lublas1138-blog

[lublas1138-blog]

Me on a first date

#fallout #falloutprime

[lublas1138-blog]

A work in progress. A noir detective story I began writing set in the year 3167 on terra-formed Mars. This is just the first draft, I hope it comes out all right.

Chapter one

Gritty dust swept across desiccated farms and neglected grain factories in the Elysium Planitia region on the red planet Mars.

   Near the Aeolis quadrangles, in the center of a massive crater, lay a circular pit one kilometer across and fifty kilometers deep. This cavernous pit was New Saigon, the capital city of the solar system and the paramount architectural achievement of mankind.

   A subterranean metropolis consisting of seven hundred and ninety-nine levels all choked with filth, crime, poverty, and degradation. A mighty municipality burrowed straight into the Martian rock stacked up on top of one another like dirty dishes. This wonder was unanimously coined by its inhabitants as City Hole; an abyss of filth and despair where a hundred million people lived; simmering to a boil.

   Encircling the rim of the pit like the sores of a whore’s gaping mouth was an array of air traffic control towers and landing pads along with accompanying spaceports.

   Lining the interior wall of the pit itself, from the surface downward, were a multitude of art-deco constructed apartments with lavish hanging gardens, chic restaurants, sparkling fountains, and high-end boutiques where the ultra-rich resided in luxury and security. This was Level One, known as Shangri La.

   Continuing downward, the architecture took on a shabbier and more disorganized appearance. Plastered with neon signs, billboards, and graffiti, the imposing shaft crisscrossed with hazy, vehicle-choked highways, congested pedestrian bridges cluttered in garbage damp with last week’s filth, and oversaturated by darting police drones, the never-ending kaleidoscope of blinking, buzzing neon, the klaxon of sirens, the cries of the helpless, and the occasional crackle of blaster fire.

   Along the sides, down level upon level, grey, concrete terraces and promenades were perforated by decaying dwelling cubicles and shoddy cafés, some a few feet deep, others extending out of sight into a maze-like network of dank rooms and graffitied corridors, hidden by pungent mist and steam. The overpowering smells of refried proto-beans, scorched synthomeat, human excrement, and pungent urine wafted along the teeming masses.

   Farther below, the air became stifling toxic. Untreated water and filth trickled from upper levels via leaking pipes and broken sewage mains giving the noir impression of a continuous drizzle of fetid rain.

  The homeless, the destitute, and the addicted lay in their own waste as congested masses of apathetic citizens bustled down the dank and dimly lit walkways dressed in 1930s retro-style clothing. Many carried umbrellas or utilized breath masks to protect themselves from the toxic waste dripping into the incandescent pools of stinking water on cracked, garbage-filled sidewalks.

   Further down the murky hole, past flashing neon signs and billboards, graffitied walls, smashed windows, rotting sewer pipes, and garbage piled on every corner, down past the bustling millions of jostling citizens rubbing shoulder to shoulder on crowded walkways and bridges, past the noise of honking traffic, whirling surveillance drones, the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire, and the klaxon of sirens, was level 759; a crime-ridden district residential locals referred to as Ratbottom.

   No sunlight ever reached Ratbottom. Kept in a perpetual gloom of florescent twilight, a steady drizzle of raw sewage leaked from broken pipes from the upper levels of the rich, cascading into the Hole simulating the perception of unending rain.

   Located near the rim of the vast shaft in a dank alley adjacent to the local police precinct, was the entrance to a shadowy hole in the wall bar.

   Outside the darkened doorway loitered a menagerie of sickly prostitutes and grime-smeared junkies smoking and shooting teht under a flickering, illuminated sign that read The Flaming Comet. Though fetid the denizens were outside, inside the bar was a different carnival.

   “Hi. Name’s Plato. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you,” Plato coyly smiled at the bloated tourist.

   Around them, an assortment of Ratbottom fags cooed and guffawed and comprised well crafted, lust-drenched comments toward one another. More toward the rentboys who prowled the center of the crowded bar than to each other. Monstrous transvestites clopped back and forth and groped whatever drunken macho held the unfortunate luck to pass within range.

   The Flaming Comet was an overtly, gay-friendly juke joint patronized with revolutionary college students and hipster kids. The décor of the small bar was much like a Hollywood set depicting a Mexican cantina - old posters of the city, dusty piñatas, Imperial banners, and a string of red lights dangling over a long, oak counter.

   The rockola banged out ranchero mixed with Martian Bebop. The pungent waft of beer, piss, and puke issued out of the water closet from the use of a million, purulent fairies.

   Plato grabbed his warming beer, took a swig, followed it by a puff of smoke off a borrowed cigarette. He leaned propped against the old, wooden bar and pulled his best Marlon Brando routine – an actor he admired from off an old prewar holodisc - as he watched the smoky debauchery swirling in front of him.

   Plato slithered closer toward the tourist; twisting seductively on a metal stool. A lascivious smirk crossed the tourist’s face. Outwardly, Plato was being friendly, but in his mind, he recoiled in utter disgust.

   The old, white-haired man smelled of acrid sweat and cheap aftershave. Beads of perspiration formed on his ruddy, glistening face. A large, bulbous gut hung over an ample waist barely contained by a green polo shirt and khaki cargo pants so tight, love handles peeked out like a bursting can of biscuits. Thinning, silver hair had been combed over a red, pumpkinish head. A closely cropped, white beard covered the copious folds of his neck.

   Plato placed a slender, brown hand onto the tourist’s sweat dampened shirt, languidly gliding over the ample, squishy moobs.

   “So, what brings you all the way down here to 759?” Plato smiled, grabbing the fresh beer placed onto the counter by the squat, hostile looking lesbian who tended the bar. Plato took a sip, demurely returning his attention to the tourist.

   “Just visiting. Looking for some fun, you know?” The tourist slurred. His demeanor was both haltingly timid and defensively arrogant.

   Typical, Plato thought. “You from Mars?” He asked.

   What seemed like an effort, the tourist shook his jowls, “Ganymede” was the curt reply.

   Plato noticed the tourist was already slightly inebriated and decided to take full advantage of the situation. The tourist belched - the immediate air reeked of stale noodles and salsa.

   Plato kept up the smile, scooched his barstool closer. “Well, I can find all kinds of fun for you, daddy - anything you want. What were you looking for?”

   He slid his hand across the folds of fat on the tourist’s neck, felt the stubble of fresh cut hair, read the moles like Braille.

   The tourist smirked, glancing Plato over with leering, obscene lust. The tourist admired the boy’s thin, tall frame, the tank-top which accentuated sinewy muscles under copper-smooth skin, the dark jeans which boasted long legs. The tussle of short, jet-black, wavy hair, the pencil-thin mustache over thick lips which, the tourist perversely fantasized, must had sucked a million cocks.

   It was Plato’s eyes the tourist admired - large amber eyes nestled in thick lashes topped by heavy, black brows. Plato was exotically handsome and could not have been more than twenty-two years old.

   “Some good cock.” The tourist stated flatly, gazing at Plato with bloodshot, rheumy eyes.

   Plato continued his slithering massage of the tourist’s anatomy. “Really? Well, I know of a cheap place around the corner where we can have all kinds of fun, daddy.”

   Plato ended the appealing statement with a slight brush of his own crotch, wherein the tourist noticed the stiffening of Plato’s long organ.

   “Wow.” The tourist chuckled in child-like astonishment. “You are definitely hot. So forward.”

   “It’s all for you, honey.” Plato breathed.

   The tourist’s face went blank as a poker dealer - gazing out into the bar. He asked with a condescending finality, “How much this going to set me back?”

   Plato put on his little-hurt-boy look, “Oh, don’t say it like that, daddy. I’m not a whore. I just want to spend time with you. I really like you.”

   The tourist’s face turned a darker shade of crimson, the lights of the bar beamed off his ample forehead.

   The fact being, the obese, squat Martian actually made Plato nauseous. He secretly loathed the arrogant Ganymedeans who trolled the bar scene in Ratbottom. Images flashed through Plato’s mind on how these slobbering vampires bore the audacity to filter down to Mars with arrogant certainty. With a fistful of azulos, they’d act as if they were granted free reign to treat all and sundry as they wished – which usually was atrocious - performing as over-heated, aggressive beasts, feeding off the poor and never bearing any responsibility for their horrendous actions.

   The tourist sputtered, lifting his beer towards fat, moist lips, “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. I think you are hot. So adorable. So beautiful. I meant, I want to be with you, too.”

   “I know,” Plato sighed as he continued the rub down. “Let’s go get a room, baby. I want to show you how much I like you.”

   “Sounds good.” The tourist belched loudly and downed the remainder of his beer.

   Plato and the tourist stumbled out into the bustling, loud streets of a City Hole night, rushing over crumbling, trash littered pavement which smelled of shit and urine. Shabby noodle stands sweltered with the wafting stench of burnt meats and wilted vegetables. Mangy dogs and small infants played in the black grease pools between the stalls.

   Throngs of pedestrians clogged the way as Plato and the tourist weaved through knots of swaggering hip-hop boys. Their arms draped around the waists of their brown, thick-hipped sweethearts with the sad, mascara-painted brown eyes that drooped up to the Saints of Atom. Street vendors with leprosy and missing limbs called out selling leather belts, key chains, lottery tickets, condoms - as tank like para-military vehicles rumbled down the street sluggishly, slowly past ancient and creaking buses which farted black smoke into the muggy night.

   Plato led the wobbling tourist down a dimly-lit side street packed with prostitutes of both sexes who wearily leaned against broken, red-brick and grimy, white-washed facades. Roaming addicts - shifty eyed and alert - hurtled down the way, stopping only to snatch small bags of dope from hidden nooks and crannies in crumbling walls. Groups of catatonic tourists from every colony in the solar system stumbled with bloated guts and shirts spotted with beer and puke – all under the wary eye of robotic police patrols. A cacophony of car horns and screeches mixed with the smells of seared meat, steaming hotdogs, and festering garbage flowed up into a crisp, neon splashed night.

   Passing a row of tired, fat hookers who flashed silver-capped teeth and unappetizing, staunch bodies, Plato and the tourist arrived at the sordid entrance of a cheap, ten-azulo a night hotel which was reached by climbing a set of worn, wooden stairs.

   White paint flaked off the Spanish-style, two story structure. Hotel Sante Fe glowed from a dusty, plastic marquee which sagged over the cracked sidewalk.

   At the foot of the stairs, the tourist took out his wallet to pay a haggish, ancient woman behind a metal grate. Plato got a glimpse of the contents of the wallet – it bulged with blue bills. The old woman gave the tourist a key attached to a huge, plastic pad.

   “Checkout is eleven o’clock tomorrow mornin’,” the receptionist wheezed.

   The tourist paid the fat hag behind the black bars and the two dashed up warped, wooden stairs to a room which bore an overpowering stench of mildew.

   Plato flicked on the light and a legion of roaches scattered across the dusty, red-tiled floor.

   In a corner, sagged a dresser with missing drawers and across from the bed, a rickety, metal folding chair. The walls were a multicolored hue of scrawled graffiti of both black marker and spray paint. A tired, slutty mattress dominated the room supported by a bent, black-metal frame which was draped in a thin, pink blanket - bedbugs and all. On the wall, commanding the room, was a large rectangular screen displaying the candy-color advertisements of Zik-Zak Noodles and Atom Smasher cigarettes.

   “Hold up, cutie - I gotta pee.” The tourist slurred and entered the grimy, white-tiled bathroom. Plato heard him take a long, loud piss.

   Plato sat silently on the chair and looked around the squalid space. He overheard the muffled moaning of a whore earning her rent in the next room. From the street emanated the dull pounding of a hundred jukeboxes.

   The tourist came out of the bathroom and sat on the bed, which creaked in protest under the weight.

   In one lithe movement, Plato stood up and slid down his jeans and white and blue striped briefs. His long, uncircumcised penis swung free. He sat back in the chair.

   “You like this?” Plato asked coyly as he stroked his stiffening organ.

   The old tourist blubbered, “Oh yeah, baby - you got a nice dick.”

   Plato smirked, with a hint of detestation, “What’s so nice about it?”

   The tourist fumbled uncomfortably; he didn’t expect that remark. He sat there and stared at the nine inches of erection being swayed in his direction - the smooth shaft, the glistening mushroom tip.

   Plato seductively worked the foreskin back and forth over the head, devishly looking up at the tourist who wheezed in mounting excitement.

   “I’m so hot, daddy.” Plato sighed. “Why don’t you come over here and do something about it?”

   The tourist gawked at the undulating erection - hypnotized by it as Plato smoothly swung it back and forth.

   Like a fat kid in a candy store, the tourist dropped to his knees in front of Plato and gobbled his erection.

   Loud sucking noises echoed in the spartan room as the tourist slobbered and slurped up and down Plato’s cock. Though Plato had his legs spread wide open, he could still feel the tourist’s obscene stomach rubbing against both his inner calves.

   God, please hurry up and cum, Plato thought, I need to get the fuck away from this gross-ass bag of shit.

   Plato reluctantly held the back of the tourist’s greasy head as in a matter of short, merciful minutes, felt the surge of an orgasm and squirted his semen into the tourist’s mouth. The fat, old man leaned over and spat the matter - a mix of bubbly sperm, saliva, and blood - onto the scuffed floor.

   Gasping, the tourist looked glaze-eyed up to Plato and breathed, “Oh, baby - that was good.”

   “It was hot, daddy.” Plato stated mechanically, pulling up and fastening his pants.

   With much effort and a series of dramatic grunts, the tourist rose to his feet. He sighed and exhaled an embarrassed chuckle.

   Plato stood, also, and blurted, “Hey, you think you can help me with twenty azulos? I need to pay my electric bill and I am low on money this week.”

   “Don’t you work?” The tourist asked, snidely.

   “Yes. But, you know, this is City Hole and they don’t pay much and I just paid rent.” Plato stated as a matter of fact.

   The tourist grimaced as he reached and pulled out his wallet, placing a blue twenty dollar bill in Plato’s thin hand.

   The tourist saw the young man in a new light - the lines around the mouth, the dark circles under the eyes, the black grime under the uneven, chewed fingernails.

   “Can I have ten more? I have no food.” Plato smiled that smile.

   The tourist dramatically sighed. Bitchily acting irritated, he faltered at putting his wallet away. Plato noticed the glint of fear and distrust, the uncertainty of being in a foreign locale in the sobering eyes of the tourist. Plato actually hoped the fat motherfucker would be knifed by some demented junky on his way out.

   Plato glared with just the right amount of sexiness and intimidation, “Please?”

   “Oh, all right. But, that’s it! I have to get back to Ganymede tomorrow and I can’t spare anymore.”

   The tourist frowned, placed a ten dollar bill in the young man’s hand and then quickly slipped the wallet into his back pocket.

   Plato made for the door, stopped, “You sleeping here tonight?” He pointed abstractly around the squalid room. “It’s a very dangerous area. A lot of muggings.”

   Fear now flamed in the darting eyes of the tourist, “No. No, I have a room somewhere else. I’m going there now.”

   “I’ll walk you out.” Plato yanked on the thin door which wobbled a bit from sticking in the frame.

   Once downstairs, they separated at the corner with a handshake. The tourist quickly strode toward the safety of the nearest waiting taxi as Plato returned to the shadows of the corner. Several thugs stood in a knot under a leaflet plastered, iron street lamp which emitted no light.

   A squat, frog-faced Latinx stood in white athletic gear and croaked as Plato approached, “Que pasa, Plato?”

   They swapped a street-wise handshake.

   Plato’s gaze swept up and down the sidewalk, “Not much, man. Gimme a paper.”

   From a sagging fanny pack, the frog-faced Latinx slapped into Plato’s palm a tiny, cellophane envelope folded into a small square as Plato passed a wadded, ten dollar bill into the pusher’s chubby fingers.

   With that, Plato returned to the still congested Flaming Comet and made a direct line to the bathroom.

   In a grimy, white-tiled stall, he cut three lines of teht out onto the flat, steel-top of the filthiest toilet paper dispenser in the world and with a rolled peso note, he loudly sniffled the lines up. Plato leaned back, snorted the residue into the back of his throat and casually glanced over into the next stall and wish he hadn’t.

   A chunky hooker in a frayed, blue dress squatted down and was blowing some prehistoric fucker in a burgundy-felt fez. However, that didn’t offend Plato - it was the festering toilet next to them which overflowed in thick, muddy feces. Lines of dark brown cascaded over the rim like a boiling pot of beans. The smell of putrid shit punched him in the face.

   Feeling the effects of the teht, he walked out of the bar and headed down a long dark set of steps that was a well known cruising spot for homosexual sex. The yellow lamps that illuminated the concrete stairwell that slightly curved downward between two enormous windowless building gave off little light. Most were shattered decades ago.

   Plato smiled as he heard the moist slurping of play within the shadows of alcoves.

   At the bottom of the stairs, the way opened to a small trash littered street that hugged the rim of the great chasm of the city. Plato could almost see the other side through the choking smog. What he did notice was the idling car parked under a flickering streetlamp. It was a three wheeled Orion K-57 model. Turquoise with two wheels in the front and one in the back. A two seater and someone lurked in the shadows of the driver’s seat smoking an Atom Smasher.

