Serialize This -- Chapter 4
In which the Author shows petticoats
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.
Chester the size-one maroli, a machine/biotech labor appliance, self-aware not by design, his condition an unexplained phenomenon sporadically observed since the Vidura Golden Age, 70,000 years in the past.
An egg-shaped capsule, 85 centimeters from grav-lift pucks to tapered dome. A forward-facing cavity stuffed with a lab-grown plug and 8 fast twitch tentacles. A fresh paint job, abstract art rendered in glossy metalflake.
Maroli; Anye Sanskrit, ‘monster’. A practical robotics platform straight out of some Vidura engineering company’s nightmare department.
If you asked, Chester would say, “I am possessed by a spirit of the dead.” And then he’d wave tentacles, performing the ‘oooweeooo’ sound.
As far as anyone knew, that could actually be what was going on with the elevated maroli, thought to be numbered in the vicinity of 40 individuals.
Mason deadpanned a line from a comedy skit. “Space Mafia, sir or madame, whichever the case may be.”
Chester wiggled tentacles in merriment. “This establishment has paid all applicable fees and emoluments.”
A petite young lady squeezed through the doorway; dance slippers, tights, tailored polka-dot blouse, bob hairstyle. She said, “Hello. May I help you?”
He replied, “My name is Mason Fowlkes. Brandon Lopez asked me to stop by.”
The girl’s gaze followed a handshake up a lean, muscular forearm to the sleeve of a white polo shirt, past a kind smile, stopping for an instant at pale blue eyes.
He reminded her of a vintage photograph she once saw in a magazine, the form and figure of a 1920s teenage Scottish coal miner.
Momentarily tongue-tied, she stammered, “Are you related to Tim and Myra Fowlkes at Anuraga Media?”
He nodded. “They’re my parents.”
“Marie Jourdain. I’m very pleased to meet you.” She pulled the door shut behind her. “What an evening we had. Vonnie drank the compound at 6:00 PM local. At midnight, we started making trips to the toilet, and it was awful. If Chester hadn’t been here to reassure us, we’d have worried.”
Chester tugged at Mason’s hand. “I’m moonlighting for the clinic on 14. Veronica Charron. 83 years old. First dose, age reversal lite.”
“Oh, boy.” Mason mimed slapping his forehead. “How’s she doing?”
They peeked into the front room, where Marie’s landlady sat in a recliner watching space alien TV.
She waved them off. “Don’t come near; I stink.”
Marie asked, “What’s happening in orbit?”
Veronica replied, “They must be on break. Go get your breakfast while Chester is here.”
The cafeteria line on RD-41 was backed up. Mason said, “Let’s go to 18.”
On the way down, Marie studied elevator doors like she had never seen such wonders.
She said, “You’re a mechanic’s apprentice.”
Mason replied, “You have an advantage. Your turn.”
“Bricy Spaceport, near Orleans. Freight expediter.”
“No kidding? I had you figured for a CH Banks employee.”
Doors whooshed open. Marie hustled out. “CHB rents a hangar there. I’m the concierge.”
They paused at the entrance to RD-18’s cafeteria, where an A-frame sidewalk sign announced ‘Gravity is ON’.
She paced around it. “Why would they turn it off?”
“Wonky high-pressure ventilation ducts, between decks.”
“Who goes in to fix that?”
“Yesterday, it was me and Chester. A good day in the sense that neither of us got killed.”
“Merde!”
“Oh, yeah.” Mason shuffled forward. “An air-transfer plenum broke at a joint, pinned him tight. I had to winch him out.”
He spoke to a maroli server at the head of the buffet line. “I’m not eating.
She told the machine, “Chocolate milk.”
“With breakfast?” He got her a tray. “Yuck.”
“It’s two in the afternoon for me.”
Marie nibbled. They chatted.
She asked, “Why are news agencies still complaining about space aliens? I don’t know anyone who doubts things are better for us.”
Mason winced at the question. “What do you think it is?”
“Obstructionism. The global elite are upset about loss of influence.” She narrowed eyes at him. “And they fear the Space Mafia, not as much as they should, whose name you dare mention in a joke.”
“I’m a Zeze constituent.”
“Were you with your father and his friends during the first ride up to Anuraga?”
“I didn’t know anything about it until the day of the shootout in Alamogordo.”
“Have you seen the video records of that day? Is Doc Harrison a friend of yours?”
“Yes, and yes.” Mason cracked a smile. “July 31. He landed a space yacht in our yard, feds hot on his tail, and snatched us up.”
“How are you not famous?”
He shrugged, “I don’t know.”
She wrapped a croissant in a paper napkin. They walked to an elevator bank. Marie said, “You don’t have to escort me.”
He replied. “Okay.”
She dithered. “I mean, you can.”
“Then I will.” The doors closed. He said, “How long have you known Brandon Lopez?”
Marie caught a whiff of camphor-infused rubbing alcohol. “Four months. You?”
He side-stretched, balancing on toes. “Eight years.”
The lift picked up speed. Mason stretched the opposite direction. Marie checked out his abs. She asked, “Swan Lake?”
“Say again?” He put heels down. “No, wait, I got this. Dance of the sugar plum fairies.”
They exited the lift, laughing. She asked, “What does a ship’s mechanic do?”
“The same things a shipwright does, with an emphasis on manual labor. That’s why I’m sore.”
At the boundary to the central column, he said, “I hope we see each other again.”
Marie floated back to her suite. Chester the maroli met her at the door toting a laundry bag. “We took a shower.”
She tried not to look surprised. “Together?”
He performed the maroli nod. “Madame is unsteady.”
Veronica was tucked into bed, hair wrapped with a towel. She patted the duvet. “Is he nice?”
Marie sat on the edge of the mattress. “Very.”