Hello, amigos! It's been a long time since I've posted... and I still have to catch up on yours. In my defense, I've read over 250 pages of Dostoevsky for a class in the past week... :)
This is the first fragment of a contemporary sci-fi novel. It's long -- bear with me a bit the setting up phase and it will pick up a good deal. There's a few elements of non-existent technology in it, but for the most part, I intend it to look a lot like the world we live in now (which is like writing science fiction in the first place!) Unfortunately, I could only start writing in the very middle of the action, with very little introduction and not a whole lot of a story arc. Therefore, this first post is kind of intense and will likely be spread throughout the story. It also doesn't have an ending. I apologize that it's not a novel yet, but I hope to get the ideas out there and hang them in the plot as they develop a bit.
The second section is where the main action picks up. It's only half of the scene because I'm running up against the word count... but I guess that means I have something for next week, too.
My questions:
1. What is your reaction to Heath (the narrator)? Can you relate to his experiences as a child? Suggestions.
2. What do you feel is the most interesting conflict in the second fragment?
3. How interested are you in what happens next? How curious are you as to what motivates Heath? Dalton?
Any feedback is welcome. Sorry for such a long post!
You might think that your mother's murder would stand out as the defining moment of your childhood, but the fact of the matter is that I was too young to make much sense of it. Against the gray backdrop that was my life, it was simply the darkest spot in a murky series. Time and intervening circumstances slowly washed to event into the background even as they highlighted the much more pressing issue—being without a mother. At five, it hardly matters how your mother dies. Death is something grownups talk about in whispers than it is some sort of ultimate reality.
I never saw my mother's body, so in my mind, she was still alive. At any minute she might come through the back door into the kitchen, set down the tall brown bags of groceries and ask me to put the canned peas in the pantry next to the green beans. She never came, but sometimes it seemed like I heard her closing the hatchback door, like I heard her shuffling up the steps, and next she would turn the handle.
When I think of that time, the first thing I remember is crying for hours in the little nook between the dining room and my father's study, shaking and shivering all over as sunlight poured through the window and futilely tried to warm my skin. I also remember my father with his face in his hands, shaking and sobbing while Aunt Faye held him steady. The sight of my only pillar of my life crumbling shook me, then drove me into a terrified rage. I screamed, and Aunt Faye snatched me up and brought me to my bed, where I clung to her desperately until I had cried myself to exhaustion. And I remember my little brother Chris wandering around in his little pajamas, dragging his blanket around, his eyes red, his nose runny, and smelling like he had made a mess in his pants.
I don't remember much of the funeral, except for the pictures in my dad's room that he kept under the bed before we moved from the suburbs to the city. I do remember something of the graveside service, and standing very still as the priest said something over her enormous black coffin. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. It seemed like it was the hole which I was going to fall in to, no matter what I did. When the service was over, my aunt tried to hold my hand and walk me to the car, but I broke free and ran away. I felt like if I didn't stop, the black wouldn't catch me, but when I had run along the road all the way to my father's car, I realized there was nowhere else to go. I wanted to melt away somehow, or fly away, but there was nothing but the hot paint and the dusty gravel and it was hard to breathe, so I waited there until my father unlocked the door and Aunt Faye put Chris in the car seat and I opened the door and sat down next to her and fell asleep as my dad drove us home.
OK, so that's a little bit of the background. Here's the plot:
My name is Heath Sewell. I am a prosecutor because I believe those who flaunt society should see justice, and justice to its full extent. Anyone who is unwilling to live by the rules of society should be removed from it, before they remove the rest of us. Life is a war, the only respite from which is enforced by law. That law is imperfect, and we can't prevent every tragedy: stock markets crash, old ladies get swindled out of their retirement, your iPod gets swiped. Sometimes your mother is killed. But that just drives me more frantically to put those who would destroy us somewhere where they will never harm another soul. If you'll forgive me the metaphor, our legal system is the angel of vengeance that brings peace back into a chaotic world, into lives shattered by tragedy.
So when I sat across the table from Terry Dalton and his lawyer, working out a deal to get him out of prison, I had mixed emotions. I was a representative of the people of Idaho, who had in recent years seen the increasing need to empty overcrowded prisons and fund schools. Disconcerting as it was, the legislature and the DA's office had decided to try something new: neuro-therapy to control the violent tendencies of inmates. Some of those inmates, after treatment, would be able to rejoin society if they behaved. There had been virtually no relapses after the proper course of treatment – no repeat offenders in four years of the program in California. Resolving crime through medicine had a powerful attraction to it, not only because of lives saved, but also because of the potential lives regained.
