Lucky 4
Next to be published is Homa. Her novella is set in a mythical California city, obviously Los Angeles. Two rival biker gangs duke it out for control of the drug trade. Between machine guns and rocket propelled grenades, she manages to kill upwards of 400. Her characters fight on bikes, akin to the World War One fighter pilots. They also indulge in mobile (bike) sex, please do not ask me to give you details, Oy! I'm astounded to see she sells 850,000 copies.
Next up is the cop. Her full length novel has over 2,000 killings by the Satanic cult. It sells 820,000 copies, spends 15 straight weeks on the top ten best seller list.
In retail, they say the customer is always right, meaning if you have the dollars to buy, makes you king or queen. The fact of these 2 successes does not bother me, merely shows me the moral standards of the public.
What really hurts is both authors become impossibly stuck up, I end up losing their friendship.
As the walls slowly close in on me, I think vaguely of being stranded in time by accident, while on a next Canada mission. As I get more depressed, this mutates to thinking of ways and means of dealing with the TDF so as not to leave a trace and do it. Canada is chock-a-block full of Indo-Guyanese, I would melt in invisibly there.
Perhaps our management is capable of observing changes in people. I simply never get the chance, am never offered another Canada mission.
Once again, the fastball is tracking toward the fat part of the plate. Compared to others, I get remarkable luck of the draw. They want me to chronicle the economic collapse of Britain circa 2100. Easy or what? Millions dropped outa society, lived in coastal shanty towns, drew the dole. The rest, resentful, took economic activity underground. The only thing that prevented total collapse was the onset of war, which necessitated changes in dole rules. But while it lasted, it was a quarter century of party. Once again, an afternoon in the library gets me pointed in the right direction.
I do a Paul Theroux style coastal walk, document my findings.
So how safe was I? Lot safer than you might think. Chemicals in the food had altered the genetics, 3 girls born for every 2 boys. The danger never was men; was women with knives who get too jealous. Being quite unattractive is a real plus for a mission like this. Both men and women talked freely and openly with me, without any trouble.
A slow trip, my TDF gave way more time than needed. To get good color commentary, I stay in rental rooms, do jobs which will give me public contact. No one bothers to check references, there are millions of jobs standing vacant.
It's a fun relaxed way of life, long as you don't hit on anyone's boyfriend. I hear endless talk of knife fights, never see one. I witness violence only once, very mild.
A dozen girls beat up 2 homos. Not badly, just a warning, no more of that. Each choose one of us or you get beat up again next week. I never see any other obvious gays, so presumably others are using the same strategy.
In my cafe job, I hear or overhear all town gossip. One guy was spotted boarding the BritRail to London. The other agreed to the girls' demands. I laugh when I hear why they gave him a week to decide. Their rules are he doesn't do so by talking; but by shall we say taking each car for a test drive.
In due course I see him walking down the street hand-in-hand with one of them. From his blissed-out expression, he does not seem to be missing his gay buddy.
It being a nice day, Angela and I go outside for our break.
Wicked smile, she starts, "got me an invite. Going homo hunting."
"Do tell."
"See the girls like to keep it an even dozen, something about a dozen plays on their minds. Anytime one leaves the group, another joins. And guess what - people think you're cool - say they'll invite you for the next vacancy."
I know I've just been hugely flattered. But it breaks every Time Corps rule. Besides my TDF is fast running out. If I don't get a move on, I'll miss rendezvous.
I twist a smile, "my brother, useless lump, like all men."
She nods in obvious sympathy.
"Just gotta e-mail. Dad gets outa hospital on the weekend. You think bro would lift a finger to help? No way, that's daughter's job. If I don't go home for a bit, they'll ostracize me."
"What a bummer! Homo hunting is lotsa fun. Still, guess that is how Indian families are."
I groan loudly, "centuries come and go, Indian families just do not change. Just outa curiosity, what would happen if one of them were racial, refused to try me out?"
She blanches, "my God, nobody would stand still for nonsense like that. The girls would kill him, deathly insult like that. But hey, he wouldn't be so stupid, he knows the rules. So, I tell the girls you'll join in once you get back from looking after Dad."
