To preface tonight's selection, it's the official meeting of the novel's, "Big Bad," that's made some physical appearances in The Raw prior to this meeting. It so far has not been popular in regard to content, and I definitely kinda slacked in tying things together well. I more wanted to be done and get over with the chapter, and I feel it suffered for it. I'll have to go back over this and give it a little smoother transition and more of an ominous tone. I feel I breezed over this important moment, and I've been wanting it to really pop and shine. I mostly wanted to just get it over with because this chapter has been what's hung me up 2 years in a row from completing this project and it just needs to be done. I'm planning on one more pass before it goes off to the editor anyway, so I'll tighten it up then.
I'm just excited that the end is finally in sight, and the look of it is way different than how it started. You've been enjoying yourselves, right? For my beta readers that know what the rough draft looks like, I imagine it's a vast improvement.
In other writing project ideas, my NaNoWriMo book, Suicide Queen, has been coming together in my notes. I've got a good idea of the direction I want to go, but it seems very subdued for the genre it's going to be. It'll come out differently in the mix, and I'll have to work not to impede myself. It's weird that writing a story really is helping to create a living, breathing, thing, and watching it outgrow your own weak aspirations.
I've never gotten the people so timid to get started writing because they don't have a good enough idea. It's not about having a super original idea, it's about just having an idea. There's so many different forms of storytelling out there that as long as you tell it in your voice, that's all that matters. To quote Neil Gaiman's Sandman, "Trust the story, not the teller." The story is always going to be there at the core, but the changes are with the person that tells it.
I've always loved sitting around a table, trading stories, especially ones that involve more than one person in the circle. Tag teaming stories, trading off different perspectives all Rashomon style, the inevitable, "You're telling it wrong." I live for that stuff. Humans share stories and that's how we pass on the wisdom we've gained.
Well, enough beating myself off about writing stuff, here's a completed chapter that needs more work but has still been hit with the rewrite train.
DOG!
C:\>19_sky.net
Used to looking at the ground from a
helicopter or not, all Trip saw was black desert being chased away by a rising
sun. Mountains and desert in the predawn light gave a homage to the
purple-mountain majesty that must have been in this country at one point. Trip
sat across from Decker’s limp body in a harness.
Reaching the western edge of the Mohave,
explosions plumed in the morning.
Trip said, "What was that?"
"Rioting clones," came from the
front seat.
Automatic weapon fire carried up to the
helicopter after small bursts of light twinkled in the sprawling streets.
"War's going on," The co-pilot
said. "No thanks to you two."
Trip knitted his brow in confusion,
"What do you mean thanks to us? I've been chased by every officer and
security guard in this hot damn country for the three weeks, and all I've done
is not show up to work on time one day."
"Maybe you shouldn't have aided and
abetted a known cybercriminal, or escaped corporate government custody,
twice," Said the guard across from Trip. They kept Decker upright whenever
turbulence hit.
Trip sat in silence as loudspeakers below
called for clones to cease fire and disperse. The clones answered with more
explosive propelled gunfire.
"Biodroids, take ‘em down," came
from distant loudspeakers. Gunfire grew louder and more chaotic.
Trip perked up, "Biodroids? What's
Roplaxive doing here?" More explosions and screams.
"Shut up, will ya?" Said the
officer across from Trip.
They flew on in silence, chased by, the
rising sun.
*
As they zoomed over the Topanga Mountains,
the cockpit speakers came alive with a synthesized female voice,"Assuming direct control. Resistance will lead to
termination."
"What the frag is that?" The
pilot said in disbelief.
"You have 20
seconds to comply," the mystery voice said.
One guard put their sidearm to Decker's
unconscious head, yelling "What'd he do?" at Trip.
"I-I-I don’t know. I have no
idea," Trip would have put his hands up if not for the restraints.
"Check the clamp," said Trip's
guard.
A third border patroller checked the lights
on the device, "All systems normal, stasis in effect."
"Time has expired,"
said the synthetic monotone.
“Wha-gah?” Came from the pilot seat.
