People in many worlds fight the same thing: betrayal, oppression, brute violence, ignorance. They rise to the occasion in different ways – or fail to rise.
The sapient dogs of kudzu-covered Atlanta escaped slavery, came together in the Great Pack, and now seek to strike against their once Masters.
Two immortal men from a dead Brotherhood choose different paths to the same end: dragging mankind up out of the muck and into the stars on their world.
In deep space, the seeds of violent conspiracy are laid when a transport ship is detonated beneath its crew, leading to an investigation which could turn up that which cannot be put down again.
In another time, a 20 foot long Utahraptor from the Cretaceous is elected president with unexpected results, including his campaign promise: “I Probably Won’t Eat You.”
What’s going on here? How are these things related? Is this science fiction or fantasy? Questions. There’s always questions.
(This is the 90 page pilot of a theoretical series setting up the major characters and factions in a sprawling multi-world chronicle. It was written for NaNoWriMo 2017 and is the raw, unpolished, unedited result of that writing.)
Then come the soldiers. Black and green mottled light plates over a black body-suit, chunky helmets that cover the whole face on their heads. Each after the first who has a clean, boxy SMG carries a heavy slug-throwing rifle of sensible design.
Brother Lukas Smoke
Lukas takes off the cloak, spreads it, and lays it facing the stove over another chair. Smith rolls one of the mugs around, swirling the contents over the heat.
A thin line is etched around Lukas’ neck — a vine-like tattoo. The leaves might also be circuit traceries.
Brother Bill Smith / Wisdom
The big man sits up, rubbing hands over his face vigorously. For all he’s a healthy specimen, he looks exhausted, haunted, mahogany skin pale in a different way from Lukas’.
President Raptor
An eight-foot tall, twenty-foot long (including the tail) Utahraptor, lightly feathered, white base with burgandy and purple stripes like a loosely wrapped tiger, PRaptor is wearing only a huge broadcast headset with lip-mic in front of his extended maw. One claw is up, throwing the horns, as he leaps with disturbing agility onto the stage, scattering a few overeager reporters.
Diane Killian
Diane Killian slips in from the side door and whispers in PRaptor’s ear-hole. There are some short, sharp gestures of cutting or chopping and a pained grimace.
Vladimir Putin
President Putin of Russia is currently in a small window to the side, looking irate.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Putin, buddy, pal! How’s it goin’? Oligarchy workin’ out for ya?
Putin grimaces in frustration.
VLADIMIR PUTIN
(good, solid, boomy surround sound)
President Raptor, I thought we had an agreement on the Ukraine, yes? My Little Green Men would come in with minimal invitation and your NATO forces would — overlook — certain procedural irregularities.
Eoward Sumpter
EOWARD SUMPTER (the PILOT) sits enveloped in the pit, hands on a couple of manual controls. A featureless facemask hangs around his neck above a well-worn seal-suit. The top of his helmet tilts back behind his head. Several recently bleeding cuts line his temple and the side of his neck.
Tel
The OUTLINE OF THE TELEMERE in one corner of the displays blinks in time with a voice.
TELOMERE
The nearest grocery is within an eighteen-thousand year spacewalk, Pilot Sumpter. If you start now —
SUMPTER
— I could make it by dinnertime. You have a dark sense of humor, Tel.
TELOMERE
I’m not the one that had his ship blown up by faulty maintenance.
Derek Laughlin
Across the table is an older gentleman whose badge reads DEREK LOUGHLIN and whose face reads “good cop.” The Proxima uniform is light blue with brighter blue work-light piping (now dim).
Sy Hampton
Badge SY HAMPTON, young, strictly over-dressed for this in a perfectly pressed Proxima uniform whose LEDs had probably been individually polished. Harbor patrol, the badge says. Hampton leans against the door to the room, cross-armed, annoyed — classic bad cop.
A SWAT team (or local variant) crouches or sprawls behind some makeshift black barriers. Ten men, body armor, pistols and shotguns. Four have SMGs, though in much better shape than Hampton’s.
Pilot
Black helmets and black face-masks obscure the pilot’s eyes, but she gestures to and with the ship and it slips behind a group of buildings and drops out of line of sight without a murmur over the coursing of the rain.
Nostromo
Sumpter puts a finger on a few log file entries.
SUMPTER
Pure dumb goddamn luck. We got nosed by a ship way out of the trading lanes, the Nostromo.
The Apes(?)
DEREK LAUGHLIN
You’re telling us that the entire back end of your ship blew loose so that someone could steal your shipment of genetically and cybernetically uplifted apes?
Mikel
Mikel and Sue are young men, Sue blonde and pale, Mikel dark in skin and hair. Both are dressed in light leather smocks, linen shirts and pants, thick boots and heavy gloves tucked into a loop for easy access.
Sue
Mikel and Sue are young men, Sue blonde and pale, Mikel dark in skin and hair. Both are dressed in light leather smocks, linen shirts and pants, thick boots and heavy gloves tucked into a loop for easy access.
