upon
Clonetown dives."
"You are quite
the anomaly," Brawl17 said.
"I can supply you
with materials, salvage, slag, whatever you need.” Sweeps said, “The main thing
it needs to be is stealthy as frag. If any one of us gets caught with this
deal, it's over."
"Then I guess
when we find out the final shape, you can instruct all your clonedrones the
importance of shoving things up their cakeholes to avoid detection."
Decker ordered another beer once Taps made the mistake of looking in his
direction.
"I hope you're
joking because you lack perspective on the gravity of our plight," Brawl17
said.
"I'm joking
because, while free materials are nice, my time still isn't for free. I do have
day jobs, plural, I need to show up to if I plan on keeping creds in my
pocket." Decker shifted positions again. “Jobs that questions will be
asked if I go missing from. Then a team of corporate lawyers are gonna jump up my cakehole and sue the skag out of me
for contract breach. It would be nice to have a little something up front to
defend against unknowns.”
Brawl17 nodded. Sweeps
looked cross, "As of now, you're little more than some guvvy talking big.
You said you're a slicer, we need something sliced and we intend on being very
accommodating."
"Creds,"
Decker wouldn't move.
Sweeps sighed, "It
always comes down to currency with you people, doesn't it?"
Decker screwed his
face, "In terms of providing goods and services? Yes, the world
unfortunately takes currency to grease it along. It's not a perfect system, but
it's the one we got. Now, creds."
"10,000,"
Sweeps let it hang in the boisterous air.
"Not to sound
ungrateful, but you are asking me to put myself at great risk on many fronts. I
know nothing of clone physiology, going to take some time just looking for an
infodump zip on the subject that won’t signal any red flags upon
download."
"10,000 credits
as an investment. You'll still receive all the supplies you need for free. Our
limited network will work on acquiring knowledge through information fences,
but that could cut into your final sum of 35k."
"I'll just bill
you," Decker said, "no sense stepping backwards and paying for something
we can get on our own."
"So then, do we
have an agreement?" Sweeps extended his hand for another shake.
"10k up front, 25
later, and free slag to build a clonenet, or whatever you’ll call it,"
Decker said.
"That's what it
sounds like." Brawl17 leaned back on the bar.
"Then you have
yourselves a slicer." Decker shook Sweeps' hand, not knowing what he just
got himself into.
*
Decker hated Mondays.
He was always off shift at SBUX, but it was when he received his assignments
for the week at Roplaxive. Running pen tests against a system he mostly built
was exactly the type of bulltaco work Decker went out of his way to avoid. Each
day was an endless bout of pretending he didn’t already know the backdoors he
wrote into a cyberspace diamond sheathed fortress during the last month.
SBUX shifts during the
rest of the week were harder and faster than the SFV818. Most of Ocean City
felt empty, but areas where people condensed themselves where condensed
clusters that rose through the clouds. The TMZSQR SBUX encompassed floors three
through five of Star Junction Tower. Decker
would find himself on any one of those three floors working x number of positions for y number of scheduled or unscheduled
hours. Chaz “Just Chaz” always had a way of getting the staff to help out
during their breaks.
B.Trix set him up. She
left a comment on his transfer profile about what a hard worker he was and “Just
Chaz” took that skag to heart. Decker ended up about as far from the espresso
bar as possible, slumming with the undocumented clone help SBUX denied having
at 'all' their locations.
He befriended a couple
of tekhed clones on the wash/bus staff named Fixer and Breaker. They'd been
leftovers from a small time electronics manufacturer who couldn't afford the gross
they ordered, because no one knew how much a gross is. The duo escaped into
Clonetown and currently wash dishes and bus tables respectively. At least in
their daily lives.
*
Over the weeks, Fixer
and Breaker had broken into Decker’s heart and home. Breaker assured Decker the
home part was just testing how much Roplaxive cares about employee security.
“Not enough,” Decker
sighed as he soldered a chip back onto a ‘smart’ phone motherboard. He listened
to the Theta-wave Binaural beats on the headphones that hack doctor prescribed
for him. As if his cochlea, studded in microscopic speaker arrays, didn’t
produce lifeperfect sound. He plugged the phone into a USB adaptor running out
of his Minjung-Ui Him palmtop.
Fixer and Breaker became
instrumental to the darknet. They filled Decker in on the importance of their
cranial 'slave chips' and how much it dictates their functionality. That led to
a grim request for thousands of discarded clone biochips, delivered by Sweeps,
for Decker’s research. So far, Decker had no fragging clue how to interrupt a
control frequency and create a direct link like a primitive graybox.
“Well skag, bud. Why
don’t ya daisy chain all those phones together through the old cell towers, I’m
sure like, one of them is still working.” Fixer rolled his eyes.
“Well skag, bud,”
Decker mocked, “Why don’t you come up with a fraggin’ idea then?” He flung the
Nokia made brick at a wall. Nothing happened to the phone but its faceplate
flying under the bed.
“Hey, whoa, Decks,
chill bud,” Breaker said. “Fixer was just being, ya know, Fixer.”
“I like being me,”
Fixer shrugged.
“Well you’re fraggin’
lucky I like you,” Decker gave Fixer a death gaze, “not a jury in Ocean City
would convict me.”
Fixer cleared his
throat and looked away when Decker’s face didn’t soften.
“So, should we order
in tonight?” Breaker replaced Fixer’s face from Decker’s view with the exact
same face. “I’m feeling spicy, how about Mexican?”