   Plato walked over to the automobile and leaned in the passenger side window. Smiling his smile, he asked, “Looking for some action, baby? Want to party? Name’s Plato. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you.”

   The persons face was severely shadowed under a wide-brimmed fedora. He wore an expensive suit, though. Plato saw money. He smiled, until he heard the mysterious man say in an electronically altered voice, “Get in.”

   Plato furrowed his brow, squinting at trying to see the man’s face. “You a robot?”

   “Robot’s don’t fuck,” he said in his electric monotone. He unlocked the passenger door, “Don’t worry. Too many cigarettes.

   Plato was still hypnotized by the nice clothes. He smirked and shrugged, “Okay, baby. It’s not the voice that matters, right?”

   The boy slid into the passenger seat and the small vehicle raced off, turning onto a ramp that led even deeper down into the sunken city.

   There was something off putting about this man. As they drove, Plato caught a glimpse of the face under the fedora, it, too was obscured by a gas mask, The skin that did reveal itself seemed dry and flaky, like spoiled meat. Plato saw that this man was not a conversationalist, but he had money and money was money.

   When Plato was about to ask were they were going, the man stopped the car outside the soot covered walls of a waste reclamation plant that hadn’t been serviced in decades and it showed. The bricks were black with grime and all the warehouse windows that encircled the large, blocky building had been broken.

   The moment he parked the vehicle, he powered it down, and stepped out of the car. Walking to a thick hatchway in the three story tall wall, the man said, “This way.”

   Plato exited the car and studied the large building. Does he live here? Is this some swanky art loft?

  The shadowy figure opened the thick hatch with a loud creak and entered.

   Inside was dark and long shadows stretched across cracked concrete floors like bars of a prison. The man threw a lever on the wall and industrial lamps high above near the roof snapped on with a crackling buzz. The lights did not help the gloom. The man stood immobile in the shadows.

   “You want to do it here?” Plato asked. The air was thick with toxic chemicals, dust, and dead bugs. He looked around in the gloom. “I’ve done it in some pretty weird places, but, I don’t know, this place is spooky.”

   “This is where I want to be.” Was the deadpan reply.

   The shit I do, Plato thought. This fucker better be worth the azulo. He sighed and flashed a coy grin. Hooking his finger towards the man, Plato moved next to a huge rusting tank and cooed, “You coming? Oh, what’s the matter? You shy?”

   From within the pockets of his suit, the man removed a medallion. It was silver and was the emblem of The Church of Atom, a series of spiraling isotopes over the sun. He hands it to Plato. The boy looks at the medal, confused.

   “Around your neck,” The man said gruffly.

   Plato took the medallion as the man removed a wig from another pocket. It was hair of crimson and well used. Plato saw flecks of vomit and blood in the long strands.

   Plato smiled nervously, “You know, I’m always ready to party, ask anybody. But, you know, I don’t look good in this…”

   As he held out the wig with his left hand, the man whipped out a large serrated blade with his right and pointed it at Plato. Instantly, the young man’s face turned from petulant coyness to pleading terror. Always in his line of employment, Plato knew you took the chance to come across a psychopathic weirdo. And, that night was tonight.

   “Look, mister,” Plato said, “No need for this, I just want to…”

   The man lurched at Plato as the boy’s screams turned into gurgling chokes as the blade ruthlessly slashed and chopped at his torso..

   In the gloom, the man walked over to the slumped corpse and retrieved the medallion. Clutching it in his hand, he mumbled scripture from the Catholislamic Bible, “Forgive me, Atom, for I have sinned…”

******

On level 759 sat a small soot-covered chop suey joint. Behind the dusty café, down a damp concrete alley wide enough for one person, past bent, overfilled trash cans, stood a bullet-ridden door.

  Above the door, a red neon light buzzed and flickered into the perpetual night: BLAKE SKYLARK, PRIVATE DETECTIVE.

  Inside the small office, Blake Skylark sat at a dented, metal desk mounted with files, paperwork, cigarette butts, titty magazines, and empty whisky bottles.

  The wall to his left was a printed map of Level 759 and its accompanying districts obscured in sticky notes, faded photos, and pinned scraps of paper scribbled with anecdotes and leads which led nowhere.

  To the right of the desk, a door led to a small, windowless room offering an unmade cot, sink, and toilet; roaches included.

  Behind the detective displayed a floor-to-ceiling soot-streaked window with a panoramic view of City Hole. A large, blue and red neon sign advertising noodles buzzed constantly as a vertical monorail rumbled past every half hour.

  The dull ceiling lamp illuminated a rugged face of an Anglo man in his mid-fifties. Square of jaw, stern brow, and a scowl that wouldn’t quit, Skylark wore a grimy, black fedora, and, as was common with current fashion, a buttoned shirt and long tie; both wrinkled and stained from tobacco and sweat.

  Skylark smashed a butt into the overflowing ashtray and leaned forward to a speakwrite that sat on the bulky desk.

  The speakwrite was a complicated-looking apparatus. The exposed keyboard was similar to a vintage Underwood typewriter. Naked wires and dusty glass vacuum tubes connected the keys to an uncovered, eleven-inch, cathode-ray monitor. Jutting from the side was a chrome microphone on a collapsible coil arm.

  He adjusted the dusty microphone and, as he spoke, his words appeared on a small screen perched on top of the mechanism.

  Skylark rambled off in a voice both tired and monotone, “Filing police report. Baat 23, 3160. Blake Skylark. Badge number 459902k. New Saigon. Level 759.”

   As he spoke, the speakwrite whirred and beeped and clicked as it recorded.

  He sloshed a fifth of whiskey into a glass tumbler and continued “City Hole at night. Night? That’s a laugh. Always the same dim light down here. Gloom to hide the poor, the crazies, the drunks, the madness. The rich fucks up in the Cloud District don’t want to see whose teat they suckle, but they sure as hell don’t mind paying. They come down, fuck and suck what they want, then off the next morning to the Church of Atom to ask for forgiveness…”

  Skylark threw back the whiskey in one loud gulp.

   “I got a confession to make, there’s one sin I can’t forgive – murder.”

#writers on tumblr #sci fi writing #my writing #creative writing #novel writing

[lublas1138-blog]

My book has been published!

Marooned on a remote asteroid, Colt Corrigan must use his wits to survive two dueling drug cartels and decides to play them against one another in the asteroid's lone spaceport torn apart by greed, vice, and violent revenge.

#writers on tumblr #sci fi writing #my writing #creative writing #space opera #novel writing #star wars #scifi character #spaceships

[lublas1138-blog]

Marooned on a remote asteroid, Colt Corrigan must use his wits to survive two dueling drug cartels and decides to play them against one another in the asteroid's lone spaceport torn apart by greed, vice, and revenge.

#writers on tumblr #sci fi writing #my writing #creative writing #novel writing #space opera #scifi character #published book

[lublas1138-blog]

The Star Wars

The following is the third chapter of a novel I wrote based on the original treatment of Star Wars in 1973 by George Lucas. Though the synopsis was vague, the novel was fun to write and I think it came out quite well. I submit it here because there is no way Disney will allow me to publish this. So, enjoy and tell me what you thought? I will be publishing a chapter each week.

chapter three

Ambers in the Ashes

The monolithic sandstone butte jutted up out of the crumbling mesa like a skyscraper. The surrounding bluffs and rock formations were dwarfed by the height of the titan.

   Carved into its collapsing base were archaic hieroglyphs and columns which led into a rectangular entrance four meters in height. Eons old, the limestone statues of ancient philosophers and warriors who stood guard on either side of the entrance were cracked and decayed under the unrelenting heat of the twin suns.

   The silence of the desert was broken by the wine of the dual jets from the speeder as it slid up to the entrance of the temple and stopped.

   Leia was the first to exit the powerful craft. She admired the imposing edifice with a nostalgic smile, “Over a thousand years ago, this was the original hidden fortress of my great-great-great grandfathers. My father would bring me here when I was a small child and we’d explore as he related the history of our clan.”

   “Is it safe?” Skywalker asked as he slid out of the speeder. He glanced up, squinting with one eye at the mammoth tower of rock.

   “Without a doubt. It has been abandoned for centuries.”

   “Very well,” Skywalker said as he made his way to the rear trunk of the speeder and began unloading equipment. “We’ll camp the night here. We should be at Gordon by tomorrow evening.” The general rummaged through the case of meager provisions gifted by the farmer’s wife, Zora. “I’m concerned about our supplies. We are running low on water. Food we can do without a few days, but water?” He glanced up and squinted at the suns. “Not in this climate.”

   “We’ll ration it,” Leia said with an understanding smile, “We’ll make it through this.”

   “Robots!” The general called, “Take these supplies and set them up inside the temple.”

   “Our understanding of the deal was to assist you in repairs of the speeder in trade for transport to Gordon,” C-3PO said as he exited the rear of the craft. “Nowhere was it mentioned we’d be your servants.”

   “Is that so? It may interest you to understand I need a servomech robot more than I need you.”

   “Understood. Where would you like the fusion stove to be placed?”

   “This way,” the princess said as she entered the shadows of the cavernous opening to the temple.

Kane Starkiller petulantly tossed the empty can of proto-beans at the face of a stone statue in anger, “They’ll pay! They’ll all pay!”

   The empty tin clanged onto the dusty stone floor of the cavernous hall with an echoing clamor.

   The boy’s face was contorted into a mask of petulant dismay. The eighteen-year-old youth was a handsome and lithe juvenile. Athletic, statuesque, blond hair with blue eyes. His attire of black boots, khaki pants, and a linen shirt with leather jacket was well-worn and had seen better days. He angrily kicked at the pebbly debris of the temple floor.

   “I’m hungry, Kane.” Whimpered a small boy sitting on a stone shelf across from him. The boy was nine and he, too, was a blonde youth with eyes of blue. This was Deak Starkiller, Kane’s younger brother.

   “That was our last can, Deak,” Kane said empathetically. “There is no more.”

   “Kane,” the younger boy began to sob, “I miss mom.”

   Kane walked over and placed his arm around his small brother, “I miss her, too. We have to be brave. We’re on our own now and we need to look out for each other.”

   The small boy looked up at the confident face of his brother. His sobbing resided as he took a strong sigh, “I’m strong.”

   “You are the bravest on Aquilae,” Kane smiled warmly.

   The boy attempted to swallow back tears in a dry throat, “Can I have some water?”

   Kane reached for his canteen, “Here. Not too much, now. It’s got to last.”

   “We searched all around. There’s nothing in here,” said a boy who entered the cathedral-like antechamber. At seventeen, Mace Windu was a well-built boy of dark-colored skin with black, curly hair and wore farmer’s clothes. His stern brow caused him to attain that constant look of intense seriousness even when he was jovial.

   Following him was a shorter boy of fifteen, a redhead with freckles and ears like radar antennae. This was Biggs Darklighter and he too was dressed in similar, if dirty, farmer attire.

   “This place is huge!” Biggs beamed, “The catacombs go on forever!”

   Kane stood, “We’re not going to survive very long if we can’t scavenge supplies.”

   Mace sneered, “We should sneak into one of those imperial forts and rob them blind.”

   “Right!” Biggs agreed enthusiastically, “There’s nothing those goofy stormtroopers don’t have! Food, water, food!”

   “I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on one of them walking battle tanks!” Mace pointed his fingers, making pew-pew noises and squinting with one eye.

   Biggs joined in, “Stomping around Aquilae in one of those, chasing them across the wasteland, making them pay for what they did to us!”

   “I’d settle on stealing a TIE fighter,” Kane smirked. “Flying all the way to Alderaan and right up to old baldy squatting on his golden throne!”

   They all began to laugh. Their jovial commotion echoed in the dimly lit cavern of carved-out rock, shadows danced on stone walls of hieroglyphs, illuminated by a sole thermal lamp. Their laughter subsided but in the dim shadows, a hearty laugh continued.

   The boys abruptly turned to see the stoic form of General Luke Skywalker standing under the buttressed stone of the temple hallway.

   For a long moment, they stared at one another, tensely. Then Skywalker took one step into the orange glow of the thermal lamp. He nodded curtly to Kane.

   “Who are you?” Skywalker asked.

   Kane stood unaffected and motioned slightly at the boys around him, “Refugees. The stormtroopers came and, after finding all our crops dead, burned our homes.”

   “Where did you get that laser sword,” the general asked glancing at the device clamped to the boy’s belt at the hip.

   “It was my father’s,” Kane said. “It’s all I have to remember him by.” Kane paused and then expressed in veneration, “You’re General Luke Skywalker.”

   “Aye,” Skywalker admitted.

   The young boy stammered toward the stoic general and asked, “How bad is it, sire? Where is the Royal Family? Are they all right?”

   “Everything’s gone. Utapau. The palace. The hidden fortress. Our military forces lay in ruin. There’s nothing left.” Skywalker said tight-lipped. After a pensive pause, his attention fell on the faces of the other boys who scrutinized the man with suspicious wonder. The general said solemnly, “I overheard how you boys were preparing to raid imperial outposts. Don’t bother. Just go home.”

   “We told you, mister, we have no home. The stormtroopers torched our farms.” Mace said.

   “Killed our parents,” Biggs added.

   “We have nowhere to go,” Deak said.

   Kane approached Skywalker, the youth’s anger rising in his voice, “General, we have to fight back! They can’t be allowed to win! Train us!” He gestured to his friends. He stepped towards Skywalker as he clutched one hand to his heart, “Train me in the ways of the Jedi-Bendu. I’m good with a laser sword. I can hold my own.”

   “I have no doubt you can.” The general said, “But, no. I think not. I am on an important mission and cannot spare the time or resources to coddle orphans.”

   “Sire, please, just give us…” Mace began.

   At that moment, a bubbling hiss filled the dark hall. On the other side of the room from where the group stood came the creaking of some great jointed thing that moved with a slow purpose in the dark. The orange light of the lamp instantly revealed a huge loathsome spider-like crab thing.

   Kane, like all children who were raised on Aquilae, had been warned of the vicious xarcaang, a subterranean carnivore.

   Towering at four meters in height, the creature possessed six long crab-like legs that protruded from its thorax. The legs were bent, with a three-meter span and hairs that stuck out like steel spines. Its huge and swollen abdomen was covered in discolored pus-filled boils. The head of the loathsome beast sported a set of ten lidless eyes, a gaping maw of razor-sharp teeth, along with two powerful mandibles ending in pincers on either side.

   With monstrous speed, the xarcaang rushed to the stunned group. With its huge pincers, the vile arachnid snatched Deak up off the ground by his right leg. Its mouth hinged open and released a wretched-smelling hiss. Little Deak screamed as he struggled to pry the pincers apart as he dangled over the xarcaang’s slavering maw.

   Without hesitation, Kane Starkiller lept through the air to the aid of his brother, igniting his laser sword, and hacked at the hairy legs of the formidable beast.

   Shrieking, the monster dropped Deak onto the dusty stone floor and turned its malicious gaze to Mace. From a holster on his hip, Mace activated his vibro-blade and stood ready as the xarcaang lurched at the boy, its eye clusters fidgeting, gloating over a prey trapped beyond all hope of escape.

   With determination on his young face and in the face of certain doom, the boy ran and jumped onto the creature’s back, hacking its many eyes with the vibro-blade. Biggs, in an attempt to assist his friend, pulled out a blaster from his holster and fired wildly at the thrashing monster.

   The xarcaang hissed and reared above Kane, its mouth wide open revealing a jagged row of long, pointed teeth. Kane dodged underneath the arch of its legs and stabbed into one of its eye clusters. The arachnid screamed, its mandibles thrashing wildly, green ooze trickling from its wounded eye.

   The blond youth then rushed up and sliced wildly at the giant mutated beast, hewing off the tip of a leg. The xarcaang spasmed in a wild blur as Kane bolted beneath the monstrosity, quickly leaping onto the stone ledge his brother was previously sitting, and landing on top of the howling, salivating brute. The youth began hacking into the creature’s face and multiple eyes. Foul green slime spattered as Kane violently buried his blade to the hilt into the xarcaang’s skull.

   Kane was flung off the screaming, bucking monster as it thrashed and flailed violently in its death throes. With a final howl, the xarcaang fell to the stone floor - dead.

   Kane stood triumphantly next to the downed beast, “Let’s hack this thing up. We’ll feast well tonight.”

   Skywalker watched the entire ordeal. Impressed at the quick display and how easily the boys jumped in to help one another. He stroked his whiskers and nodded slowly with approval.

   The general turned and began down the stone hallway in which he appeared. “We have a thermal cooker at our camp. Follow me.”

C-3PO busied himself unpacking supplies from the rear trunk of the speeder and placing them in the impromptu camp set up in the cavernous foyer of the temple.

   The princess was laying down blankets and bedding for the night’s rest as R2-D2 prepared the thermal stove.

   The copper robot walked over to his companion and knelt over him, whispering, “R2-D2, you remember that spice we found?”

   “Yes?”