Douglass
Douglass, a slight barely-more-than-a-boy gives a thumbs-up and steadies a stone container easily five-thousand pounds with a gloved hand. The network of crossed chains above it amplify any external motion, damping swings.
Amanda
A woman, probably statuesque in her prime, smiles and slides up behind the man. Today, she’s only slightly younger than he, and her grab from behind is affectionate.
Marvin Ekto
A tiny man with an old-school trilby sporting a CNN press-card in the band (MARVIN EKTO) elbows his way to the front.
MARVIN EKTO
Coming through, coming through! Step off, peon! My spot, my spot!
Vernard Guile
Fox News correspondant VERNARD GUILE works his way off to the right where the way is clearer.
Clint Etch
MSNBC’s CLINT ETCH, virtually Marvin’s twin down to the trilby (except Clint’s is a deeper blue) tries muscling up in Marvin’s wake, but only makes it to the second row.
China Gale
Noise continues ramping up as reporters mainly talk to hear themselves speak. CHINA GALE from Bloomberg is trying to do a livefeed right from the scrum.
She holds up her phablet as her “cameraman” just holds a ring-light. People behind her hiss and raise their hands to the level of their eyes.
21.
Dirk Hammer
A reporter on the edge lifts two fingers, not asking for permission but attracting attention. He wears a heavy brown trenchcoat and a red ballcap with “Make the Planet Great Again” on it.
DIRK HAMMER
Dirk Hammer, from the Fast-Talker. There’s no problem with Canadian illegal immigration, sir.
Andrew Angler
From the fringe, ANDREW ANGLER steps forward, all midlife dad trying to look like a skinhead punk.
ANDREW ANGLER
Andrew Angler, Weekly Shower. What about the Joos?
Porkbone Stenchtongue
In the passenger side sits another dog, much heavier, sitting taller, both paws spread out on the dashboard as if to ward off everything that’s coming.
By contrast, his face is resigned, put-upon, tired in that essential way you get when you’ve seen it all and only done the annoying bits. His wide pit bull head flings jowls in time with the swaying of the car. It seems a casual effort to dip his head aside just enough to avoid a whipping branch as the car skids around and around in the circle, pulling doughnuts.
CAPTION “PORKBONE STENCHTONGUE — TIRED”
Mazikeen Jackalhead
In the driver’s seat is a dog. A literal dog. Thin-ish, wirey, barely able to reach the pedals while sitting upright to steer, she’s a real beaut. Part pointer, part terrier, all madness and white-rolling eyes, with a vast dog-smile and a tongue flapping in the false wind. Big triangular ears keep trying to stand up but get forced back by the speed of their passage over the dropped top.
CAPTION “MAZIKEEN JACKALHEAD — CRAZY”
Tree
In the lead is TREE on a heavy modded Harley, all ape-hanger handlebars and exaggerated tail-pipes, his Komondor dreads hanging around his head and blowing in the wind. He must see the road through the intermediary of Pure Fucking Talent because his beady black eyes are only visible one second out of ten.
In the second rank come ten or more motorcycles, from crotch-rockets to heavy hogs, all ridden by dogs with a lean and hungry look. Twins, WRENCH and LONGBONE, with their doberman heads and their fixated gazes. They growl nearly as loudly as the bikes.
Fetch
Third rank: trucks. An 18-wheeler driven by FETCH, English Bulldog with an affected bright blue beret. The sides are covered with a complex interwoven mass of graffiti, both crude in execution and elegant. Everyone in the Pack has made their mark here and it shows. Behind Fetch comes a fist-full of smaller trucks, box-sided and pick-up. Most are loaded with supplies but a couple are empty.
Fourth rank: cars. And here is the multitude, twenty or thirty cars, each with at least one Pack member driving and sometimes five or six within or hanging out the windows. They’re a wild bunch, made more incongruous by the Ferrari roaring along full to the brim with cats. None of them are long enough to drive the thing, so MOPS rides the steering wheel while FLOPS, PUDDIN and GRACE work the pedals and hang on for dear life. There’s a lot of yowling involved and given that they’re all almost indistinguishable orange tabbies, some confusion.
Kilroy
At the very end, a flatbed tow-truck carrying some broken-down bikes and pulling a car that’s clearly not done being “upgraded.” Driving the tow is a whippet-thin doberman, KILROY.
SGT Founder (AR) (F)
Last comes a smaller soldier, carrying an AR. Careful looking shows the outline of a few pieces of equipment the others don’t have and the thin trace of an antenna arcing in a bow over one shoulder.
She snaps her face-plate up for a moment and it’s a woman, but that’s all we can tell. Hard eyes. Angry eyes. Shoulder-plate reads “FOUNDER”.
PVT Ancil (SAW) (M)
Then comes a man carrying a gun nearly as big as he is, festooned with additional magazines hanging on his combat webbing. If anyone could be said to be casual, he is.
He takes up a commanding position a few feet in front of the ramp, planting himself in an easy stance.
PVT Allen (AR)
COL Vole (SMG) (M)
PVT Larder (AR)
PVT Holmen (AR)
Wrench
Longbone
Mops
Flops
Puddin
Grace