"Thank you so much, you're a real pal."
As I climb aboard BritRail the idea strikes. The 3 to 2 ratio is long since history. This is a unique little slice of time. Perfect topic for a novella, complete with marauding women.
I laugh aloud as I read the e-mail from the Chief Censor. After the standard bureaucratese authorizing the story, she adds a PS, "you learn well from experience. Far more marketable than the cigarette story. Knock em dead, I'll buy your novella when it's out."
"Horny in Hastings" surpassess even my wildest dreams, weighing in at 986,000 copies.
I make sure though, not to be like my former friends. I'm soon immensely popular, others bouncing story ideas off me.
I reflect that every era, every trip, must have a story, just gotta find it.
My official report too is a success. I've documented the financial collapse out to the Nth degree. Ask any ball player how they feel after bashing 2 homers in a row. The bored itchy feeling in prison thing fades into history. Bring it one, whatever is up next.
Several days after my 24th birthday marks exact 5 years I've been here in the Time Corps fortress. I stare out the window and ponder that which I have become.
For several years now my nickname, even to my face, is "Lucky."
Why? Sold 12 novellas, enough to qualify for promo to Major. Only need 3 more years service. Of these, 8 have been profitable. I could retire now, but I choose not to. This is my life, my family. I'd be alone in the world if I retired.
My job between missions is deathly boring, Captain in charge of Finance and Admin. Way too much paper and way too many meetings and committees.
I've done 24 missions, only allowed one more and then my operational days are over forever. All 24 have been successful, in that I returned with the information they wanted. Also, I am the only person here to live a charmed life. Never arrested or ill or shot at or all those other things that happen to everyone else every third mission.
I should be happy, but I'm not. I thought money and literary success would do it. But really, I only feel alive either on mission or in the library. And nowadays, I don't get much of either.
Time and fate have been less kind to Homa. Ten missions, 8 of which were hairy. No further literary success, her "Biker War" was a one trick pony. She's never been published after, Lieutenant in charge of janitorial.
I don't hate her, but we say little more than "Good Morning." Nobody forgets how mean she was, she has no friends.
I am summoned to Prof's office, questioned in detail on my relationship with Homa. I'm honest, no resentment on my part, but no friendship either.
Next up is the cop. Her full length novel has over 2,000 killings by the Satanic cult. It sells 820,000 copies, spends 15 straight weeks on the top ten best seller list.
In retail, they say the customer is always right, meaning if you have the dollars to buy, makes you king or queen. The fact of these 2 successes does not bother me, merely shows me the moral standards of the public.
What really hurts is both authors become impossibly stuck up, I end up losing their friendship.
As the walls slowly close in on me, I think vaguely of being stranded in time by accident, while on a next Canada mission. As I get more depressed, this mutates to thinking of ways and means of dealing with the TDF so as not to leave a trace and do it. Canada is chock-a-block full of Indo-Guyanese, I would melt in invisibly there.
Perhaps our management is capable of observing changes in people. I simply never get the chance, am never offered another Canada mission.
Once again, the fastball is tracking toward the fat part of the plate. Compared to others, I get remarkable luck of the draw. They want me to chronicle the economic collapse of Britain circa 2100. Easy or what? Millions dropped outa society, lived in coastal shanty towns, drew the dole. The rest, resentful, took economic activity underground. The only thing that prevented total collapse was the onset of war, which necessitated changes in dole rules. But while it lasted, it was a quarter century of party. Once again, an afternoon in the library gets me pointed in the right direction.
I do a Paul Theroux style coastal walk, document my findings.
So how safe was I? Lot safer than you might think. Chemicals in the food had altered the genetics, 3 girls born for every 2 boys. The danger never was men; was women with knives who get too jealous. Being quite unattractive is a real plus for a mission like this. Both men and women talked freely and openly with me, without any trouble.
A slow trip, my TDF gave way more time than needed. To get good color commentary, I stay in rental rooms, do jobs which will give me public contact. No one bothers to check references, there are millions of jobs standing vacant.
It's a fun relaxed way of life, long as you don't hit on anyone's boyfriend. I hear endless talk of knife fights, never see one. I witness violence only once, very mild.