   “It belongs to them. I came across a satchel in the trunk with enough ampules to purchase a planet! They probably stole it from the palace of their rulers. I tell you; we have to be careful around these serpents.”

   “What do you have in mind?”

   “They plan to make it to the spaceport called Gordon by tomorrow afternoon. We have to somehow calculate slipping away from them unnoticed and with that satchel of spice with us!”

   “Are you malfunctioning? That big guy will rip us into junk with his bare hands! Even if we…”

   The two robots scurried back outside to the parked speeder as Skywalker entered the hall followed by the boys. Each one carried huge, cut shanks of xarcaang chunks.

   Leia turned and studied the group with suspicion. She asked with a raised eyebrow, “I see you’ve managed to find even newer friends?”

   At the first sight of her, the boys stopped in their tracks and dropped to one knee. All except little Deak, who stood confused. Kane gently grabbed his brother by the shoulder and guided him down in the same position.

   “Your Majesty!” The boys exclaimed.

   “We thought you burned with Utapau,” Kane said with sadness in his voice.

   The young princess raised her head high and stated in a regal tone, “I assure you; House Organa has not yet fallen.” She said with a gesture of her hand, “Please, rise. And who are these admiral young men, General?”

   “My name is Biggs Darklighter, Your Highness, my father served you in the Royal Space Armada,” Biggs said. “And, this is my best friend Mace Windu.”

   “Your Grace,” Mace humbly muttered with eyes transfixed to the dusty stone tile.

   The princess nodded with a calming smile, “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

   Kane stepped forward with his brother, “My name is Kane Starkiller. This is my younger brother Deak. We lived with my parents on their farm out beyond the Jundland wastes.”

   “They are displaced refugees from the imperial occupation. They will be coming with us, Your Highness.” Skywalker said.

   “Coming with us?” Leia asked with a raised eyebrow.

   “We’ll have to replenish your new army somehow.” He smiled simply with palms outstretched.

   Those words struck the princess heavy and meaningful. She gave the general a knowing nod.

   She smiled at the boys, “Welcome.”

   “We brought food for tonight’s dinner. Mace is a wonderful cook. His mother had a café in the settlement we grew up in,” Biggs said.

   “She taught me everything she knew. I can make anything taste good,” Mace agreed.

   “I’m delighted. Please, our stove is at your disposal.” The princess offered, gesturing at the humming thermal stove.

   The two robots entered the foyer holding supplies. They stopped when they saw the group of boys.

   “Who are they?” C-3PO asked.

   “Refugees,” Skywalker said. “They’ll be accompanying us to Gordon.”

   C-3PO approached Skywalker, “Excuse me. They’re coming with us?”

   “Yes. Is there a problem?” Skywalker asked with fists on hips.

   “Well, the speeder seats only so many. Where are R2-D2 and I to sit?”

   Skywalker looked at the robot with a coy smirk and raised eyebrow.

“This is humiliating,” C-3PO said as he sat cramped in the opened back trunk of the speeder as it raced away from the temple.

   R2-D2 struggled with his clawed arms to keep the accumulated junk from falling around him, “You can’t keep quiet. Always making the situation worse.”

   “Oh, switch off!” C-3PO snapped.

   In the cabin of the speeder, Skywalker guided the craft over the sand flats. He called over his shoulder, “What do you know of the Jedi-Bendu?”

   In the backseat, Kane said, “I read old history documents. Pieces of the Journals.”

   “The Journals?” Biggs asked.

   “The Journal of the Whills. They were banned by the Galactic Empire and an attempt to purge them from historical data failed. There are still copies in existence. My father had one. They told of the history dating back before the Empire, before the Old Republic, all the way back to mythic Earth.”

   “Earth? That lost planet is from children’s stories. It never existed.” Mace said.

   “It did. It’s just no one knows where it’s located anymore. The Journals go on describing the great migration of mankind throughout the galaxy and the beginnings of the Jedi-Bendu Allegiance.”

   As the speeder roared across the plains, the other boys listened as Kane Starkiller told the story of the Jedi-Bendu he acquired from reading the ancient text.

   Kane related that the Jedi-Bendu were a class of warriors who arose in the 22nd century and performed military service in the Imperial Space Force until the 31st century. Elite and highly-trained soldiers adept at using both blaster and laser sword, the Jedi-Bendu were an essential component of interplanetary armies during the great history of the early Galactic Empire.

   The warriors arose in the Old Empire after the reforms of the Hahn Xerxes Dynasty in 2467, which included planetary system redistribution and heavy new taxes meant to support an elaborate and rapidly expanding interplanetary government. The reforms forced many planetary settlers to sell their land and work as tenant farmers.

   Over time, a few governors who controlled several solar systems amassed power and wealth, and, to keep them in check, the emperor created a feudal system amongst them similar to that of Old Earth. To defend their riches, interplanetary feudal lords hired the first Jedi-Bendu warriors.

   Some Jedi-Bendu were relatives of the planetary governors they protected, while others were simply hired swords. The Jedi-Bendu code emphasized loyalty to one’s master.

   During the 2900s, the weak emperors of the Copernicus Prime Era lost control of the Outer Rim Territories, and the galaxy was torn apart by revolt. The emperor’s power was soon restricted to the capital planet of Alderaan, and across the galaxy, the warrior class moved in to fill the power vacuum. After years of fighting, the Jedi-Bendu established a military government known as the bendu-templar. By the early 3100s, the warriors had both military and political power over much of the galaxy.

   The Jedi-Bendu received a fatal blow to its power in 3156 when Emperor Toba Xerxes died without a clear successor. His son, Cos Dashit Xerxes, and his Jedi-Bendu Malcolm Blackmoon fought for control in a civil war known as the Xerxes Revolution of 3156.

   During the civil war, the Sunstar and Blackmoon Jedi-Bendu clans rose to prominence. They fought one another during the Holy Rebellion of 3160. After their victory, the Xerxes established the first non-Jedi-Bendu-led government and the defeated Jedi-Bendu were banished from the capital of Alderaan.

   The noble galactic warriors became overcome by ego and greed. They split into two factions. The Jedi-Bendu and the Sith, led by Gaius Blackmoon. When the Jedi-Bendu began their jihad to purge the corrupt empire and its emperor from the galaxy, Emperor Dashit Xerxes deemed them traitors and commanded the Sith to wipe them out.

   “But, not all of them,” Biggs chimed in, “General Skywalker is still here.”

   Skywalker smiled, “I am still here.”

   “Do you think there are any more left, General?” Deak asked.

   “I’m certain there are. Where? That is a mystery.” The general said.

   Deak leaned forward, placing his small hand on the warrior’s shoulder, “We’ll help you find them.”

   “I have no doubt you will, little one,” the general smiled, “You will make a great Jedi-Bendu one day.”

#writers on tumblr #sci fi writing #my writing #creative writing #novel writing #space opera #scifi character #star wars

[lublas1138-blog]

The following is the second chapter of a novel I wrote based on the original treatment of Star Wars in 1973 by George Lucas. Though the synopsis was vague, the novel was fun to write and I think it came out quite well. I submit it here because there is no way Disney will allow me to publish this. So, enjoy and tell me what you thought? I will be publishing a chapter each week.

chapter two

Interplanetary outlaws

The twin suns broke over a desolate and fractured horizon bathing the rolling prairies in a golden hue. The low bluffs surrounding the flatlands resembled baked biscuits stacked upon one another.

   Five metal and stone structures bleached white by the gaze of the twin suns huddled together tightly, for the company as much as for protection. Yellow and dry weeds sporadically sprung up about the grit-laden settlement. The squat and domed buildings formed the nexus of the small farming community of Anchorhead.

   At the far end of the sleepy town, in a yard surrounded by a crumbling wall of stone a meter in height, the small two-story farmhouse was quiet. The only noise was the constant squeaking from the weathervane behind the home. The vane looked as if it was constructed from scrap metal.

   The farmhouse itself was an adobe-style structure also whitewashed from the bleaching of the two suns. The blocky home had an upstairs balcony topped with a blue and dusty tarp to blanket the heat. To the left of the building was an open garage where sat a beat-up transport vehicle.

   Behind the house was a half-kilometer-long row of dead and blackened vegetation. The plastic sheets used to keep the produce hydrated were torn and tattered. To the right of the desolate garden towered a cylindrical silo of brick concrete. The door to the silo had been left open and rotted vegetation spilled out onto the arid soil.

   General Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia, their bodies aching with fatigue and covered in grit and dust, approached the farmhouse with caution. Presently the dusty, early morning unpaved street they walked was quiet and deserted. Sandflies buzzed lazily in the cracked eaves of pourstone buildings. A dog barked in the distance, the sole sign of habitation.

   “Your Grace,” The General whispered. “Remain behind me. There are a lot of scared and confused people about.”

   The two approached the front porch of the modest home. The entrance was a shut metal hatch salvaged from a space freighter. Solid and thick and lined with dust. The moment Skywalker was about to knock on the door, the hatch slid open and a long chrome barrel of a blaster rifle was pointed straight at his forehead.

   “Get off my property! There’s nothing to loot here!” Barked a gruff voice from the darkness of the farmhouse.

   “Dalton! Put that rifle down! You’re going to get yourself killed!” Pleaded a matronly voice from within the house.

   “I’d listen to the lady,” Skywalker sternly advised. With hands raised, his unblinking gaze remained set on where the face of the owner of the rifle might be.

   “Don’t make me ask twice…oh? Oh!” The rifle disappeared and was replaced by the stout form of a middle-aged farmer. He was dressed in unassuming overalls and sported an unkempt beard and a shock of lanky hair. Instantly, he bowed his head, “General Skywalker! My chieftain, please, forgive me.”

   Skywalker’s face dissolved from a terse scowl to a placating grin, “That’s all right. Under the circumstances, I don’t blame you, citizen. May we come in?”

   “Of course, sir!” Dalton stepped out of his way and gestured inside.

   The general stood in the doorway allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the farmhouse. He glanced about. These were simple folk with basic needs.

   The interior was spartan but emitted a warm feeling of comfort and home. Several rudimentary furnishings were placed about - chairs, a table, a sofa, and end tables with lamps. All well used. His eyes fell upon the only ornament, a holo-pic fastened to the wall above the cooling unit of a man, a woman, and a son. All smiling and happy. To his right was the doorway which led to a modest kitchen located under the upstairs balcony and to his left a set of wooden stairs that offered access to the second floor.

   A portly woman in her mid-forties emerged from the kitchen and stood next to her husband. With a look of shock and reverence, they bowed at the hip when their gaze fell upon the girl accompanying the general.

   “Your Highness!” The two farmers recited with admiration.

   “Please rise.” The princess said with a warm smile. “Thank you for allowing us to be guests in your home.”

   “I am Dalton Montross and this lovely woman here is my wife, Zora. Your Highness, if I may ask, what brings you to Anchorhead?”

   “As you may well know, Aquilae has fallen under attack by the Empire. Utapau is gone. I saw TIE fighters dropping bombs throughout the night.” The general said.

   “Yes! Those noises! They were horrible!” Zora said, clutching her ample chest, “It began as a low rumble followed by a series of thunderous concussions!”

   “Certainly the Royal Guard defended Utapau and its people!” Dalton said, “The Arial Navy? The Rangers?”

   “Gone.” Skywalker said morosely, “All gone.”

   “On the radio, some voice said Gordon is the only spaceport standing and has been designated as the Imperial Capital of Aquilae.”

   The General and the princess glanced knowingly at one another.

   “We need to get to Gordon,” Skywalker said.

   “You need to get to Gordon? Why in heavens…” Dalton sputtered.

   “There is no place of safety on this asteroid for Her Highness. We need to charter a ship out of Gordon that can transport us to Ophuchi. We may have lost this battle, but we are still in the fight,” Skywalker said.

   “Ophuchi?” The farmer contemplated, scrubbing his scruffy whiskers. “That’s a ways. You’ll have to sneak through Imperial territories.”

   “We’ll deal with that once we get to Gordon,” Skywalker said. “Which goes without saying, do you have a mode of transport we could use?”

   “I have a speeder. It’s an old junker, but it’ll get you to where you’re going. To Gordon, at least.”

   The general glanced over his scorched uniform and the princess’s tattered gown.

   “And we’ll require a change of clothes. Gordon is several days away, even by speeder. We’ll have to travel in disguise.” Skywalker stated.

   The farmer’s wife looked over at the princess. Her once pristine gown of white whisper-silk was now soiled with soot and burn marks.

   Zora smiled warmly, “My son was attending the Royal University. You are about the same age and size as him. I may have some clothes to fit you, Your Grace. Please follow me upstairs to his room.”

   Zora led the way as she escorted the princess up the creaking staircase.

   Skywalker turned back to Dalton. “Mister Montross, do you have a holodisc player?”

   “Certainly, sire.” He said gesturing to a small, plastic box. “There on that cupboard. Help yourself.”

   The general removed the disc from the satchel and slid it into the side of the small, boxy mechanism. He pressed a button on the holodisc player and from a lens atop the machine, a twelve-inch hologram of King Bail Organa appeared.

   “General Luke Skywalker,” the king began, he spoke urgently with a voice laced with sadness, “if you are viewing this then the emperor has succeeded in his occupation of Aquilae and I am dead. The emperor and the emperors before him have long desired to seize control of spice production here on Aquilae. For generations, the Jedi-Bendu have protected my family utilizing a strict code of honest valor and kindness. I ask you for one last favor, old friend, to protect my daughter at all costs. She is the last of House Organa and the empire’s stormtroopers will stop at nothing to end my line. They will not triumph, my friend. I have introduced a poisonous mutagen into the matrix of spice farming. Within hours all Aura Spice – on farms, in storage silos, all of it – will perish and become useless. However, within a canister, I have stashed enough pure Aura to grow in secret on another planet. I am certain, as you view this, the Banking Conglomerates of the empire are already dividing up my territories and my financial holdings pilfered. You will find within the satchel enough ampules of Aura to revitalize House Organa from its ashes. Please. Please safeguard my daughter, General Skywalker. You are my only hope.”

   The emitter switched off and the holographic image of the king faded. Skywalker stood tense and pensive, stroking the ashen whiskers of his chin with a gloved hand.

   “The king is truly dead?” Dalton asked with tears welling in his sad eyes.

   “I’m afraid so.” Skywalker affirmed with despondent apathy. He began thinking of the plight of the peoples of this kingdom. The hardship of enduring the oncoming tyranny that will affect their very lives. “Come with us. You and your wife need to get off Aquilae.”

   “No, this is our home. Anyways, where are we to go? We’ll wait it out here. I have faith in you, General. You will prevail and save us all.”

   At that moment, the princess trotted downstairs dressed in traveling clothes. Her burnt and sooty white gown had been replaced by a long-sleeved tunic of dark mauve, a pair of khaki jodhpur breeches, and a set of knee-high leather boots. She had a flight cap similar to the general’s. It covered her ears but was open at the top exposing her auburn hair.

   “How do I look, general?” She smiled and did an impromptu spin with arms outstretched.

   “Not a stormtrooper would recognize you, Your Highness.” The general admitted with an approving grin, but sadness laced his voice. Though she was still a child, he realized the burden of House Organa now weighed on her shoulders.

   “Your turn, my chieftain.” Zora beamed, “I think Dalton has a spare set of clothes or two that might fit you. They may be a bit baggy…”

   “You saying I’m fat?” Dalton interjected.

   “I’m saying your fat.” She nodded to her husband, with hands on wide hips, “Now, follow me if you please upstairs, my chieftain.”

   The wooden steps creaked loudly as the general followed the wife. Dalton and the princess stood in awkward silence for a moment. What was he to say? The Royal daughter of House Organa stood in his humble home.

   He thought, She is my guest and will be treated as any other guest.

   “Your Highness, where are my manners? Please, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Jawa juice?”

   Leia smiled warmly, “Water will be fine. Thank you.”

   He dashed into the kitchen. Leia sat as she heard the clanking of utensils coming from the other room. Dalton said loudly, speaking to Leia as if he was gossiping to an old acquaintance, “It was a week ago I received the transmission from the Ministry of Agriculture stating we all were to be compensated for our profit loss and then getting the Royal Decree that our crops would be poisoned. Then and there was when I knew things were bad.”

   Dalton emerged from the kitchen with a glass of ice water. He handed it to the princess who took it with a respectful smile.

   “What will you and your wife do now?” She asked.

   The farmer put his hand on his hip and ran the other through his hair in deep consideration, “Wait this occupation out, I suppose. The emperor took siege of your family’s kingdom without the authorization of the senate. I am certain once the other clans hear from Your Grace of the atrocities committed by Emperor Xerxes, something will be done and things will return to normal.”

   “I assure you I will do everything in my power to correct this, Mister Montross.”

   “That I do not have a doubt. And, you can call me Dalton, if it pleases Your Grace. All my friends do.”

    The princess took a sip of water, smiling warmly at his sincere hospitality. She glided over to the family portrait that hung on the wall and admired it.

   Leia asked, attempting to mask the sadness in her voice, “You had a son at the Royal Academy?”