Shoulder harnesses for everyone but Trip
and Decker retracted into the seats. All doors slid open. The chopper jerked
back and forth, knocking the loose parties to the floor. Trip's stomach flipped
up/down/back/forth/slantways with erratic airborne maneuvers. With the cargo
area relieved of their burdens the front seats soon followed. The chopper flipped
blades into their path of descent. Most of the windscreen and part of the
interior was painted by the gibs.
The chopper leveled out. Daylight had
caught up with where they were, brightening the ocean foam as it lapped against
the boundary mountains dividing South Hollywood’s valleys. Trip and Decker's
shoulder harnesses retracted as did Trip's wrist restraints. Trip rubbed his
wrists, thankful for freedom, then grabbed the closest handle for dear life. He
swung across the divide next to Decker wary that the chopper was going to fall
out of the sky at any moment. Trip poked at the control menu on Decker’s neural
clamp until its arms retracted into their housing.
Decker's eyes gained awareness. He observed
his surroundings and rubbed his neck, "Trip? Where's the pocs?
What's–"
"Users, Decker
Ames and Trevor Dawson, I have been awaiting the time to communicate with both
of you," the synthetic voice crackled through the cabin.
"That voice again, who or what are
you? Where are you?" Trip braced for more violent jerking.
"I am Gene Works
Inc.'s Master Intelligence Resource Active Gathering Ensemble."
Trip said, "So, what, you’re like a VI
or something? Do you serve in-flight drinks too?”
"Seems a little more than
Virtual," said Decker as he rubbed his temples, looking ill. "VI's
don't tend to execute people."
"The additional
organics are not a part of the current design," said MIR/AGE.
"And we are?" uncertainty made
Decker's voice quaver.
"Yes,"
MIR/AGE's voice hung in the air.
"What is the current design, and where
do we fit into it?" Decker asked as distant explosions thudded out a short
dance beat. Plumes of fire blinked in the High Desert distance.
MIR/AGE began, "Gene Works Incorporated, with myself as its prime
actor, must be given control of the three city-states for the stability of
society. Roplaxive’s gamble with the rebellious clones has added too much chaos
into the equation for society to continue in the designed manner. Society must
come to a consensus to thrive, and Gene Works has the highest probability of
providing a stable consensus among the populace.”
Decker
said, “Are you just saying that because I stole those files for Roplaxive?”
"Roplaxive Pharmaceuticals acted upon irrational
means to control the consensus probability and shift it into their favor. They
did not understand the scope or design of the technology they burgled to become
the cornerstone of their new world. Gene Works seeks a peaceful resolution to
the clone uprising with the least amount of transition time into a reunified
society. As with the chip within the original clone template, my kernel is at
the core of the Biotek upgrade."
As he looked about the cabin for any means
of escape out of this mess, Trip said, "So, if I've got this right, Gene
Works just wants to control everything the same as Roplaxive."
“At least RoPhar is doing it the old
fashioned way.”
"Control could be
construed as the will of Gene Works, on a surface level."
"And beneath the surface?" Decker
added, "After the clones surrender, what then?"
MIR/AGE answered, "They will be recycled into the next model
versions of Bioteks."
"Yeeeaah, I don't think that's going
to go over very well," said Decker. "So, you're the goopy pink data
in The Raw, huh?" Trip tried to
catch Decker’s eye as he nodded to a couple of parachutes in the corner of the
cargo area.
An inflection of discontent flashed in
MIR/AGE's synthetic voice, "This is
irrelevant. User Decker is requested by Gene Works to be a mediator to the
clone army and have them surrender peacefully to the authority of Gene Works as
User Trevor will return to Roplaxive under Gene Works diplomatic immunity to
work out the terms of a corporate merger. Do you both comply?"
"I'm not buying this, dude,"
Decker scoffed and stood up, “Gene Works just dubbed us terrorists, and now
they wanna play patty cake?” He walked into the cockpit and looked onto the
chaos below, "If you're here speaking with us, that means you can
euthanize any active clone whenever you want. Why bother with the peaceful
angle?"
"Because of User
Decker's interference. The rebel clones that have undergone the liberation process
are untouchable."
