Serialize This - Chapter 2
In which the Author elaborates
I am, perhaps, over-satisfied with the notion of serializing an essay about serializing a novel. It's recursive, a seldom-employed literary device, perhaps for good reason.
Regardless, feel free to appreciate this insightful moment while I veer back to the main topic: Would you pay to read Maroli Tango x-pages at a time, for a monthly fee?
Chapter 2
AMV Anuraga, The Dust Cloud
In 1970, a teenage Amancio Goncalves Lopez visited Zambales, Philippines to sign up for what became 6 years of service in the U.S. Navy, during which time he earned high marks as an administrative chef, and a fast path toward U.S. citizenship.
And so, by these portents was Brandon Amancio Lopez born in 1980, the son of restauranteurs Manny and Berlina Lopez of Cincinnati, Ohio.
Busboy. Kitchen helper. Scholar. Athlete. Forensic scientist. U.S Navy policeman. Organic chemist. NSA security auditor.
In July 2025, emissaries from Jivada, an Anye colony world, landed a space yacht at the Holloman AFB firing range, kicking off a narrative sometimes referred to as the Sasquatch Intervention, in which Brandon Lopez played a role between spectator and operator.
Nine months later, having accepted an executive position at an off-world-connected security company (CH Banks International) and sworn an oath to Zirna Zapha (Zeze, the Broken Claw, the Space Mafia) Brandon sometimes preferred to overnight in orbit aboard the repurposed Anye Migration Vessel Anuraga, where he was less likely to be murdered in his sleep.
On Ruksa Zila launch day, the Deck 31cafeteria was busier than usual. Wall-mounted display panels live-streamed AMV Bharamin, an Anuraga sister ship, in high orbit above Earth, the sun peeking around its vast, featureless 1x2 kilometer figure, animated by a lens flare panning left to right.
Young Mason Fowlkes and his sister Erin did not notice him until he approached their table.
Mason touched an ear. He said, “The legacy media are frothing at the mouth.”
Brandon shrugged. “Are you going to the party?”
In the foreground, a space tug towed a dull-black 20-meter sphere out of a cargo hatch into washed-out shadows, subtitles scrolling at the bottom of the display.
The caption read, ‘The airborne estate Ruksa Zila, wrapped in N-Space containment, has been waiting 2500 years for this historic moment.’
Mason made eye contact. “Yeah. How about you?”
“I’m taking Carmen. We’re going as a couple.”
Erin stared at him. “I see you guys holding hands all the time.” She wrinkled her nose. “So, since when have you not been a couple?”
There was a brief pause. He replied, “Maybe you should ask Carmen about it.”
Chester the maroli coasted past. He performed a U-turn, wiggling tentacles at Mason, saying, “Call me before you go down-planet.”
On the widescreen, action descended into mesosphere. A pair of tugs maneuvered quarter-moon-shaped N-Space compression claws into position around the package.
Blue flame erupted at the contact boundary. The scene shimmered with intense spatial distortion. The sphere expanded.
Erin pushed her chair back. “This is fascinating, but I’m going to church.”
Brandon tapped Mason on the wrist. “I’ve been moving my people, in case things get ugly. Got a young woman and her landlady, might be out of their element. Suite 4137. Do me a favor; stop by and see if they need anything.”
Two tables away, a shaggy gentleman of the Anye Mahat Limar persuasion touched his similarly bearlike companion on the shoulder, and said, “Come on, sweetheart. The natives in France are said to be totally civilized. It’ll be safe there.”
The lady showed fangs. “I’ll bet a foot rub it’s not safe anywhere.”