Mr. Dalton had been convicted on several counts of assault and one rape, someone who had shown that his brain was incapable of controlling the violent impulses that occasionally surged through it. He was up for parole in a month, but he had been up for parole three times already and failed each time because of a series of aggressive outbursts among the other inmates. If anyone was a prime candidate for David Lund's neuro-therapy, it was Dalton. But for some reason, Dalton wouldn't budge, and I was done being patient.
“Look, I don't know how I can possibly explain this in more attractive terms than I already have. You're not going to get parole any time soon with that cafeteria fight on your record, and you've got two more decades in here otherwise. I'm offering you a chance at freedom here, and not just from these cinder-block walls.” I leaned across the metal table closely, staring intently at Dalton and dropping my voice. Dalton's dark eyes peered quietly back from his fat, sunken face hovering over a thick neck and shoulders. His size and history might have been unnerving except for his handcuffs.
“You won't have to worry about your anger anymore, Terry. You wouldn't hurt anyone. It's a new slate, a new life, a new you. Your past won't matter. As long as you remain under the operation of the neuro-therapy, you'll be out of here and in the real world. You can get a job and get a life. All it takes is a signature here, and you'll be free in two months.”
I slid the contract across the table toward Dalton, who sat hunched over the table with his hands folded in a tight knot. His public defender, Alma Bocaz, muttered to him quietly, “It's a great bargain, Terry. I don't know that we'll ever get a better deal than this.” Alma and I had both clerked for judges on the same district court out of law school. Even then, before my taste in women had narrowed to exclude fellow attorneys, her tendency to argue about everything and anything made it hard to share an elevator with her, let alone have dinner. Not that she shouldn't be that way, because it made her an excellent lawyer. It just also made her completely impossible to have a conversation with. On top of all that, I hadn't seen her do anything but frown, stare, or smirk contemptuously the whole time I had known her. It was as if her eyebrows were permanently knit together. I wasn't really happy to be across from her, but then I also knew how to deal with her—ignore her and work directly with the client.
The client, however, continued to stare at his hands and said nothing. I leaned back in my chair. “Listen, Terry, I've got other inmates to meet with and I'm sure several of them will be plenty interested in my offer. This isn't the kind of sales pitch where you can go home and think it over. The DA's office only has so many slots in the research program to offer, and if you don't sign up now, I can't promise there will be an opening for you later. If you're not interested, fine, you can stay here for the rest of your life.”
Dalton's face seemed to gray some to match the cement around him, and I thought I was finally getting through to him. I suppressed a smile and let him stew for just a minute. Alma seemed annoyed, but whether at me or at her client I couldn't tell.
“It's a painless procedure,” I continued after a moment, “and the patients who signed on to the project in California and Alabama reported no side effects apart from a little nausea at first and a little soreness from the surgery. In fact, the honest truth is that practically all of the patients on nuero-therapy are able to adjust their brain functions to the point where they are able to live perfectly normal lives. Now, considering your situation, Terry, I can't understand what could possibly make you hesitate.”
Alma's eyes narrowed to mascara-shaded slits. “That does beg the question, Mr. Prosecutor, what's in it for you?” I suspected that she was resisting more out of an adversarial instinct rather than a particular line of questioning. The checkmate was coming soon, and so I finally allowed myself a brief, confident smile before continuing.
“This kind of treatment would normally cost millions of dollars, but we've done the math. Allowing Mr. Dalton to leave state lockup will actually save the state money.” I turned to Dalton and tapped the edge of the table with my finger as I continued. “Meanwhile, you'll be free to pursue your life as a productive, normal member of society. You see, everyone is better off this way.” I flipped out my cell phone and tapped the screen to check the time. “But this is all the time I can spend on you, Mr. Dalton. I need a decision, and I need it now.”
Dalton finally looked up and locked his eyes with mine. Alma was trying to say something to him, but he seemed to ignore her, staring at me like he was trying to bore a way through my eyes into my skull. A chill ran down my spine, but I was well-trained and nothing was readable of my discomfort on my face. I tried to suppress the idea that this is what Dalton must have looked like to his victims right before he struck. There was something primal in the intensity of his glare, the look of concentration you can see in your cat as it stalks a robin. I swallowed softly, blinked, and asked with my head cocked just a little to the side, “Well, Mr. Dalton, what will it be?”
Dalton held up a finger to Alma and she folded her hands and shut up. Then, finally breaking his stare, he rubbed his face with both hands and took a deep breath. So did I.