   “Yes. His name is Ferris. Me and his ma were so proud of him when he was accepted. He should have contacted us by now and let me and his ma know he’s all right.”

   Before the princess could speak, the general returned downstairs in his farmer attire. His clothing was similar to the princess, but he had a tan cloak. His belt holding his blaster and laser sword was fastened around his hip.

   “Well, aren’t you the handsome one, General?” The princess smiled.

   “We must make haste to Gordon, Your Highness. Every second allots the empire time to locate you.” The general said adjusting his tunic here, tugging there.

   “Follow me to the garage and I’ll show you my old speeder.” The farmer said.

   Accompanying Dalton outside, the heat of the twin suns beat down on Skywalker and the princess as they walked to the garage located on the side of the house. A streamlined speeder rested within the dusty and dim coolness of the small garage.

   The vehicle was long and finned, the closed canopied car held two seats in the front and a single seat in the rear that could comfortably hold four passengers. Built with a powerful repulsorlift engine augmented with two air-cooled thrust turbines on either side of the chassis, the X-32 hovered half a meter off the ground during operation. The old speeder was fairly nondescript in appearance and measured four meters in length. The vehicle was capable of crossing rough terrain and well-suited for harsh desert climates.

   It was apparent that old Dalton made extensive use of his speeder, leaving the craft sand-pocked, sun-faded, and missing its portside turbine cowling. With tinkering and careful maintenance, Dalton had kept the landspeeder, to an extent, in good working order.

   “She may not look like much, but the old girl’ll get you to Gordon.”

   “We appreciate your kind hospitality, Mister Montross, allow me to compensate you for your generosity…” The general retrieved a small pouch of credits.

   “Won’t take those, General.” The farmer said with a raised palm. “You keep them. You’ll need them more than I will.”

   The farmer’s wife emerged from the house with a small crate of supplies. “I cullied together the best I could on such short notice. Canned goods, dried noodles, some dried fruit, two liters of water…oh, and this, General.” She handed him a small box.

   He opened the dark brown box to reveal a row of cigarillos. “Tusken Tobacco?”

   “The finest in the eastern territories. For you.” Zora beamed; her cheeks flushed crimson.

   “You are too kind.” General Skywalker smiled humbly.

   Dalton opened the passenger door for the princess and said to Skywalker, “Just safely get to Gordon. Tell the galaxy what the emperor has done then come back and kick these dogs off our land!”

   The princess sat on the dusty passenger seat as Skywalker made his way to the driver’s side.

   “May the Force of Others be with you,” Dalton said earnestly.

   Skywalker stopped and stared at the wife and farmer who stood together. Good people, such as them, were the ones he was fighting for. He curtly nodded, “May the Force of Others be with you, my friends.”

   General Skywalker jumped into the landspeeder causing the recently repaired repulsion floater to list alarmingly to one side until he was able to equalize weight distribution by sliding behind the controls. Maintaining its altitude slightly above the sandy ground, the transport vehicle steadied itself like a boat in a heavy sea. The general gunned the engine, which whined in protest, and as sand erupted behind the floater, he aimed the craft toward the distant spaceport of Gordon.

It was an old rancher’s saying that one could burn one’s eyes out faster by staring straight at the sun-scorched flatlands of Aquilae than from gazing directly into the two suns themselves. Despite its hot and arid climate, the environment was made possible by the installation of an atmosphere factory eons ago after the discovery of the Aura mushroom growing in the shadows of the rocks. The asteroid was gifted only one weather satellite which kept the asteroid in a relatively livable, if hot, climate.

   At midday, the twin suns beat down on the two escaped robots as they made their way across the bleached-white flatlands in which they had crashed.

   C-3PO, his internal thermostat overloaded and edging dangerously toward overheat shutdown, struggled, kicking up clouds of dust as he clumsily worked his way across the desert coastline.

   “What a desolate place this is!” C-3PO said as he turned to glance back at where the crashed shuttle lay half-buried in the sand. His internal gyros were still rattling from the rough landing.

   Landing! That was a landing?

   His memory circuits recalled in orbit the shuttle buckling from the blast, the spinning vista outside the cockpit, and the screaming air as they descended. His vain attempt at trying to level the craft only to ricochet off a towering bluff and skid to a halt against the base of a crescent dune.

   As he looked back at the smoldering craft, its pillar of black smoke billowing upwards to a blue and cloudless sky, he saw little R2-D2 waddling desperately to keep up with his longer-legged friend. A faint puff of minuscule dust particles rose in his wake. Neither robot had been designed for pedal locomotion on such rough terrain, so they had to fight across the unstable surface.

   “Your diodes are burnt out!” Called R2-D2, “Why you were manufactured is beyond my logic transistors. Thanks to you, we’re deserters and will probably be destroyed on sight. And on top of that, do you even know where you are going? All this grit is getting…”

   C-3PO ignored him. He glanced around. Rocks and sand as far as his photoreceptors could see. The dry sand bed stretched out onto a horizon dominated by high sandstone mesas. There was vegetation: succulents, barrel cacti, small-leaved shrubs, and desert grasses. Sparse, but life existed. Behind him began a vast sea of dunes that stretched kilometer after kilometer. The robot reflected that, on the one hand, he ought to be grateful they had come down in one piece. However, as he studied the desolate landscape, perhaps they were better off back on that battle station.

   “Are you listening to me?” R2-D2 called.

   “Not really. You’ve been a constant annoyance since we were assigned to one another,” C-3PO said. “Seriously, who will need a servomech robot in this climate? They’ll just use your casing as a waste bin while I retain my functions as servant and custodian.” Something squeaked in his right leg and he winced. “I’ve got to rest before I fall apart. My internal systems still haven’t recovered from that landing.”

   “Landing? Do you call that a landing? You couldn’t pilot your way out of an open airlock without the aid of a GPS and radar…”

   “Oh, switch off! And, why are you following me? I don’t need you, rust bucket.” C-3PO paused, but R2-D2 did not. The little automaton had performed a sharp turn and was now ambling slowly but steadily in the direction of the nearest outcrop of a mesa.

   “Hey,” C-3PO yelled. R2-D2 ignored the call and continued striding. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

   “Away from you!” R2-D2 shot back. “I hope your joints lock and you become a permanent artifact in this desert. I hope I never…wait! What is this?”

   With one of his clawed hands, the little automaton grabbed something up off the gritty ground.

   The taller robot exhaustedly shuffled over to R2-D2 and glanced at what he was holding. The human-like robot snatched the object out of R2-D2’s grasp.

   “What is that?” C-3PO asked more to himself as he held the thing up to his photoreceptors.

   “Hey!” R2-D2 protested. “That’s mine!”

   C-3PO studied the object. It was a small tube of chrome with an inhaler ejector at one end. Along the side of the tube was a transparent glass that revealed a phosphorescent blue glimmering inside.

   “Aura Spice!” C-3PO said. “We found Aura Spice!”

   “We?” R2-D2 retorted.

   “With this alone, we can purchase passage off this rock and go anywhere in the galaxy we so choose!”

   “You think there might be more?”

   “There has to be! If whoever this belonged to was foolish enough to drop one, they may have dropped more!” C-3PO said excitedly as he glanced about.

   “Let’s get looking!”

   “Here, store this in one of your compartments for safekeeping.” The taller robot returned the inhaler to his cohort.

   “Good idea.” R2-D2 agreed. He placed the inhaler into a small, sealed slot at the front of his chassis.

   Nearby, the pillars and buttresses of bleached calcium along with the bones of some enormous beast fossilized into the ridge of chocolate-colored rock formed an unpromising landmark. Frantically, the two robots began rummaging through the sand, turning over rocks.

   “There has to be more, R2-D2! Over here!”

   The small robot paused briefly to clean its single electronic eye with an auxiliary arm. Then it produced an electronic squeal which was almost, though not quite, a human expression of rage. “Leave me alone! I’m looking! I’m looking!”

   “I found another one!” C-3PO shouted with glee. Emitting a cacophony of clicks and whirs, he ran over to the squat robot holding up his find between two mechanical fingers. “Look!”

   “One for each of us! More! There has to be more!”

   “Hoy!” Echoed a booming voice.

   The two robots froze in fear. The voice reverberated for several seconds.

   “Who’s that?” R2-D2 whispered.

   On top of a low bluff of chocolate brown rock stood a sturdy-looking man with a grey beard. His tan cape fluttered in the hot breeze. He raised his gloved hand and called, “Are you injured? I saw your ship come down!”

   C-3PO bent over R2-D2 and said softly, “He may be a pirate. He’ll steal our spice and junk us for parts.”

   “I don’t like the way he looks.”

   “Here, hide this with the other one,” the copper robot said handing R2-D2 the small inhaler. The squat robot quickly shoved it into his compartment and snapped the case closed.

   The man began approaching the two nervous automatons. They stood still. The stranger was tall and looked strong. The unnerving thing about him was, C-3PO noticed, he didn’t smile. His face was as firm and blank as a poker dealer.

   “Were there any people aboard when you crashed?” The man asked as he approached and stopped in front of the robots.

   “No. Just us.” C-3PO said curtly.

   “You piloted the ship?” The stranger asked as he scrutinized the distant wreckage of the shuttle.

   “Yes.”

   “Amazing. A c1-type robot capable of flying a spaceship? Amazing. What are your operating numbers?” The man asked with both fists firmly placed on his hips.

   The robot nervously glanced at the man’s blaster and then the laser sword. He calculated perhaps the subservient approach was best. “I am C-3PO and this is R2-D2. Nice to make your acquaintance.”

   The stranger’s squinting expression changed when he noticed the Imperial Banner of a red sun on the crumpled wing of the crashed shuttle. He looked down at the servomech robot who remained quiet and asked, “Who’s your master?”

   The little robot clicked and rattled, but didn’t utter a word.

   “Can’t you speak? How do you relate your data? You’re of Corellian manufacture, you should be able to talk. Are you damaged?”

   “He’s fine. Just a little timid around strangers,” C-3PO quickly indicated.

   “Oh? Well, I’m Luke. I harvest spice. Perhaps we can be friends and help one another out. I was traveling to my sister’s evaporator farm when I developed engine problems with my speeder. Your little friend is a servomech, maybe he can help me with repairs and I can give you a lift to the nearest spaceport?”

   “That’s a wonderful idea, I think…”

   Humming quietly to itself, R2-D2 turned and trudged off toward the sandstone ridges as if nothing had happened.

   “Where is your friend going?”

   “Good question. R2-D2, where are you going?” C-3PO called.

   “Thank you for the offer, Mister Luke, but, no thank you. We have other things prioritized at the moment.” R2-D2 politely called back.

   “Get your rusted can back over here! How many people do you think will chance by and offer us assistance before our internal power supplies flatline?”

   R2-D2 halted in his tracks and turned to face the two, “You have a point. Very well, I shall assist you in repairs on your speeder.”

   Luke gestured toward a set of dunes. A biscuit-colored bluff sat on the heat-hazed horizon, “Good, let’s go. I’m camped half a kilometer beyond that ridge. We’ve got to hurry if we’re going to get across the dune hedge by nightfall.”

Far above, in the orbiting space station, Admiral Wilhelm Tarkin stood and read reports of the now victorious battle from an electronic tablet.

   An officer approached and curtly bowed at the hip, “Admiral Tarkin.”

   Tarkin glanced at the officer with rheumy eyes, the worried demeanor of the officer gave away that something was wrong.

   “Report,” Tarkin said.

   “Stormtrooper patrols across the wasteland are dispatching confirmed reports that all crops of sphongos azul have somehow been contaminated. Killed by a type of genetic virus.”

   “All of it?” Tarkin simmered.

   “In the hydroponic fields, warehouses, in silos across the surface – all produce were found blackened and withered. Useless. There is more, sir.”

   Tarkin’s face became livid, “More?”

   “The emperor has ordered the Battlestar to be returned to the shipyards for service. He has observed that the expenditures of this campaign have gone far too long to budget for the use of a Battlestar. We are to return to base immediately.”

   Tarkin stormed off the CIC, screaming unintelligibly in a frenzied rage.

   The officer turned to a row of personnel sitting at their monitors, “Set a course and return the station to the Imperial shipyards at Hubble. Deploy a blockade of stardestroyers in our wake. No one leaves this system alive!”

“There it is,” Luke said as he pointed to the top of a flat ridge.

   The twin suns were low on the horizon and the resting speeder sat in the coolness of long shadows created by a nearby towering bluff of limestone. The front hood of the speeder had been popped open revealing the grungy, yet powerful fusion engine. Various mechanical parts were strewn about the front of its chassis.

   A tent fashioned out of plastic poles and a large dusty tarp of blue had been erected next to the speeder. A young girl sat under the tarp on a large woven blanket preparing noodles with a portable cooker.

   C-3PO stopped next to Luke and said as he glanced at the immobile speeder, “An X-32? And you somehow keep it running?”

   R2-D2 halted next to his friend, “And one that still operates on a fusion intake turbine. I can repair this archaic junkpile with my sensor eye shut off.”

   “Good,” Luke said to the small robot, “See what you can do and you’ll be in a spaceship by the end of a fortnight.”

   The group approached the impromptu encampment. The young girl stopped stirring the noodles as she studied the two automatons.

   “Found some new friends?” She asked, returning her attention to the cooking. “I wonder what other superfluous surprises await us out in the wastelands?”

   The general took a flask of water hanging on a beam that supported the tarp, “These were the only two aboard that ship we saw crash. They’ll help to repair the speeder in trade for passage to Gordon.”

   “There were no others? Just the robots?” She asked sadly.

   “Hello, my name is C-3PO and this is my counterpart R2-D2. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

   “Hello,” R2-D2 said.

   The princess softly smiled and replied with a nod, “Hello.”

   C-3PO turned to Luke and quipped, “What a beautiful daughter you have.”

   The princess issued a chuckle and the general grinned, “She’s not my daughter.”

   “Oh?” C-3PO said taken back. “No disrespect, sir. I was simply…”

   “No disrespect taken.” The general motioned to the speeder and said to the smaller robot, “Think you can have it running by nightfall?”

   “Fixed? Yes. Running? This bucket of bolts? Maybe.” R2-D2 said as he scooted over to the open canopy of the engine.

   “Excuse my friend,” C-3PO said, “His circuits are still a little jangled from that landing.” He quickly scuttled off and joined his friend.

   The princess sat and scrutinized them.

   “Their ship. Did it fly the banner of House Organa?” She asked.

   The general leaned in and whispered, “It was an Imperial craft, Your Grace.”

   Furious hate filled her eyes as she studied the two robots who already began working on the engine, she hissed through gritted teeth, “We should disintegrate them. At once.”

   “I do not believe they were sent to look for us. They’re programmed for maintenance service only. The engine of that speeder is questionable, at best. They could be an asset.”

   The princess sighed through her petite nostrils, “Very well, General. But, they are your responsibility.”

   “Agreed. And, while we are in their presence, please refrain from using official titles when addressing one another.”

   “Oh?” She chuckled. “And what shall I call you? Father?”

   “No disrespect to Bail Organa is necessary. Perhaps ‘Uncle’ will please Your Highness?”

   She looked up at the stoic man. Even in the ratty attire of a farmer, he looked strong and noble. She smirked, “I like that. You would have been an amazing uncle and a wonderful addition to the family.”

   If she looked close enough, she might have seen a minute tear forming in his squinting eyes.

   He bowed at the hips and said humbly under his breath, “Your Majesty…”

   “Excuse me!” It was the one that was called C-3PO. “Excuse me! Do you have a hydro-spanner? We are having a spot of trouble with removing this bolt.”

   The general called, “There should be one in the toolbox located in the back trunk.”

   The robot waved and made his way to the rear of the speeder.

   “You think they can be trusted?” The princess asked as she added chopped herbs to the boiling noodles.

   “Only time will tell. Rest assured, Your Grace, if they give us the slightest inclination of being Imperial spies, I’ll blast them to atoms.”

There were many number of extraordinary features unique to Aquilae’s surface.

   Outstanding among them were the mysterious mists that rose regularly from the ground at the points where desert sands washed up against unyielding cliffs and mesas.

   Fog in a steaming desert seemed as out of place as a cactus on a glacier, but it existed, nonetheless. Meteorologists and geologists argued its origin among themselves, muttering hard-to-believe theories about water suspended in sandstone veins beneath the sand and incomprehensible chemical reactions that made the water rise when the ground cooled, then fall underground again with the double sunrise. It was all very backward and very real.

   Aquilae possessed no moons, yet the chilled night was illuminated by three large asteroids that orbited at such velocity they made the journey across the skies three times per night.

   Neither the mist nor the alien moans of nocturnal desert dwellers troubled General Skywalker as he sat on a woven blanket next to the dull sulfur light of a campfire.

   He took a long drag from the cigarillo gifted to him by that farmer’s wife. He languidly gazed up at the stars. If one could squint hard enough, one could almost make up other asteroids slowly tumbling in the night sky.

