Novel Excerpt: More Poor Exposition

9.06.2006
Ore : 3:49 PM

Bear with me here:

So I had snatched the temporary Section 4 airlock codes from some evil Agartthan fag who should have known better. It didn't take bravery, or strength. It took cowardice, a willingness to let him fuck me and pass out, to wait until he snored, and to, in my stimmed-out wakefulness, snatch the palmcon from his back pocket. I delivered it into her fleshy hand, and from that point forward, she did not hate me.

"You did good, kid." She called me "kid." Despite the fact that I was easily three to six years older than she.

For two years she served as my guardian angel. There was no reason. For almost a month I was sure she wanted something tangible from me, and that once she snatched it, she'd leave me to the goons, or the Diaspora, or to some Agartthan with rapacious, barely human appetites. But that never happened.

She had not hair but a clot of thin strips of semi-tough yellow plastic. The rest of her, however, was all woman. And I mean all woman: like everyone else on Illyria, white lesbians tend to be soft, effeminate. But she was a Rube, as hard and powerful as any man. Her eyebrows, though shaped, were her own. She suffered no welding, no tendon-bracing or plating. Her nails were natural, as were her teeth. I doubt if she even had a duralport. And she had no more than two tattoos, both simple and ink-and-needle-made, dedicated to bitches who had left her and who had died, respectively. More than anything else about Chord-A, I remember her unique synthesis of hardness and softness.

The day Chord-A lost her life: He had pushed her down, but she had popped up, ready. I remember her healthy sneer and her aquiline glare, which willed sure pain as she assumed her fight stance, as though she had been waiting for this since birth. I remember the tan, radiation-induced freckles that spangled her taut breasts, which themselves were a combination unique to the young of muscle and fat (she could not have been older than 18.) They bounced tersely as she brushed the soil off of them, and threw her punches like any other hormone-driven great ape.

She had a romantic streak. She believed deeply in the greater things: equality, tolerance, an enlightened discourse among many, a tub of tofu in every pot, days when you didn't wish yourself dead because you actually had the time and wherewithal to treat yourself to a nice dinner or an hour of high-quality tamasha programming. But she would never see any of it manifest.

She died defending me. He, by The Code, was right to do have killed her, of course: he wanted to make me his bitch, his fuck-slave. I balked (I did not at the time understand in the context of Ruby my own strength, born as it was of an accident of genetics and geography, and was afraid of him. I was alone, in a tiny world that did not know me and that I did not know, and I feared him.) She had called him out. I survived, but lost her -- he had broken her neck. The community did abide.

Unless I wanted to lose my life to the mob, and thus impugn her memory, I had no business getting revenge on her and my behalf. I must continue to suffer his existence.

His name is Dante Solder.

posted by teh l4m3 at 3:49 PM | Permalink |

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Comments for Novel Excerpt: More Poor Exposition
Fuck slave?

teh teh, my mother doesn't want me reading this kind of stuff.

I want to read more of this.

Too many commas.

I like fuck slave. More. Soon.

AG: Word to your mother.

smarty: More on the way... Details to come.

chuckles: Commas are your friends. Besides, I give so much to you and your wang -- throw me a bone here!

cs: Always looking on the bright side, I see...

Sorry, now that I have read all of it, I like it. I like dystopian futures in which everyone runs around naked.

Pals?

*sigh* I guess...

How can you argue with taut breasts that bounce tersely? A sci-fi story without some honest-to-goodness sexuality is so, well-- so George Lucas.

I think I am going to write a Sci Fi epic where everyone has names like Bob, Rob, Tom, Bill, Will, Gill, Phil, Todd, Tim, Gail, Susan, Sarah, Sara, Sandra, Sally.

Oh and the captain of the ship that barely runs and requires constant upkeep but always comes through in the pinch will be called, I dunno, Malcolm or something.

Just poking the bear.

Good luck with that, chuckledoo.

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