“Mr. Sewell, I appreciate the offer,” he began, “but I have to ask you, if you were in my shoes, would you allow someone to put a switch in your head that could turn off your soul?”
I was surprised enough that I lost my calm veneer for a split second. Before anyone could notice, I leaned back in my chair with a quizzical grin on my face to cover my confusion. Alma wasn't so lucky. She was the one who was staring now, at her client. It helped me focus to relish the look of shock in her eyes—although her brow was still knit together, her mouth was also hanging open stupidly.
“Well, Mr. Dalton, I have to say I hadn't thought about it before now, but—yes, I would let them put a 'switch' in my head, as you put it. If my arm was broken, I can't say I'd mind if a doctor set it; if my brain was broken, I imagine I would feel the same way.”
“You seem to miss my meaning, Mr. Sewell. What I'm getting at is that if I let your doctors put a magnet in my skull and manage it remotely, I won't be myself anymore. I will be whatever they decide to make of me, a puppet to whatever game they want to play.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Dalton, these people are doctors. They have nothing but your very best interests at heart, far more than I do. And besides,” I said as I leaned back in close an earnest expression on my face, “what's the difference between this and medication, except for the fact that it has no side-effects and is one hundred percent effective?”
Dalton shook his head and scowled. “You can keep your treatment, Mr. Sewell. I won't allow you to talk me into relinquishing what's left of my freedom.”
It took all the force of will I had not to fly into a rage. This idiot wouldn't listen to reason, let alone what was good for him, but I also had other reasons for wanting him to take up my offer. I took two deep breaths behind an expressionless face, and then, composed, I nodded politely, stood, and gathered my briefcase and my coat from the back of the chair. “Well, Mr. Dalton, I suppose I can't help you then. Although, I do wonder what in the world you mean about remaining freedom. Look around you, Mr. Dalton. You've already lost whatever small chance you had at retaining your dignity. It's a shame to see you lose this opportunity.”
“Freedom isn't defined by whether or not walls around you have barbed wire on them or not, Mr. Sewell. That may be the only thing I've learned here worth knowing. I may be a convicted felon, but I'd like to remain a man.”
I shrugged and headed for the door. Alma finally pulled herself together and began frantically trying to talk Dalton out of his irrational position, but I went out as fast as I could. My heart was still racing from what felt like a brush with a madman, at least as terrifying in his unstable way of thinking as in his violent hands. Trying to control my breathing, I walked down the hall without acknowledging the nods of two guards walking the opposite way. I got all the way through security and two steps into the sunshine and fresh air before Alma Bocaz caught up with me, practically running. “Wait! Sewell, wait!” she yelled from the other side of the metal detector as the door swung shut behind me. I turned and opened it again just as she burst through, almost running into me. I took a couple of steps back and stumbled a bit to catch my balance on the steps. Leaning against the door, she held up a finger, asking me to wait while she caught her breath. Her expression was set and even stonier than usual. I was genuinely surprised, and I didn't try to hide it this time.
“Well?” I asked. Maybe Dalton had a change of heart when he saw his freedom walking away.
“I can change his mind,” she gasped between breaths. “He's not serious. He just wanted to pull your leg. Give me twenty-four hours,” she panted between gritted teeth. Her black hair had come out of its clip on one side and she stubbornly kept tucking it behind her ear, but it was too short and wouldn't stay.
This was too good to be true. Proud Alma Bocaz was asking me for a favor. Sure, it's not like I needed anything from her, but the pleasure of having her so unexpectedly ready to compromise—a once in a lifetime event!—had its attractions. I toyed a bit with the idea of leaving her in suspense, but why press an advantage when you've already got what you want? I shrugged. “I suppose I can leave a spot open till the end of the day tomorrow, but after that I can't promise you anything,” I said. “I'm under a lot of pressure to get this program filled, so I'm not going to waste any time on someone like Dalton, even if you do run down the hall in a prison and through security to catch me. Just give me a call next time, eh?”
A little jab like that was more than enough to make me feel like I had made the most of the moment, so I turned to go down the steps. Alma stamped her foot and I watched over my shoulder as she stormed back into the state prison. I laughed aloud after she was safely inside and headed for my car. I had missed Dalton, but I had a pretty good consolation prize in Alma Bocaz's humiliation. I'd have to patch that up later, but for now, beating one of the most stubborn attorneys I knew was a ray of sunshine that kept me warm all the way through the slush and the snow, driving back to the office on a gray winter's day.