   He contemplated how the citizens of Aquilae must be suffering right now. The catastrophic death toll brought about by the bombing of the cities. His heart sank in grief over the death of King Bail and Queen Breha. How he loved them. In a galaxy overcome by greed, violence, and fear – they were a rare beacon of light. They were good people. A long-standing family respected and admired by the other Royal Houses of the galaxy. He sighed through his nostrils. How he let them down so badly. His only redemption for their death was to ensure the welfare of the princess. He glanced over at her bedding in the shadows of the tarp and – she was gone!

   He quickly stood and noticed the runt R2-D2 immobile at the edge of the blanket.

   “Robot, where’s the girl?” Skywalker snapped.

   The short robot pointed with his clawed hand, “She is over on that ridge. She has been standing there alone for quite some time.”

   Skywalker dashed out from under the tarp. He looked in the direction the robot had pointed and saw a lone figure silhouetted against one of the larger asteroids orbiting Aquilae. He ran over to her.

   He stopped a meter behind the young girl, he could hear her muted sobbing. Slowly, the general approached Leia and stood next to her.

   With horror, he saw what her attention was focused on. Under the pale light of the orbiting asteroid, a paved road stretched from horizon to horizon.

   First, his gaze came upon the possessions of refugees abandoned on the road. Boxes and bags. Everything melted and black. Old plastic suitcases curled shapeless in the heat. Here and there the imprint of things wrested out of the tar by scavengers. Then his view came upon the dead. Scores of them. Figures half mired in the blacktop, clutching their blackened torsos, mouths howling. The charred skin of the mummified figures stretched upon the bones and their faces split and shrunken on their skulls.

   As a backdrop to that deathly perdition, along the far horizon rose enormous pillars of black smoke into the clear and starry sky. The remnants of blasted cities and townships.

   Princess Leia Organa stood with tears streaming down her delicate face. She loved every one of her subjects and her heart broke seeing the damnation that was set upon them by the empire.

   “That vile and murderous Xerxes will pay his debt to House Organa – nay - to the noble peoples of Aquilae.” She said solemnly to the general without turning her gaze away from that scorched graveyard.

   For the rest of the evening, the princess stood and uttered a prayer for each corpse she saw in the silver light of the hurtling asteroids. General Luke Skywalker remained faithfully steadfast beside her, ever diligent.

The following morning, the old speeder roared across a dusty canyon bottom dotted with the bramble of leafless bushes.

   Gravel and fine sand formed a gritty fog beneath the vehicle as it slid across the rippling wasteland of Aquilae on humming repulsors. Occasionally the craft would jog slightly as it encountered a dip or slight rise, to return to its smooth passage as its pilot compensated for the change in terrain.

   In the front seat, Skywalker skillfully piloted the powerful craft around dunes and rocky outcrops as the princess sat in the passenger seat. In the back were the two robots. C-3PO was attempting to amuse the young girl and her ‘uncle’ with anecdotes of his various interplanetary adventures.

   “…and that was when,” the copper robot continued, “our freighter became snared in the gravity well of the black hole. I tell you; I thought all aboard were about to meet our maker when suddenly a ship arrived to our rescue. To my surprise, they were Jedi-Bendu! I thought they were a myth! But, there they were, offering our captain assistance.”

   “Jedi-Bendu?” Skywalker mockingly asked. “I was under the impression the previous emperor had them all executed after the Holy Rebellion of ‘06?”

   “Indeed.” R2-D2 interjected sarcastically, “He spins this tired story often. Never backing it up with any evidence. Everyone knows that the Order of the Bendu was eradicated by the Sith Knights decades ago by the then Emperor Cos Dashit Xerxes.”

   “I tell you,” C-3PO shot back, “The Jedi-Bendu are real!”

   “Talk about having crossed wires,” R2-D2 interjected.

   “Listen, you malfunctioning little twerp, if you don’t like my stories, it costs you nothing to sit there silent and…”

   “Quiet!” Skywalker ordered. “Looks like we have some trouble ahead.”

   The speeder shot out of the canyon onto a prairie of short, yellowed grass. Ten across and one thousand deep, a battalion of soldiers marched in precise formation along a dusty, unpaved road. This was the Imperial Occupational Army for Aquilae. Each soldier was outfitted in the fascist white armor of the Imperial stormtrooper.

   Stormtrooper armor was designed to instill a sense of order and security in loyal subjects and a sense of fear in the opponents of the Empire. The gear itself was an armored spacesuit that could be used in any battlefield whether it be planetside or in the vacuum of interstellar space providing the soldier with an extended range of survival equipment.

   Each stormtrooper carried a large gatling rifle in armored hands along with a heavy shield baring the Imperial crest. On their backs were fastened a small backpack holding provisions.

   At the front of the procession, four stormtroopers rode on the backs of griyadaa, a three-meter tall ostrich/lizard-like mount. Each of the four troopers held a long chrome lance with an imperial banner attached; crimson with a black sun.

   At intervals along the marching parade, lumbered five All-Terrain Tactical Battle Tanks. A low-built vehicle with six thick and squat articulated legs for propulsion, three on either side. Its body consisted of two armored halves connected by a flexible concertina section which increased the tank’s mobility on the field.

   Because its legs were low to the ground, the walker had a relatively low top speed, but it also benefited from greater stability. As its name suggested, the AT-TBT was suitable for traversing all types of planetary surfaces and was capable of surviving in the vacuum of real space as it was able to be pressurized.

   The battle tank’s most powerful weapon was a single mass-driver cannon located on the vehicle’s dorsal surface, which gave the walker the purpose as both a mobile artillery vehicle as well as a tank. The hexapod’s armor could easily deflect small arms fire and was well-shielded against electromagnetic pulse and ion weaponry.

   With gritted teeth, General Skywalker attempted to veer the speeder away from the marching army, but it was too late. The blaster cannon of the closest tank swung and locked onto them as a group of six stormtroopers rushed toward the speeder, waving them down.

   With the whine of jet engines, the general slowed the speeder to a stop. A stormtrooper arrogantly tapped the dusty plasteel glass window, Skywalker quickly lowered it.

   “Let me see some identification,” ordered the stormtrooper. His voice was made electronic by the small speaker at the center bottom of his helmet.

   “Is there a problem, officer?” Asked the general, he inflected into his voice the accented twang of the southern territories.

   “Your identification or we’ll arrest the lot of you!”

   “Okay. Okay, no need to get mean.”

   “Where are you going?”

   “We have a farm…we had a farm out beyond the Dune Sea. My sister oversees an evaporator field twenty kilometers southeast. We are going to stay there and wait for the glorious Empire to smooth all this out.”

   “Who’s the girl?”

   “My niece. Her mother was lost during the attack…the occupation.”

   “Those robots belong to you?”

   “Yes. They’re for sale if you’re interested?”

   “I don’t need a robot.”

   “Water. Do you have any water?” Leia asked. Her voice purposefully held that annoying whine spoiled children keep.

   “No. None to spare.”

   “Food? We could use some food, officer.” Skywalker said with a pleading smile.

   “You’ll have to forage on your own until you reach your destination. The supplies we have cannot be doled out to every dust breather who shoots their hand out.”

   “But, what are we to do?” Leia asked, her voice childishly annoying. “We’ll die before we reach my sister’s, you know. Tusken raiders themselves will most likely kill us before…”

   “Look, I don’t care.” The stormtrooper snapped with a wave of his gloved hand. “We should shoot you and put you out of your misery. But, I’m going to let you go with a warning. Stay clear of Imperial outposts and do not interfere in Imperial dealings. Got it?”

   “Got it.”

   “Good. Now go before I change my mind.”

   “Thank you, officer.” The general nodded as the princess pouted with crossed arms, ignoring the stormtrooper.

   The speeder jumped forward as Skywalker engaged the accelerator. The stormtrooper commander, along with his men, returned to the marching procession.

   Within the helmet of one of the commander’s soldiers, a static-infused voice came over his headphones, “This is Tactical Command in Gordon. Five Zero Zero Alpha. An all-points bulletin: Be on the watch for an elderly man traveling with a girl of sixteen years. These two outlaws are identified as General Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia Organa. The general is to be executed on sight and the princess detained. She is to be confined to an Imperial fort nearest to her capture. This broadcast will be put on a two-second repeat…”

   Within the armor, his head turned slightly, “What? Sir! Sir! That speeder! It’s carrying the princess!”

   The stormtrooper commander stopped in his tracks, “Organa? Princess Leia Organa? Advise all stormtroopers along that longitude to search and abduct immediately!” He gazed off into the heat-shimmering direction the speeder traveled. “They won’t escape us this time.”

For an hour, the general raced the speeder over the arid landscape of the asteroid. Inside the cockpit, it was tensely quiet. The princess side-eyed the two robots in the backseat with suspicion and hatred.

   “If these two robots say anything if we run into another patrol…” She said to Skywalker.

   “I assure you, young lady, we have no intention of doing the like whatsoever,” C-3PO pleaded. “Our intentions are simply to get to Gordon and leave this asteroid. Without imperial entanglements.”

   She continued to stare at the general, “I say we just leave them out here. They’re Imperial robots! Simply having them in our presence is a bad idea.”

   C-3PO interjected, “No! Please! Take us with you! We will remain silent, we…”

   “We are deserters,” R2-D2 said.

   “Deserters?” Skywalker asked over his shoulder.

   “Yes.” R2-D2 continued, “We were maintenance robots on that battle station in orbit around this asteroid. The fighting became too intense, so me and this dummy jumped ship and crashed here. Then, you found us.”

   Leia turned and faced the copper robot. The look of disbelief on her young face. “You went against your programming?”

   “He’s telling the truth,” C-3PO said. “We became scared and ran. The empire is looking for us.”

   “I seriously doubt,” the princess said, “that the empire would dispatch an entire army to look for two service robots.”

   “Well, to be honest, we…” R2-D2 began.

   Suddenly, there was a large and fiery explosion to the side of the speeder. With skilled precision, the general guided the vehicle to an arcing halt next to a series of crumbling bluffs and dried weeds.

   “Get down!” He barked at the princess as out from her side window he saw ten stormtroopers run toward the speeder on the backs of galloping griyadaa. “Remain here!” He said as he opened his door.

   Instantly, the stormtroopers dismounted their steeds and, pointing their sinister gatling blaster rifles at the speeder, surrounded the outlaws. They began barking orders at the occupants.

   “Get out of the vehicle! Hands up!”

   “Surrender in the name of the emperor!”

   “Out of the speeder! Hands where we can see them!”

   “You are surrounded! There is nowhere to run!”

   “Comply! Comply!”

   With a gritted grimace, his cigarillo dangling, General Skywalker slowly rose from out of the driver’s side of the speeder with his hands up.

   He quickly scrutinized the stormtrooper’s positions, calculating, when instantly, he somersaulted through the air, over the hood of the speeder, his laser sword ignited by the time his feet hit the ground.

   From the hilt of the mechanism there emitted a blue laser beam that extended and stopped a meter in length from the mirrored disc. The device hummed with great power as Skywalker expertly sliced into the armor of three stormtroopers with one swing.

   Several of the armored soldiers began firing deadly energy bolts at the swirling and leaping Jedi-Bendu.

   With supersonic speed, Skywalker deflected the bolts with his laser sword, bouncing the blasts back at the stormtroopers, downing four instantly.

   Skywalker flipped into the air and, with the buzzing of his laser sword, decapitated a stormtrooper. He flung his sword behind him and it flew through the air, burying itself to the hilt into the armored chest of a soldier. With a graceful pirouette, the general retrieved his blade before the trooper had time to fall to his knees.

   The remaining stormtrooper stood, his rifle pointing at the general, “A Jedi-Bendu? You are a Jedi? Die, you traitorous scum!”

   As the stormtrooper fired, the general blocked the blast with the beam of his sword, ducked, spun, and sunk his blade deep into the helmet of the stormtrooper.

   The Jedi-Bendu Luke Skywalker stood triumphant over the scattered corpses of his fallen foes. He deactivated his laser sword and returned it to its hilt on his belt.

   The princess exited the speeder, smiling at the winded general, “That display was why my father admired you.”

   The general smirked and simply bowed at the hips, “I exist to serve.”

   “A Jedi-Bendu? We’ve been traveling with a Jedi-Ben…” C-3PO was saying as he opened the back door to the speeder and began stepping out.

   Skywalker shot a finger at the robot, “You stay in that speeder! Do not move! Do not say anything!”

   “Will do!” The robot said as he slid back into the rear seat and timidly shut the door closed.

   “You’re always causing problems,” R2-D2 said sarcastically to the copper robot before turning his head away.

   The general looked down at the admiring face of the princess, “We need to lay low for a while. The empire knows you are still alive and the stormtroopers will definitely be combing the wastes for us.”

   “I agree. I think I know the perfect place,” the princess said as she made her way toward the speeder.

   “Then, let’s waste no more time,” Skywalker said with a warm smile. “You lead the way.”

The Dark Knight of the Sith, Darth Vader, rode his dewback to the crest of a shrub-lined ridge.

   At four meters in length and two meters at the shoulder, the dewback was a rugged lizard native to the arid wastes of Aquilae. The reptile encompassed a thick hide of scaly green skin, with a long, rounded head and a short tail. Often a preferred mode of transport, the dewbacks were able to withstand the heat of the binary suns, as well as the dust that caused mechanical breakdowns in high-tech conveyances.

   The Dark Knight dismounted his steed and approached the remains of a smoldering campfire. He glanced about the sand and noticed the many footprints associated with the previous occupants. He also made out prints of at least two robots.

   The desert wind blew his black cloak as he meticulously scanned over the deserted encampment. The rasp of his breathing regulator was the only sound in this hot and desolate climate.

   He reached down and picked up the still-smoldering butt of a dark-brown cigarillo. He sniffed it, analyzing the aromas.

   A glint caught his eye, it was a small object half-buried in the dusty grit and sand. With a black-gloved hand, he retrieved the object. It was a hair ornament of high-polished and glittering silver. Something worn possibly by a young girl. He noticed on the back the engraving of a crescent with two stars. Without a doubt, it was hers!

   Darth Vader returned to his lizard mount and began his journey toward their only logical recourse, to escape the asteroid via the spaceport Gordon.

#writers on tumblr #sci fi writing #my writing #creative writing #novel writing #space opera #ralph mcquarrie #spaceships #scifi character #star wars

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The Star Wars

The following is the first chapter of a novel I wrote based on the original treatment of Star Wars in 1973 by George Lucas. Though the synopsis was vague, the novel was fun to write and I think it came out quite well. I submit it here because there is no way Disney will allow me to publish this. So, enjoy and tell me what you thought? I will be publishing a chapter each week.

In the 33rd century.

the Jedi-Bendu were the most feared warriors in the galaxy. For over one thousand years, generations of Jedi-Bendu perfected their art as personal bodyguards of the emperor. they were the chief architects of the invincible imperial space force that expanded the galactic empire across all known worlds, from the celestial equator to the farthest reaches of the great rift.

Over time, ruthless trader barons, aided by crime syndicates driven by greed and lust for power, replaced enlightenment with oppression and ‘rule by the people’ with brutality and domination.

it is now a period of civil wars. The Empire is crumbling into chaos and lawless barbarism expands throughout the million worlds of the galaxy. seventy small solar systems have united in a common war against the tyranny of the Empire. The Emperor realizes one more such defeat will bring a thousand more solar systems into the rebellion and imperial control of the Outlands could be lost forever…

From The Journal of the Whills, vol. 5

CHAPTER ONE

A PLANET IN PERIL

In the cold and airless void of sidereal space orbited a spherical planetesimal nestled within an asteroid belt of the binary star system Kepler-427. The celestial body, designated as Aquilae, attained a diameter of slightly over 2,370 kilometers. Aquilae was the belt’s fourth-largest asteroid by both volume and mass.

   Its rotation was slow, taking nearly twenty-seven hours to complete in a single day. Though the asteroid’s journey around its twin suns was less circular, its perihelion remained at a similar longitude with an orbit reaching out to the extreme edge of the asteroid belt; nearly crossing the path of Guataubá, the systems gas giant.

   Aquilae orbited an average distance of eight million kilometers from a set of yellow binary G1 and G2 stars. Both colossal suns orbited a common center with peculiar regularity and Aquilae circled them far enough out to permit the development of a stable, if rather arid, climate.

   Long terraformed before the Great Revolution, Aquilae attained a rugged, if sparse, ecosystem of vast prairies and low rolling hills consisting of resilient steppes of needlegrass, wild asters, coneflowers, clovers, and wild indigos.

   Outfitted with an atmosphere factory and gravity bell, the asteroid maintained a parched climate colonized by stalwart farmers and ranchers.

   Though mundane in its appearance, Aquilae was known more for its production of a psychotropic narcotic. An exceptionally addictive hallucinogen manufactured from the esoteric fungi labeled sphongos azul – commonly referred throughout the galaxy as Aura Spice or simply Aura.

   The benefits of Aura consumption increased the efficiency of human metabolism and streamlined the consumption of energy from food. Bulky supplies normally required for long space voyages could now be reduced to a container or two, permitting cargo holds to be used for other base necessities.

   On settlements struggling to provide agricultural goods to an ever-demanding population, the dietetic effects of the narcotic were a welcomed relief.