A dozen girls beat up 2 homos. Not badly, just a warning, no more of that. Each choose one of us or you get beat up again next week. I never see any other obvious gays, so presumably others are using the same strategy.
In my cafe job, I hear or overhear all town gossip. One guy was spotted boarding the BritRail to London. The other agreed to the girls' demands. I laugh when I hear why they gave him a week to decide. Their rules are he doesn't do so by talking; but by shall we say taking each car for a test drive.
In due course I see him walking down the street hand-in-hand with one of them. From his blissed-out expression, he does not seem to be missing his gay buddy.
It being a nice day, Angela and I go outside for our break.
Wicked smile, she starts, "got me an invite. Going homo hunting."
"Do tell."
"See the girls like to keep it an even dozen, something about a dozen plays on their minds. Anytime one leaves the group, another joins. And guess what - people think you're cool - say they'll invite you for the next vacancy."
I know I've just been hugely flattered. But it breaks every Time Corps rule. Besides my TDF is fast running out. If I don't get a move on, I'll miss rendezvous.
I twist a smile, "my brother, useless lump, like all men."
She nods in obvious sympathy.
"Just gotta e-mail. Dad gets outa hospital on the weekend. You think bro would lift a finger to help? No way, that's daughter's job. If I don't go home for a bit, they'll ostracize me."
"What a bummer! Homo hunting is lotsa fun. Still, guess that is how Indian families are."
I groan loudly, "centuries come and go, Indian families just do not change. Just outa curiosity, what would happen if one of them were racial, refused to try me out?"
She blanches, "my God, nobody would stand still for nonsense like that. The girls would kill him, deathly insult like that. But hey, he wouldn't be so stupid, he knows the rules. So, I tell the girls you'll join in once you get back from looking after Dad."
"Thank you so much, you're a real pal."
As I climb aboard BritRail the idea strikes. The 3 to 2 ratio is long since history. This is a unique little slice of time. Perfect topic for a novella, complete with marauding women.
I laugh aloud as I read the e-mail from the Chief Censor. After the standard bureaucratese authorizing the story, she adds a PS, "you learn well from experience. Far more marketable than the cigarette story. Knock em dead, I'll buy your novella when it's out."
"Horny in Hastings" surpassess even my wildest dreams, weighing in at 986,000 copies.
I make sure though, not to be like my former friends. I'm soon immensely popular, others bouncing story ideas off me.
I reflect that every era, every trip, must have a story, just gotta find it.
My official report too is a success. I've documented the financial collapse out to the Nth degree. Ask any ball player how they feel after bashing 2 homers in a row. The bored itchy feeling in prison thing fades into history. Bring it one, whatever is up next.
Several days after my 24th birthday marks exact 5 years I've been here in the Time Corps fortress. I stare out the window and ponder that which I have become.
For several years now my nickname, even to my face, is "Lucky."
Why? Sold 12 novellas, enough to qualify for promo to Major. Only need 3 more years service. Of these, 8 have been profitable. I could retire now, but I choose not to. This is my life, my family. I'd be alone in the world if I retired.
My job between missions is deathly boring, Captain in charge of Finance and Admin. Way too much paper and way too many meetings and committees.
I've done 24 missions, only allowed one more and then my operational days are over forever. All 24 have been successful, in that I returned with the information they wanted. Also, I am the only person here to live a charmed life. Never arrested or ill or shot at or all those other things that happen to everyone else every third mission.
I should be happy, but I'm not. I thought money and literary success would do it. But really, I only feel alive either on mission or in the library. And nowadays, I don't get much of either.
Time and fate have been less kind to Homa. Ten missions, 8 of which were hairy. No further literary success, her "Biker War" was a one trick pony. She's never been published after, Lieutenant in charge of janitorial.
I don't hate her, but we say little more than "Good Morning." Nobody forgets how mean she was, she has no friends.
I am summoned to Prof's office, questioned in detail on my relationship with Homa. I'm honest, no resentment on my part, but no friendship either.
posted by afghangirlscifi @ 8:01 AM
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