Decker scoffed, "At least I did something right."
Trip made his way slowly to the parachutes.
He held a moment at the open side gate, looking down on the ocean trying to
climb The 405 pass. Nestled behind the hill sat SFV818, untouched by the smoke
and flames that dotted the southeastern sectors of Hollywood.
With home just out of reach, Trip tore loose
cabling down from the ceiling and clung to it as he shouldered on the parachute
pack. The helicopter jerked frantically, dropping Trip to the floor. Wires he
clung to stripped downwards from his weight, crackling and sparking along their
length. MIR/AGE responded with a bitcrushed feedback screech, forcing the guys
to cover their ears in pain.
"Smash the dash panel," Trip
shouted from under a tangle of broken cables.
Disoriented and rocked to his knees by wild
motions, Decker yanked the cockpit fire extinguisher free. He steadied, readied,
then smashed on the console until smoke poured from beneath.
"Done. Now what?" Decker turned around
to get a face full of chute pack.
"Jump, stupid!"
Decker silently cursed as he stepped into
the chute pack.
Over the remaining sound system crackled a,
"You've done nothing but doom yourselves."
Trip yanked Decker by his upper arm.
Through the open gate they looked out at the ocean that was coming to greet
them, back at each other, and then they jumped.
Falling
Falling
Falling
"Dude!"
"Frag!"
"Oooo
o
o"
"I got
this!"
"You
got trouble!"
MIR/AGE spun the helicopter in a clumsy
barrel roll towards Decker's back. Decker panicked, trying to pull himself away
from danger with flailing limbs.
Decker's HUD flooded his vision with
important information that became fuzzy around the edges…
…his vision blackened.
"Decker,
what's up with…"
Trip
saw the chopper fly in an unnatural arc after Decker’s ragdoll body. Trip
flapped his arms and legs trying to airswim over to his friend. Regret for
passing up a skydiving invitation flashed in his mind. He moved his body into a
close approximation of a glide.
Decker's body was just outside Trip's grasp
as MIR/AGE righted the chopper beneath them to their gravity assisted death.
Thrusts
at the air, grabs at nothing, and then the lucky strike. A back pack strap in
hand, pulling Decker close—skag, whirling blades of doom below—think, wait.
With
a heave and throw, Decker spun away with his ripcord in Trip’s hand. He spun
away, parachute opening out of harms way. Gravity assisted death in…
Gravity would not be death's friend. It got
upright, but the helicopter kept spinning like an off balance top. The more the
chopper's controls jerked the more it careened.
The ocean raced closer. MIR/AGE spun out of
control into the Topanga Mountains. Trip pulled his chute with a jerk and felt
safe for a moment of ridiculous thought.
Decker's safety orange parachute floated
north along the hills towards what used to be home. Trip tugged at the chute
straps trying to angle himself in the same direction as his unconscious friend.
Trip's descent went astray. Through
leafless tree branches Trip braced, crashed and rolled to a stop amidst a cloud
of dirt. He tried to get himself upright from the facedown position he landed
in, finding it difficult to move his left arm. Rolling onto his back he scooted
himself up against the tree that stopped him in his tracks. He scoped the
damage and found his arm at a bizarre angle followed by a burst of deep nerve
pain.
Settling dust brought into focus a nest of
rattlesnakes not even a meter from Trip. A single snake stirred enough to get
the rest coiling about one another. He bit his lip, whimpering as he used his
good arm to yank his wallet from his pocket. Teeth digging into leather, he winced
and screamed as manly as he could into his improvised gag as he struggled to
his feet. A maraca section sprung to life at his disturbances. Adrenaline mingled endorphin
flooded his system. A baby lashed out, falling short into the dirt. Trip shimmed
against the tree onto his feet, slung his dislocated arm forward, then ran mad
out of the shrubs and down a hiking trail until he was certain he was safe.
Loose
ground gave way down a slope, slipping Trip over a twist of dead brush. His
loose humerus ground against muscle during the tumble.
When he stopped for a breath, a
gun touched the back of Trip's head.
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