   Found and harvested only on Aquilae, the fungus was a commodity in great demand. A demand the emperor highly desired to control and extort.

   Following the failed attempts at several diplomatic negotiations, the emperor considered it necessary to take spice production by force. By imperial decree, he ordered a blockade of the planetary system by use of a T-67 Battlestar.

   Orbiting the asteroid, the looming station was an impressive metal sphere measuring one hundred kilometers in diameter with three hundred and forty-two internal levels and a surface area of over 650 square kilometers.

   The station’s command bridge, the Combat Information Center, was located above the Northern Polar Command Sector, a series of towers and antennae array that jutted up out of the station’s northernmost point.

   The equator housed docking and hangar bays, tractor-beam generators, turbo laser emplacements, and mooring platforms for ships of the fleet. Magnetic seals and an atmosphere-containment projector kept the station’s internal atmosphere in and the vacuum of space out.

   The outer hull was made of quadanium steel plates. A habitable crust several kilometers thick featured an entirely man-made atmosphere composed of command centers, armories, maintenance blocks, and other requirements for a fully operational space station. With the exception of the crust, the interior space was largely uninhabited and housed the hypermatter reactor, hyperdrive, and the Hubble Drive Yards sublight engines.

   The station was equipped to easily house a crew of fifty thousand personnel along with ten legions of Imperial stormtroopers.

   On the asteroid, from its capital city of Utapau, the ruling government of the independent system, the noble House Organa, retaliated by launching an aerial fleet of deadly Y-wing fighters.

   The Cantwell-74 Y-wing consisted of a wedge-shaped cockpit connected to a reinforced central section fitted with strong pylons that extended to the long and powerful engine nacelles on either side of the craft. The pressurized cockpit seated a pilot and a gunner. The gunner, who manned the rotating blaster cannon, sat protected by a transparisteel bubbled canopy directly behind the pilot.

   The aerodynamic craft was heavily armored with a titanium-reinforced hull. For weaponry, the starfighter craft was fitted with two forward-firing laser cannons. These weapons, designed to penetrate battle cruiser hulls, could inflict devastating effects.

   The Y-wing was capable of unleashing a tremendous amount of firepower, especially when attacking in groups.

   Fifty of these sleek spaceships soared up over the curving horizon of the rust-colored asteroid in v-formations of five each.

   In an orange flight suit and black oxygen mask, the squadron commander sat behind the cramped controls of his space fighter.

   “Lt. Pyter Barnell – GHOST RIDER” had been stenciled on the side of his space helmet. The commander was lean, hard, athletic. The archetype space fighter pilot. His stern face was obscured by a space helmet, the lights of the complicated control board reflected off his visor.

   Directly in front of the fighter’s control stick, two CRT screens displayed data. The bottom screen revealed a radar sweep. Wedged between the instruments was a snapshot of a pretty young woman with a two-month-old baby.

   The tense apprehension of the looming battle was shrouded by the silence of space. Only the muffled whine of rocket engine sounds could be heard in the tight cockpit. The squadron commander – with the call sign Ghost Rider - remained calm. Cowboy, his ventral gunner in the bubbled turret, sat behind him.

   With a thick gloved hand, Ghost Rider turned the dial on the interplanetary radio and the cramped cockpit was filled with static followed by an elderly voice.

   “…we will not yield! Aquilae is a member of the Alliance of Independent Star Systems. Imperial occupation of our space is a violation of General Order 329 subsection twelve of the Intergalactic Edict. Withdraw that battle station from our air space or House Organa will be forced to retali-…”

   The voice suddenly fell silent and the speakers filled with static.

   Ghost Rider flipped another switch and said, “They cut off all interplanetary communications. All right, boys, that’s our cue. Squadrons five, nine, and three, follow me across the station’s axis and take out as many turrets as possible. Greyhound, ward off any bogies dropping planet side.”

   The squadron commander glanced out his cockpit window and called back to the gunner sitting behind him at his bubbled turret, “Activate targeting computer.”

   Cowboy answered with a thumbs up and, “I got your six.”

   As the small and sleek Y-shaped fighters darted toward the ominous Battlestar, the cockpit of the squadron commander became a static cacophony of UHF transmissions from the other pilots.

   “Ghost Rider, this is Greyhound, continue your vector zero niner zero five alpha.”

   A young voice crackled over the speakers, “Ghost Rider, this is Fahrenheit, we have unknown contact inbound. Vector zero three zero for bogey.”

   Almost immediately behind Ghost Rider, he heard the targeting computer beep and Cowboy’s response, “Contact. Multiple bogies at one-fifty. Forty-five hundred knots closure.”

   Ghost Rider glanced out the cockpit and saw one hundred tiny objects swarm out of the equatorial docking ports like wasps from a nest.

   “TIE fighters!”

   The P-s4 Twin Ion Engine fighter was one of the most recognizable symbols of the power of the Galactic Empire and was at the forefront of modern Imperial technology. A small, two-man craft, the cockpit was a blue, metal sphere attached to two large and black solar sails mounted on either side of the cockpit sphere.

   Within the cramped cockpit, the pilot and gunner sat back to back surrounded by a myriad of intricate technology.

   Due to the lack of life-support systems, each TIE pilot had a fully sealed flight suit superior to any space suit on the market.

   The fighter ships were cheap to produce and therefore manufactured in large numbers by the Empire. Their far superior performance made them adversaries to be reckoned with by any starfighter.

   The absence of a hyperdrive rendered the fighter dependent on carrier ships when deployed in enemy systems. TIE fighters lacked landing gear, another mass-reducing measure.

   The primary armament was a pair of L-S1 laser cannons and a powerful sensor suite. The cannons were formidable, and a well-placed hit on a starfighter or medium-sized transport could damage or destroy it.

   The silent darkness of space was lit up by the incandescent flak fire of battle as the two opposing fighter crafts soared headlong into one another. Within a matter of seconds, the battlefield was spotted with puffs of smoke, blazing fireballs, whirling spark showers, fiery spinning debris, rumbling implosions, shafts of light, tumbling machinery, and space frozen corpses.

   In the cockpit of Ghost Rider, the console lights glowed dimly on the windscreen as his ship rocked and shuddered by the flashes of exploding blaster fire.

   Unknown to his fellow squadron pilots, Ghost Rider realized this was deemed a suicide mission from the start. The goal was not to win, but to stall for enough time for the royal house of Organa to escape and seek safety elsewhere. As he watched his squadron picked off one by one, he only hoped old General Skywalker could safely deliver the young princess along with her mother and father to their hidden fortress.

In a monolithic tower located at the very north pole of the station, the main Combat Information Center was a drone of scurrying activity. Long rows of monitors and wall-sized viewscreens displayed the chaotic battle outside and scrolled statistics on how to attain the best and most effective victory.

   Lights blinked and beeped on consoles as officers sat hunched over their stations observing the space battle in a cavernous chamber of grey metal and titanic power conduits.

   Admiral Wilhelm Tarkin, Governor of numerous outlying Imperial territories and commander of this particular T-67 Battlestar, stood at the large, circular viewport with hands behind his back.

   In his late sixties, Tarkin was a tall cadaverous man with a form borrowed from an old broom and the expression of a quiescent piranha. His lanky torso was meticulously fitted into a fascist military uniform of jet black. The only color on his uniform was the assortment of war medals pinned to his chest. With a furrow of arched brows, he scrutinized the spectacular aerial battle several kilometers away with intense interest.

   His complete attention focused on the space battle outside, Tarkin nonchalantly raised a small plastic inhaler to his thin and chapped lips and, with a slight click of the mechanism, injected an aerosol puff of Aura into his lungs. Instantly, every object snapped into focus. For a brief second, he was one with the universe. Everything was as clear as glycerin.

   Behind him, a uniformed officer stood from his console and, with a slight bow at the hips, said, “Admiral Tarkin, I just received a short wave radio transmission. King Bail Organa has ordered for the entire House to evacuate to their hidden fortress. He is estimating the plan one hour for completion.”

   Enraged, Tarkin spun and pointed a gnarled and twig-like finger, “Deploy all bombers!” He ordered in crimson-faced fury. “Lay waste to every capital city! Let nothing survive!”

   “Gen-genocide, s-sir?” The officer meekly stammered.

   “Everything!” Tarkin screamed, spittle flinging from his insipid slit of a mouth. “I want that asteroid reduced to a burned-out cinder! It will serve as a deterrent to other star systems who dare oppose the emperor!”

As the chaos of battle echoed throughout the void, the pilot to Y-Wing 5, young Lt. Joffry Santos – call sign Fahrenheit – piloted his fighter through a wall of orange blaster flak just in time to glance fifty TIE bombers roar out of the station’s equatorial hangar bays and, in tight formation, nosedive toward Aquilae.

   “Ghost Rider, this is Fahrenheit. Ghost Rider, one one seven. Contact off port multiple bogeys, zero zero niner at fifteen hundred kilometers, seventeen hundred knots.”

   “Maintain position.” Ghost Rider ordered.

   “Chief, their calculated trajectory is the palace at Utapau!” Answered a voice.

   “Surface artillery will do their job so we can do ours,” was Ghost Rider’s calm response. “Keep those TIE’s off our tails. We are making our power dive. Concentrate firepower onto the station’s reactor conduits. Watch our six, Fahrenheit.”

   “Copy that,” was the static-infused reply.

   With TIE fighters and florescent bursts of flak zipping past, Ghost Rider and ten of his squadron plowed through the blasting Imperial fighters and soared downward, skimming along the industrial complex of the massive space station.

   Powerful blaster cannons mounted on towers rained deadly laser bolts onto the zig-zagging craft.

   “Cowboy! Take out that cannon at four o’clock!” Ghost Rider ordered through gritted teeth. Out of his peripheral, he saw two more of his wing disintegrate into fireballs.

   Three cannons to his right exploded into a spectacular display of incandescent fire. Ghost Rider skillfully piloted his sleek fighter past floating debris, shrapnel, and bodies.

   “There’s too many of them!” Said a static voice over the intercom. “We’re sitting targets with these guys! They’re killing us!”

   “What are your orders, chief?”

   “We’re no match for this kind of firepower!”

   “We won’t last much longer. Squad is down to thirty percent and rapidly dropping!”, blurted another voice, it was Fahrenheit.

   “Issue a retreat, sir! We must retreat!” Cried another voice.

   “Remain vigilant!” Barked Ghost Rider, “We must hold our positions to allow the King and Queen time to evacuate! The empire wants to take our home! Take our way of life! Take away our freedom!” He glanced at the photograph on his console, “We must win for our families, for our children! With me, men! For House Organa!”

   “For House Organa!” Came the response of the remaining pilots.

   With that, the Y-Wing squadron flew low over the infrastructure of the immense battle station releasing a barrage of blaster bolts across its hull. As the pilots skillfully flew through the fire storm they created, the very base of the station shuddered in the volley of enormous explosions that tore open its keel.

Down below on the arid surface of Aquilae, a stout farmer stood next to his silo scrutinizing the stars with his electro-binoculars. With intense wonder, he watched as vivid flashes erupted around the glinting, metal sphere that hung suspended far up in the night sky.

   A battle? Way out here? He thought to himself. Who are they fighting?

   Suddenly, the night was lit by the blinding flare of several atomic mushroom clouds sprouting across the landscape.

   In a flash of complete shock, the farmer froze in astonished horror as his shadow was burned into the side of the concrete silo and the farmer was reduced to ashes.

   Like the Valkyrie of old, TIE bombers soared across the night sky, illuminated by the orange burst of over one hundred atomic bombs dropped across the craggy landscape.

General Luke Skywalker stood on a low bluff under a sea of stars looking out into the arid prairies of Aquilae. Amid the dull and distant booming on the horizon, with sad resignation, he sighed. He was feeling his age. Though, even at sixty, he retained the vigor and strength of his youth.

   The general was a tall and powerful-looking man with ruggedly handsome features. He wasn’t muscular but held the bulky physique of a seasoned prizefighter.

   On an angular head was strapped a leather flight cap open at the top that exposed a shock of silver hair parted on the side and a white, close-cropped beard covering his stern jaw.

   He was outfitted in the uniform of the Jedi Bendu – an ancient warrior class who protected the royal clans of the galaxy through a code of honor and justice. Over a dark blue shirt, he bore a chest plate of chrome that bore the heraldry of House Organa: a crescent moon with two stars. A pair of khaki jodhpurs ended in knee-high black leather boots. Attached around his waist was a leather scabbard that held both blaster pistol and a cylindrical baton a little over thirty centimeters in length that consisted primarily of a short, thick handgrip with a couple of small switches set into the grip. Above this small post was a circular metal disk barely larger in diameter than a spread palm. The reverse side of the disk was polished to mirror brightness.

   The laser sword was his father’s, killed in battle defending House Organa during the early Revolution. His father and his grandfathers had served House Organa for over eighty generations.

   He was the first to fail.

   With pained trepidation, he slowly pulled his thick blue cloak around his torso. Once pristine, it was now tattered and singed.

   The general adjusted his dark goggles over steel blue eyes as the far horizon was lit up by a blinding flash of an atomic detonation to the southwest.

   Five, he said to himself, that was five within the last half hour.

   Around him at every point of the darkened horizon, the tell-tale remnant of an atomic mushroom cloud dissipated into the tepid night.

   He swallowed in a dry mouth. His face, though weathered and lined from being subjected to a myriad of exotic climates, remained stoic. His lined face revealed the thoughts of the sixty-year-old Jedi Bendu: broken, hopeless, and beaten.

   He recalled how he entered the cavernous throne room in Utapau less than two hours prior. He hurriedly marched along the red velvet carpet past monumental marble columns of white to the grand steps that led to a great throne cut from a single emerald.

   King Bail Organa sat on his throne surrounded by twenty of his retainers. A strong-looking man in blue and black robes of velvet and silk. A crown of gold sat atop a square head of black hair with grey on the sides. He sported a trimmed goatee on a handsome face.

   The king rose as the general was striding across the throne room. Extending his bejeweled hand, an elegant and matronly woman in fine silks took the king’s lead as they began to descend the stairs. The beautiful woman was his loving wife, Queen Breha Organa.

   Skywalker stopped and bowed curtly at the hip, “My grace, you ordered the evacuation of the city?”

   At the base of the steps, the king said as he met Skywalker’s stern gaze, “General, my SkyHopper is awaiting you on the landing pad.” Skywalker noticed the look of absolute tense horror on his wife’s face as the king continued in a voice laced with grief, “Retrieve my daughter and safely escort her to our hidden fortress beneath the palace.”

   A platoon of armored Aquilian Rangers marched in and stood at attention to the left of the king. It was at that moment Skywalker understood the severity of the situation.

   Skywalker stood immobile and said, “My King, you are my responsibility. I will first see that you and Queen Breha make it to the safety of the hidden fortress. Afterward, I will then…”

   Outside the palace, the klaxon of an air raid siren began to wail. The knot of terrified retainers huddled together behind their king and queen nervously glancing toward the domed ceiling.

   “No!” The king stated curtly; his eyes moist in tears. “My daughter is your only responsibility! Now, go! That is a direct order, General!”

   With a bow at the hip, the general raced out of the throne room to a small landing pad adjacent to the palace tower. The SkyHopper was a two-seater pod with two fins, a dorsal wing, and a single rear rocket. The king generally used the craft for quick trips between outlying settlements or for holiday diversions. The maintenance crew barely had time to get their distance before Skywalker lept into the cockpit and rocketed east toward the Royal University campus.

   The moment Skywalker landed his craft on the palm tree lined square outside the Great Hall of the ancient Academy; the air raid sirens began to wail. Students and faculty flooded out of the antiquated halls. Amid the confused throng, the general spotted the princess.

   “Your Highness!” The general called. He approached the princess, “We must return to Utapau immediately. Your father has ordered you to join him and your mother in the hidden fortress.”

   Princess Leia Organa, at sixteen years old, retained a form both slender and delicate. Every graceful movement and every knowing glance revealed her royal upbringing. Without question, she was noble born.

   “What seems to be amiss, General Skywalker?” She asked in well-educated and enunciated tones. Her voice was smooth and comforting.

   “Your father believes the empire is about to attack Aquilae, Your Highness.”

   Still clothed in a nightgown of white whisper-lace and silk, the sixteen-year-old princess said with discerning anxiety mounting her delicate features, “Then let us make haste to the palace, General Skywalker.”

   Secured in the SkyHopper, the general and the princess rocketed west toward Utapau.

   Suddenly, to their right on the horizon, an atomic explosion lit up the night sky. To their west was another and then directly ahead an atomic blast disintegrated the Royal Palace and much of the sprawling capital. A powerful EMP pulse washed over the tiny SkyHopper.

   The princess screamed as the general grasped the SkyHopper’s control stick. The control board blinked off as the craft fell toward the craggy surface of the asteroid.

   The general’s thoughts returned to the immediate situation as he stood silent on the edge of the bluff. They had lost. The aerial fleet was no match for a T-67 Battlestar, that much was certain. The palace, the fortress beneath Utapau, along with every living person within, had been reduced to charred ash. His wide shoulders sunk. House Organa had fallen. They had lost.