“Ugh, frag no,” Decker
switched out of his diagnostic reader to his base HUD. “The Mexican food here
sucks worse than my last boyfriend.” Decker removed his static free gloves and
sheathed the soldering iron into his multi-tool. “How about Thai?” Decker set
his headphones down with the rest of his gear.
“I’m sick of Thai. You
always choose Thai.” Fixer said, slipping on Decker’s headphones to block any
incoming rebukes.
Breaker looked like
had an epiphany, “Buds, I got it.”
“What?” The other two
said in unison.
“Barbeque.” Breaker
said with a nod. Everyone agreed.
They waited for their food
courier, even though they could have built something in the MR. Trip came home
so they tacked a last minute order onto the bill, extending the wait time.
Fixer was faking Tai Chi with an instructional holo in the living area as
Breaker fiddled with the castaway phone Decker had put back together. Trip laid
slumped on the couch while Decker paced about the common area, muttering to
himself.
Chirps, alarms, vamps,
and samples played themselves in varying lengths from Breaker’s direction. He
scrolled through each ringtone--one by one--with glee. With each new sound
snippet, the aggravation of the other living room dwellers rose another notch.
Since there wasn’t anything else to do, they tolerated it. Fixer most of all,
with Decker’s headphones on.
“I think these
Theta-waves are really getting me in tune with my inner soul chakras, or
something.” Fixer moved into Mountain greets the Dawn. “I can just turn off my
mind, relax, and float downstream.” Fixer waggled his hands like a wave.
“My stomach chakra is
open and needs to be filled.” Trip said. A flock of seagulls cawed over his
voice.
“Who the frag wants
seagulls as a ring tone?” Decker leaned over the back of the couch. “And where
the frag is the delivery dude? I’m almost ready to use the fragging MR.”
Breaker happened onto
the screeching sound of a phone line dying. “Whoa, how awful yet cool at the
same time.”
As Breaker spoke, all
three of them looked to see Fixer, drooling from his mouth and spasming on the
ground in a seizure. Breaker threw the phone, still repeating its terrible howl,
“Fixer, what’s wrong buddy?” Breaker clutched his twin’s hand.
Trip rolled off the
seat into action mode, checking Fixer’s mismatched pupils as they rolled back
into his head. Decker grabbed the phone, silencing the ‘Dial-Up’ sound and Trip
swiped the headphones from the clone’s head.
It was a heavy moment
staring at the whites of Fixer’s eyes. “You have a caller,” followed by some Spaced
out gal saying, “Rory’s Rib Shack. Food’s here,” punctuated the tension.
“I’ll get the door,”
Decker said as Fixer’s iris rolled back into view, “Where’s the corporate
card?”
Trip pointed off to
the kitchen with a grunt. He pulled his mobile from his pocket, shining its
light into Fixer’s face, “You back with us, guy?”
Fixer’s twisted away
from the light, rubbing his face with his hands. Breaker fished for the
discarded headphones, “What the frag caused you to mezz out like that?” Breaker
cautiously put an earpiece to his head. All he heard was a singular, pure tone.
Decker tipped the
courier chick then maneuvered a meter-high stack of Old American cuisine onto
the kitchen island. “You with us Fix?”
“I think I’m gonna
hurl,” was all Fixer could manage. Trip scooted away from splash distance.
“What happened to you,
dude?” Decker flipped on his biosigns widget, scanning for any abnormalities in
Fixer’s state. “You were going all Man of Tai Chi, then seized up.” Something
seemed different about Fixer’s head, but Decker couldn’t put his finger on it.
“If he had an epileptic
episode, I doubt he’s going to remember much.” Trip snapped.
Breaker looked up at
the headphones then the cellphone Decker had left on the couch. He silently sat
on the couch, placed the Binaural beats over his ears and pressed play next to
“Modem”.
EEEEEEEEEEWAWAWAWABRRRRRR*static*BWONGwangawang*static*
It was Breaker’s turn
to shake and spaz in a fit. The other three stared in shock.
Trip moved Breaker on
his back, “Decker, if these two don’t stop trying to kill themselves in our
apartment, there’s going to be a no clone rule.”
“Dude, shut off the
phone.” Decker said, rushing to across the floorplan, “It’s that fraggin’
ringtone.”
Trip and Decker pried
the phone from Breaker’s deathgrip and stopped the horrid screams of data being
transferred via phone line. Decker took back his prescription headphones before
they could harm anyone else. Fixer hovered over Breaker as he returned to
consciousness.
“That…” Breaker
exhaled, “sucked.”
“Why did you do that?”
Fixer said, “I doubt it looked like fun when it happened to me.”
Decker, the world
still an X-Ray overlay on his natural vision, saw something blank out from
Breaker’s skull, making him identical to Fixer, if not for implant locations.
“BRB,” Decker said and
bolted off to his room. The three guys in the living room stared at him like a
sideshow oddity. Decker skipped back with a control rod in his hand. Fixer and
Breaker recoiled when he aimed it at them.
“Quick, give me your
batch number.” He demanded. Black death tube bobbing in the clone’s faces.
“What? Frag off,” They
said in unison.
“Just trust me,”
Decker didn’t look any less menacing.
Fixed sighed and rattled
off his batch number. Decker flicked the thumbwheel to select the frequency,
and pressed the punishment button with a mad look in his eye.
Fixer flinched, used
to the feeling of an electric knife skull-fragging him at the touch of a
button. He unclenched his eyes to see Decker still jamming on the control rod.
Breaker beamed in
delight, “Ooooh, neat. Now do me! Do me!” he clapped his hands and squeed.
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