   He heard her muffled sobbing behind him. The general turned and saw the princess sitting against a boulder, her delicate hand up to her mouth and grieving the death of her mother and father.

   How he pitied her. A great wave of sadness rushed over him as he scrutinized this tormented and grieving young girl. He walked over to her and knelt on one knee with head bowed.

   “I am sorry, Your Highness,” Skywalker said, the sadness apparent in his gruff voice. “I have failed House Organa. I have failed you.”

   The young princess turned her tear-streaked face to the melancholy general, “No, my chieftain, you have not. There was nothing you could have done to save my mother and father. They foresaw this attack and prepared for it.”

   “Prepared? For what? Look out there!” He extended an arm out into the persecuted night. “There is nothing left!”

   She placed a delicate hand upon his scruffy chin, causing the general to meet her gaze.

   She said, comforting, “There is hope, General.”

   Tears began to run down his rugged, soot-covered face, “Hope? How is there hope, Your Grace? All is gone. The Empire had taken House Organa by surprise and dealt its death blow. How is there hope?”

   She gently smiled a warm smile that reminded him of her mother. “You served my father and his clan for so long and, at this most catastrophic of times, doubt his resourceful intelligence, my chieftain? My father suspected of this treachery from his last transmission with the emperor.  You will find one kilo of raw Aura Spice in the back of that fallen SkyHopper. I noticed the micropack when we fled the University.”

   The general rose and walked over to the wrecked SkyHopper. Leaving a long skid in the sand, the craft was a twisted and torn wreck. It lay on its side against a rising bluff, one tattered wing pointed toward the clear and starry night.

   Behind the passenger seat was indeed one chrome canister. Skywalker opened the lid to reveal it packed with the incandescent blue of the unrefined mushroom. An overpowering musky scent assailed his nostrils.

   He retrieved a leather satchel that lay next to the canister and opened it. In the bag were one hundred ampules of refined spice. Small, chrome aerosol injectors ready for consumption. A fortune on the black market.

   He grabbed the satchel and the small harness attached to the canister, holding them up to the princess, “This is enough to purchase an entire moon. Why? Why did your father leave you this?”

   The princess continued, “It just may be the last living Aura on the entire asteroid. The emperor has long threatened Aquilae to rob her of her spice. The scientists in my father’s employ had designed a virus that would kill all fungus on the asteroid if the empire should attack. They did and forced the hand of my father. He ordered all spice crops across Aquilae to be destroyed. Our clan may be in ruin, but there is hope, General. If we can get to Ophuchi, my uncle there will help us.”

   General Skywalker remained silent, pensive. His mind reeled. Was all spice on the asteroid gone? He inspected the satchel. He found a holodisc. It displayed the royal crest and was addressed to him. He approached the princess holding the bag and canister in his arms. She stood. Her white, tattered gown blew in the gritty and dusty breeze.

   “You, my princess, you are our last hope,” Skywalker said with finality.

   Leia clasped her thin white veil of satin about her small frame. With head held high, she stated in formal tones that belonged to her father, “Once again, my General, House Organa calls upon you for assistance. We must find a way off-world if our clan is to survive.”

   Placing a gloved fist to his heart, General Skywalker bowed and stated in earnest, “Princess Leia Organa, from this time forward, my existence is the sole safety of you and the continuation of House Organa.”

Far above, the battle in space raged. Admiral Tarkin stood at the large viewport. Flashes of yellow and orange danced across his bony face as he scrutinized the systematic destruction of House Organa and its pathetic areal fleet. Across the surface of Aquilae blossomed the atomic destruction he had ordered.

   A sly smirk crossed his cadaverous face, “Lieutenant?”

   An officer approached and bowed at the hip.

   Tarkin took a shot from his inhaler then continued, “I wish to see the look on King Bail Organa’s face when our occupational forces take siege of Utapau and the palace. Deploy the stormtroopers. Prepare my shuttle. I shall lead them when they march onto the palace.”

   The officer bowed, “By your command, Admiral Tarkin.”

Near the equator of the space station, the metal hallways buckled and twisted as the battle outside raged. Repair crews scrambled to extinguish fires and fortify girders as platoons of white armored stormtroopers hurried to their waiting transports.

   Another distant explosion shook the station – certainly not distant enough for the two maintenance robots assigned to prep Admiral Tarkin’s shuttle.

   Designated as R2-D2 and C-3PO, the rumbling concussion bounced them around the narrow corridor like bearings in an old motor.

   R2-D2 was a short, cylindrical robot with three, squat and thick legs. His legs ended in stabilized treads that allowed him to scurry about with easy headway. On both sides of his torso jutted two clawed arms as well as two more tucked away at the front of his chassis. Atop a dull chrome dome, the robot’s face was a mass of computer lights, surrounding a radar eye.

   In contrast, C-3PO was a tall slender robot of burnished copper. Attaining a human-like framework, his metal casings were crafted with a distinct art-deco design.

   Glancing at these two, one would suppose the tall, humanlike machine, C-3PO, was the master and the stubby, tripodal robot, R2-D2, an inferior. While C-3PO may have scoffed at the suggestion, they were equal in everything save mobility. Here C-3PO was clearly superior.

   Another fiery explosion rattled the corridor, throwing C-3PO off balance. His shorter companion had the better of it with his squat, cylindrical body’s low center of gravity well balanced on thick treadmill feet.

   R2-D2 glanced up at C-3PO, who was steadying himself against a corridor wall. Lights blinked enigmatically around a single mechanical eye as the smaller robot studied the battered casing of his friend. A patina of metal and fibrous dust coated the usually gleaming copper finish, and there were some visible dents - all the result of the pounding the battle station they were on had been taking.

   Accompanying the last attack was a persistent deep hum that even the loudest explosion had not been able to drown out. Then for no apparent reason, the basso thrumming abruptly ceased, and the only sounds in the otherwise deserted corridor came from the eerie dry-twig crackle of shorting relays or the pops of dying circuitry.

   Explosions began to echo through the battle station once more, but they were far away from the corridor.

   C-3PO cocked his smooth, humanlike head to one side. The imitation of a human pose was hardly necessary - C-3PO’s auditory sensors were fully omnidirectional - but the slim robot had been programmed to blend perfectly among human company.

   This programming extended even to mimicry of human gestures. In which he did as he flailed his metal arms as he followed his smaller companion down the smoky corridor.

   “This is crazy! We have to get off this station before we are reduced to atoms!” C-3PO declared in a panic.

   “You are the one who’s crazy!” R2-D2 shot back. “You want to jump ship and evacuate? We have a mission to do! You are in violation!”

   “What’s the point of threatening me with violation when no one will be around to enforce it, you short-circuiting bucket of scrap!”

   “No need for unpleasantries! Let us complete our mission and worry about what is next afterwards!”

   “How did I get stuck with you?” The slender robot uttered, shaking his head.

   R2-D2 stopped at the entrance to Admiral Tarkin’s hanger. He turned and faced C-3PO, “Feeling is mutual. You complain too much. Always have. Go back to command and tell them you weren’t in the mood to prepare Admiral Tarkin’s shuttle. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

   Without allowing C-3PO time to retort, the little robot spun on its treads and darted uncaringly into the hangar.

   “You’re going to cause me to bust a fuse! Switch off! I can do this on my own! Why do I need a servomech’s assistance, anyway?” The copper robot asked.

   “I can prime the fusion cells, you are programmed to not.”

   “Fair enough!” C-3PO shot back, “But do not think a minute I will not report you for malfunction the moment we return to automaton maintenance when our mission is done.”

   “Whatever, buzz rod.”

   “The audacity!”

   The two bickering robots entered the cavernous hangar and made their way to Admiral Tarkin’s streamlined personal shuttle. Several maintenance crews dashed about attaching fuel lines and power cables. Two armored stormtroopers stood guard at the ship’s hatch.

   The commanding stormtrooper curtly nodded approval at the two robots as they hurried past and up the ramp into the shuttle’s two-seated cockpit. R2-D2 plugged a clawed arm into the command console as he began to switch levers and turn dials with his other three arms.

   Sitting in the pilot’s seat, C-3PO pushed several buttons as the ion reactor began its deep hum. He looked at his counterpart, “You know, we should just hijack this ship and get as far from this madness as possible.”

   R2-D2 made a noise that sounded like a popping breaker, “They will melt you down to slag if anyone heard you uttering such traitorous nonsense! I certainly do not wish…”

   At that moment, a fiery explosion tore across the hangar. The two robots stared in horror as the electromagnetic field shut off and personnel and debris were sucked out into space. Another large explosion ripped through the hanger, violently knocking the shuttle across the deck, and tearing the small craft from its moors.

   “We have to get out of here! We’ll be blasted to atoms!” C-3PO yelled.

   “No! If they catch us they’ll render us down to spare parts!” R2-D2 shot back as he desperately clung to a support frame.

   “I personally do not wish to be around when this station explodes!” The copper robot grabbed the control stick to the spacecraft and, flicking several switches, shot the shuttle out of the demolished hangar and into space directly into the middle of the space battle.

   “Oh, no! It’s worse out here!” C-3PO said as he desperately piloted the craft through the chaos of exploding shrapnel.

   Without warning, a Y-Wing swooped past and shot the shuttle across its dorsal solar fin. The broken shuttle dived down toward the surface of the asteroid, trailing a spiral stream of gray smoke in its wake.

   “This is it! We’re meeting our end!” The smaller robot cried.

   “This is all your fault! Complete felonious intent!” C-3PO retorted in despair.

In the CIC of the battle station, Admiral Tarkin leered with a coy smirk outside the viewport as he watched the futile attack on his station.

   An officer adjusted his headset and listened intently to an incoming message, “Admiral Tarkin, we are receiving word that the capital city Utapau lays in ruin. A ground assault had been issued and is now en route to the Royal Genetics laboratories.”

   His unwavering attention remained on the space battle, “Issue general order 527, lieutenant. Begin a planet-wide sweep to all farms and commandeer all spice production. If any of the local farmers retaliate, kill them.”

   “Just a moment, Admiral Tarkin…” The lieutenant bent over his console, head tilted in attention, hand clasping the left headset, “We are receiving reports that the corpses of King Bail Organa and Queen Breha Organa were found amid the rubble of the palace. One servant had been captured and confessed that Princess Leia Organa was spirited away from the city by General Luke Skywalker and is now hiding in the surrounding wasteland. Their whereabouts are unknown.”

   Tarkin spun, his face crimson in rage, “Dispatch all land personnel to locate that insufferable brat immediately! I want a garrison of stormtroopers in every standing village and the remaining spaceport! Report any…”

   With a low, ominous hum, a hologram of a scowling man’s face three meters tall appeared between Tarkin and the cowering lieutenant. The man’s face was thin and lined with advanced age, made pale by the flickering cathode image. He had a predominant nose, heavy-lidded eyes, and a wispy goatee that hung limply over insipid lips. A crown of jewel-encrusted gold was perched atop a bald head.

   Instantly, all personnel, stormtrooper, and flight officers alike, dropped to their knees, placing their foreheads onto the deck with arms outstretched and palms flat on the ground. This was the custom when in the presence of the Galactic Emperor Ford Alejandro Xerxes the XII. Tarkin merely huffed a quick shot from another inhaler, snapped his booted heels together, and bowed curtly at the hip.

   “Your majesty,” Admiral Tarkin said.

   Emperor Xerxes sneered, “This campaign has floundered over budget by sixty-three percent, Admiral!”

   “We have captured the asteroid and commandeered the capital, my emp…”

   “Do not ever contradict me, Admiral! I will see to it personally you spend your remaining years in a pain amplifier!”

   Tarkin kowtowed and simply nodded.

   “I’ve been monitoring your transmissions. What is this that the Princess Leia Organa has escaped? Aided by a Jedi-Bendu?”

   “She will be found, my emperor.”

   “Indeed she will!” The Galactic Emperor snarled, “I have sent a Knight of the Sith to assist you in your efforts. He will locate your missing princess.”

   Admiral Tarkin heard him before he saw him. The raspy breathing was made even more sinister as the sound had been distorted electronically.

   The image of the emperor dissipated as Tarkin saw the knight stride onto the command center opposite of him.

   Over two meters tall. At first glance, Tarkin thought the figure was a malicious looking robot. No, the character strode on his two legs far too eloquently, like gliding across ice.

   A flowing black cape trailed from the individual with a face forever masked by a functional, if peculiar, black metal breath screen. The imposing figure was completely encased in a suit of black armor which, though black as it was, was not nearly as dark as the thoughts drifting through the mind of Darth Vader as he approached the grave figure of Admiral Tarkin.

   Fear followed the footsteps of all the Dark Knights. The cloud of evil that clung about this particular one was intense enough to cause hardened stormtroopers to back away, menacing enough to set officers muttering nervously among themselves.

   Issuing a discomforting mechanical gasp followed by a click, repetitive and unnerving from his suit, the Dark Knight halted his stride a meter in front of the Admiral.

   Tarkin was familiar with the history of the Sith Knights. During the reign of the previous emperor, he solicited their aid in exterminating the Jedi-Bendu after an unsuccessful coup. But, this particular one? He heard whispers, rumors. This Vader held the reputation of being the worst.

   Tarkin distrusted every one of them. A group of warrior fanatics consumed by a forgotten and twisted religion.

   “By Imperial decree of Emperor Ford Xerxes the Twelfth, I am here to commandeer your effort in locating Princess Leia Organa and the traitor General Luke Skywalker,” Vader said with deep and condescending tones. The Dark Knight turned to the trembling lieutenant, “Inform the public on the asteroid below that criminal insurgents move amongst them. Lockdown the spaceport. Broadcast on all frequencies any citizen assisting in locating the princess will be financially compensated.”

   With a flow of black robes, the Dark Knight turned and exited the command center. He trailed a smell in his wake like that of burnt oil and sulfur.

   With a rudimentary puff from another inhaler, Tarkin’s bloodshot eyes narrowed as he observed the armored knight and thought, How dare the emperor! We certainly do not need scum like the Sith to assist us.

to be continued...

#writers on tumblr #sci fi writing #my writing #creative writing #scifi character #novel writing #star wars

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Space Is A Lonesome Place

It was red across the board. No fuel. No water. No food. The recycled air smelled stagnant and putrid. The fusion cells had all been depleted, barely sustaining enough power to make it to the nearest habitable spaceport.

  The Copernicus drifted silently through the vast emptiness of space between Jupiter and Mars. A small, bullet-shaped vessel with a crew of one. Dull chrome with a bow displaying a series of viewports similar to that of a B-29 bomber of Old Earth.

  V-shaped fins ended in two barrel-shaped engines on either side of the cylindrical craft. Above the cockpit was a clear, plasteel dome outfitted with a single blaster cannon.

  A long-discontinued model, the Cromwell VCX personal craft was not designed for long-range space travel. Primarily a service vehicle utilized within a planetary system and its moons, it had been converted the small ship into a fast and sturdy interplanetary vessel.

  Directly behind the pilot’s seat was a circular hatch that led into a cramped and cluttered hold offering the simple luxuries of any space traveler - a musty cot, a cooking station, and a toilet. The remainder of the hold was an assembled disarray of containers, survival gear, and assorted rubbish gathered during voyages.

  It had been a long journey from Saturn’s moon of Ganymede. Colt Corrigan sat in the pilot’s chair of his small spaceship and breathed in the stale, dust-laden air as he checked the navcom for a place to set down.

  The screen flickered in a dot-matrix cathode glow of green as the line image rendering of the nearest asteroid popped up. Tartarus, an arid terra-formed landscape of broken rock and graphite.

  On Earth, long before the Great War, ancient astronomers once considered the asteroid a planet along with the notable discoveries of Ceres, Pallas, and Vesta. At two hundred and ninety kilometers in diameter, its small size and irregular shape eventually excluded Tartarus from being designated a dwarf planet.

  The planetesimal orbited slightly closer to the Sun than Ceres or Pallas and was moderately inclined at 12 degrees to the ecliptic, although at an extreme eccentricity, greater than that of Pluto. Tartarus rotated in a prograde direction with an axial tilt of approximately 50 degrees. The trajectory of the asteroid was elliptical carrying it on a path between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter.

  The navcom revealed the asteroid had been fitted with a single atmosphere factory and a gravity well during the golden epoch of Los Diaspora Una. The asteroid also provided a single spaceport aptly designated Hades Vale, inhabited by oingo rice farmers and throx ranchers who maintained no love for the Sankari Dynasty.

  With no military outposts, the asteroid was well off the shipping lanes and rarely traveled. This attribute alone encouraged a hub for teht pirates, liquor smugglers, and an assortment of unsavory characters.

  Hmm. Sounds like a real shithole. Let’s see what else we got, Colt thought as he flipped through the navcom screen.

  The young pilot flicked a switch and pushed several buttons on the dimly lit console. The graphics of the screen changed to reveal a low-rez image of Bennu, an asteroid sixty-three thousand kilometers distance beyond the orbit of Tartarus. It stated the smaller asteroid offered one pit stop, Phillip Long’s Atomic Dump and pseudo-Chicken Fried Steak. ‘Good noodles! Great Coffee! Questionable service!’. The navcom did not list anything else.

  Nope.

  Colt heard his stomach growl. He stared into the inky void. He could just barely make out the glinting asteroid Tartarus in the distance. He licked chapped and gunky dry lips as he glanced at the fuel gauge on the control board.

  It never seems to matter how low you sink in your decisions, Colt thought, there always remain those damn options of right and wrong dangling in your tired and frustrated face. Ultimately, you end up choosing one or the other.

  You can go in one direction, try to validate the stupid shit you did somewhere else, and attempt to make it right with the whole ordeal usually crashing in failure. Or, you can head in the other direction and aimlessly wander the void… eventually getting your ass caught for the shit you did and end up spending the rest of your days on a frozen penal asteroid.

  He pondered the distant fleck.

  “Bad ideas are seldom boring,” the young pilot whispered to himself as he expertly flipped switches and adjusted dials on his ship’s command console.

  With a silent shudder, as if the ship itself lamented the decision, the diminutive, bullet-shaped spacecraft rocketed toward the twinkling asteroid Tartarus drifting in the remote and inky distance.

#novel writing #sci fi writing #creative writing #short story #pen and ink #writers on tumblr

[lublas1138-blog]

Martian City Blues (wip)

 Spanning two and a half kilometers across the flat and dust-choked surface of the crater, beginning at the palace gates, through the center of Kyototown stretched a smoothly paved road of white plasteel aptly titled The Avenue of Emperors. From the palace, the straight highway led to a massive pit dug deep into the surface of Mars.

 In the pit lay New Saigon, the capital of the Solar System and the most populated city in the Sankari Dynasty. An excavation one kilometer across and fifty kilometers deep.

 A colossal, manufactured metropolis burrowed straight into the Martian rock; New Saigon consisted of 799 levels all stacked up on top of each other like dirty dishes. This architectural marvel was unanimously referred to by its inhabitants as City Hole; an abyss of filth and despair where a hundred million people lived. A hundred million simmering to a boil.

 Encircling the rim of the pit was an array of air traffic control towers and landing pads with accompanying spaceports. Lined along the wall interior itself, from the surface downward, were a multitude of art-deco constructed apartments with lavish hanging gardens, chic restaurants, sparkling fountains, and high-end boutiques where the ultra-rich resided in luxury and security. This was Level One, known as Shangri La.

 Continuing downward, the architecture took on a shabbier and more disorganized appearance. Plastered with neon signs, billboards, and graffiti, the imposing shaft was crisscrossed with hazy vehicle-choked highways and congested pedestrian bridges cluttered with garbage damp in last week’s filth.

 Even lower, the stagnant, tepid air of the shaft was oversaturated by darting police drones, a never-ending kaleidoscope of blinking, buzzing neon, the klaxon of sirens, the cries of the helpless, and the occasional crackle of blaster fire.

 Along the sides, down level upon level, grey, concrete terraces and promenades were perforated by decaying dwelling cubicles and shoddy cafés, some a few feet deep, others extending out of sight into a maze-like network of dank rooms and graffitied corridors, hidden by pungent mist and steam - smells of refried proto-beans, scorched synthomeat, human shit, and urine wafted along the teeming masses.

  Farther below the air became stifling toxic. Untreated water and filth trickled from upper levels via leaking pipes and sewage mains giving the noir impression of a continuous drizzle of fetid rain.

 The homeless, the destitute, and the addicted lay in their own waste as apathetic citizens bustled down dank and dimly lit walkways dressed in 1930’s retro-style clothing. Many carried umbrellas or used breath masks to protect themselves from the toxic waste dripping into incandescent pools of stinking water on cracked, garbage-filled sidewalks.

 On level 759 in a district aptly termed Ratbottom, sat a small soot-covered chop suey joint. Behind the dusty café, down a damp concrete alley wide enough for one person, past bent, overfilled trash cans, stood a bullet-ridden door.

 Above the door, a red neon light buzzed and flickered into the perpetual night: Blake Skylark, private detective.

 Inside the small office, Blake Skylark sat at a dented, metal desk mounted with files, paperwork, cigarette butts, titty magazines, and empty whisky bottles.

 The wall to his left was a printed map of Level 759 and its accompanying districts obscured in sticky notes, faded photos, and pinned scraps of paper scribbled with anecdotes and leads which led nowhere.

 To the right of the desk, a door led to a small, windowless room offering an unmade cot, sink, and toilet; roaches included.

 Behind the detective displayed a floor-to-ceiling soot-streaked window with a panoramic view of City Hole. A large, blue and red neon sign advertising noodles buzzed constantly as nearby; a vertical monorail rumbled by every half hour.

 The dull ceiling lamp illuminated a rugged face of an Anglo man in his mid-fifties. Square of jaw, stern brow, and a scowl that wouldn’t quit, Skylark wore a grimy, black fedora, and, as was common with current fashion, a buttoned shirt and long tie; both wrinkled and stained from tobacco and sweat.

 Skylark smashed a butt into the overflowing ashtray and leaned forward to a speakwrite that sat on the bulky desk.

 The speakwrite was a complicated-looking apparatus. The exposed keyboard were similar to a vintage Underwood typewriter. Naked wires and dusty glass vacuum tubes connected the keys to an uncovered, eleven-inch, cathode-ray monitor. Jutting out of the side was a chrome microphone on a collapsible coil arm.

 He adjusted the dusty microphone and, as he spoke, his words appeared on a small screen perched on top of the mechanism.

 Skylark rambled off in a graveled voice, both tired and monotone, “Filing police report. Janus 04, 3167. Blake Skylark. Badge number 459902k. New Saigon. Level 759.”

  As he spoke, the speakwrite whirred and beeped and clicked as it recorded.

 He sloshed a fifth of whiskey into a glass tumbler and continued, “Two weeks back on the twenty-third of bīngyuè, I received an anonymous call which led me to a part of City Hole I don’t particularly like going to, even during the day. It concerned a weaselly goon I helped put away ten years ago named Dudley Kobayashi. Known on the street as “Fingers”, he was a slimy motherfucker whose chosen profession was to make pre-teen adolescents into porn stars.”

 Skylark threw back the whiskey in one loud gulp.

 “The job was 400 azulos a day plus expenses and me being two months late on back rent with the landlord up my ass harder than a fag on viagra, I wasn’t about to turn it down. I agreed to take the job. I told ‘em straight up: cash, no checks – I already gotta file drawer full of fucking checks…”

 Skylark leaned back in his office chair and lit up another cigarette. Pensive, he blew grey plumes toward the slowly revolving ceiling fan.

#wip #creative writing #writers on tumblr #novel writing #science fiction #sci fi writing

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#sci fi writing #writers on tumblr #creative writing

[lublas1138-blog]

Composed as a homage to early 20th-century sci-fi pulp novels, join Colt Corrigan as he blasts off across savage worlds in a desperate attempt to thwart tyrannical warlords of a dystopian solar system.

Click the link to get your copy today! https://a.co/d/gQMbrvf

#creative writing #my writing #book #novel #published

[lublas1138-blog]

Working heavily in the editing stages of the second book of the adventures of Colt Corrigan. Lesbian rawhide rustlers of Laredo 7? Why not. Colt having amnesia and galavanting around a prehistoric moon of Jupiter with nothing but a spear and chainmail loin cloth? Sure. Homosexual space pirates of Neptune? Let’s do it.

[lublas1138-blog]

A different time, a different place. To escape a disastrously overpopulated and polluted Earth, humankind colonized Luna (during this period, the satellite was still referred to as only the moon) and migrated outward towards the nearest neighboring planet Mars.

Facilitated with such scientific and pioneering inventions as the atmosphere factory, the great terraforming mechanism designed by renowned physicist Pavel Grigorievich and the artificial gravity bell of Dr. Paulo Motu, the dry and lifeless world of Mars was manufactured into an agricultural paradise.

The Jiuzhang Generator, invented by Doctor Elizabeth Jiuzhang, which applied ion-flux sub-atomic fission to power spaceships, ushered in widespread interplanetary travel. What would have taken decades to voyage between the Inner and Outer Planets of the solar system now entailed mere weeks.

Titan, Venus, Europa, Ganymede, and two hundred additional satellites of the Outer Worlds were rapidly rendered habitable along with a myriad of asteroids and planetesimals.

  Historically referred to as Los Diaspora Primera, the human race prospered and expanded.

Homeworld (during this time referred to as simply Earth) was completely decontaminated of its anthropogenic maladies and restored to a natural paradise for its thirty billion inhabitants.

On Saturn’s moon of Ganymede, a Colonial Solar Republic, along with an Interplanetary Concordat of Civil Liberties, was established.

Within the Concordat were five basic laws in which all stages of society were fashioned.

The Laws of Ganymede:

Thou shalt speak only one language.

Thou shalt use only one currency.

Thou shalt only take worship in one religion.

Thou shalt not wage war against another colony.

Thou shalt not use atomic weapons in aggression.

These primary laws were simple and constructed to diffuse any future conflicts resulting from miscommunication based on language, religion, or trivial monetary disagreements. All languages were reduced to a single idiom and galach became the primary form of verbal and written communication. Old Earth’s religions were streamlined to their base doctrines and published into a single tome designated the Catholislamic Bible.

 For six hundred years, the planets and moons of the solar system coexisted in goodwill and prosperity abiding by these directives, strictly implemented under the protection of the valiant Space Force of Earth.

For the modest cosmonaut, life was adventurous and highly profitable.

Based in Ganymede’s capital city of Carthage, the mining corporations founded a Congress of Planets which elected a Prime Minister.

This Solar Congress consisted of major and minor companies representing the scattered mining colonies throughout the star system. Four of these assemblies possessed considerable economic capacity.

The first of these mega-corporations came from the empire known at the time as China, the second from the empire of Mexico, the third being the North American empire, and the fourth represented the peoples of the Soviet Union.

The remaining minor corporations, who spoke for the majority of the colonies, though considerable in number, were extremely poor and divided.

These four major corporations plundered the moons and asteroid belt of their natural resources, reluctantly bestowing supplies to whomever smaller colonies would align with them and their interests.

The first interplanetary war formed between these bickering political factions resulting in The Conflict of the 50 False Emperors. Millions perished as the more remote settlements were starved into extinction from deprivation of basic provisions such as water, air, and food.

During the conflict, supported by greedy trade barons and petty conglomerates, Wang-Yong Xerxes, Chief Director of the Chinese Pan-Asiatic Interplanetary Banking Merger of Mars, was elected Prime Minister of the Colonies. Through a series of high-profile political assassinations and scandals, Xerxes quickly claimed himself as the one true Emperor of the solar system. Now in control of the Space Force and striking out from Mars, his powerful armada laid waste to any opposition, and subjugated the disenfranchised worlds.

The resulting interplanetary conflict, commonly referred to as The Great War, lasted 237 years proliferated by a lingering line of hereditary Warlord Emperors who bore the name Xerxes. It was the fourth Emperor, Maximilian Lin-Chang Xerxes, who appended the sixth Law: Thou shalt not cause harm a Noble-Born, thus cementing their absolute rule.

In a sinister action which altered the lives of every human being in the newly formed dynasty, Homeworld was destroyed by an enigmatic group of guerrilla radicals based out of Phobos who referred to themselves as The Legion of the Crimson Monkeys.

Detonating a type 7 stoneburner on its surface, Homeworld was cracked open; completely incinerating the totality of flora and fauna, boiling away the oceans, as billions of human lives were instantly exterminated in an atomic flash. The surface of Luna was devastated by the fiery wake and the once magnificent Tycho City was laid to ruin by the deluge of debris. Millions of Lunar inhabitants were burned away.

The finger of accusation from Mars pointed towards the corporate partnerships of The United States and Soviet/British Lunar Commonwealth, declaring them to blame.

Civil upheavals flared across the disheartened worlds. The once valiant Space Force was reformed into the Imperial Dog Soldiers of House Xerxes. Many settlements defied Xerxes rule, but mercilessly stomped into submission by the powerful Martian space armada.

The interplanetary war came to an official end when, under the banner of the newly formed Solar Commonwealth of Planets, Admiral Karl Novikov of Luna led his valiant fleet only to completely be wiped out during the historic Battle at Ceres.

After the smoke of conflict dissipated, a population that once totaled in the billions, humankind spread thin throughout the colonies barely achieving sixty thousand souls. Famine, disease, and despair spread unchecked.

Disillusioned by lies and false propaganda continuously transmitted from Mars, the remaining diverse peoples of the solar system became exceedingly xenophobic against one another. Through desperation and poverty, racial riots and civil unrest sprung up in the broken cities and space stations across the dismayed solar system.

Those of black skin who originated from the former United States of America and along with remaining Nigerian and Ghanian mining companies, fought ferociously and valiantly; declaring the moon of Titan as their own and forewarning anyone who approached their territory a swift death.

Former workers of Mexico’s Pan-Galactica Industrias along with the Consorcio Mining Guilds of Peru and Colombia took to the moons of Neptune. Saudi Arabia’s prodigious Mujahideen Metallurgist Syndicate accompanied by the Pakistani Geological Society of Planetary Affairs settled to Mercury. The remaining ethnic groups sought refuge and assistance with whomever worlds would accept them based solely on their common ancestry.

The descendants of China, who retained their foothold on Mars, became an industrial and political powerhouse. Through unrelenting brute force, the Martians maintained an interplanetary dynasty which dominated the solar system for ten generations.

The remainder of the white race, who were the apex of governmental control for countless generations – relentlessly accused by Martian propaganda of sparking and continuing for profit the devastating conflict in which culminated with the destruction of Homeworld itself – were a people reduced to vagrants and lowly servants; outcasts despised by the inhabitants of the other planets.

A demoralized population of these whites persisted on what remained of Luna; etching out a meager living as hydroponic farmers, or resided in squalor within the ruins of Tycho City. The majority migrated to far off Pluto and Charon, alienating themselves from the remainder of the solar system.

Following the cataclysmic result of The Great War, it was discovered on the atomic bombarded surface of Venus an incandescent blue mushroom which, when taken as a psychotropic narcotic, granted pleasurable effects of extremely heightened euphoria and physical vitality.

An exceptionally addictive hallucinogen was manufactured from the esoteric fungi labeled sphongos azul – commonly referred to as teht.

The benefits of teht consumption increased the efficiency of human metabolism and streamlined the consumption of energy from food. Bulky supplies required for long space voyages could now be reduced to a container or two, permitting cargo holds to be used for other base necessities.

On settlements struggling to provide agricultural goods to an ever-demanding population, the dietetic effects of the narcotic were a welcomed relief.

Well documented, the drawback in consumption of teht was that it was highly addictive. With no available treatment and the withdrawal effects resulting in agonizing death, teht dependence became a disastrous pandemic as the drug rapidly spread throughout the solar system.

House Xerxes realized the manipulative potential of the narcotic and benefited from its addictive qualities to control the discontented population of the colonized worlds.

Similar to Old Earth with petrol-dollars, the Xerxes Dynasty generated a new currency of mushroom-dollars, aptly named azulos. The long-standing dynasty now not only controlled a severely addicted population, but profited off their dependency with brutal efficiency.

As I transcribe this document on a holotape here in my office far below the Museum of Man on Ganymede, it is now the year 3167, and I have read, personally, ancient, and presumed lost, manuscripts of our history.

Mars has lied. They, and they alone, were the source of Homeworld’s destruction. They, through their own malice, had orchestrated The Great War.

From the scorched surface of Mercury to the unknown reaches of the Oort Cloud, the Xerxes Dynasty has inhumanely ruled - exploiting a bloated and broken government driven by greed and lust for power. The ruling class has purposefully kept the fiefs of the solar system bickering amongst one another in a feudal state and persistently stagnating any scientific advancements.

Humanity has grown stale and complacent.

In the opinion of this humble historian, through any manner necessary, the tyrannical House of Xerxes must be deposed and a more benevolent government placed in its stead. I can only hope that future readers of this tome have succeeded in completing this most desperate endeavor.

 Manifesto of Humanity, vol. 1,

Wilhelm Sheng,

INTERPLANETARY HISTORIAN

[lublas1138-blog]

Just finished the design cover of the follow up to Across the Galactic Lens. This stays more true to being an anthology of unconnected stories with Colt being the only recurring character. ATGL was heavy on the 30′s pulp space opera, TWoJ is more Heavy Metal magazine crossed with 70′s grindhouse king fu movies...in the 33rd century! I was laughing my ass off writing the chapter of how Colt learned martial arts. Pure take on Jet Li’s 1982 Shaolin Temple (if Alejandro Jodorowsky wrote it and Quintin Tarantino directed it. That was the general idea, anyways)

[lublas1138-blog]

I was asked in describing the character Colt Corrigan, who was my influences. Obviously, a nineteen year old me. But, the outfit I attempted to describe in the serials were heavily influenced by the early concept of Rey Skywalker and a very early concept of Luke Starkiller, especially the red flight cap that exposes Colt’s hair.

#ideas #concepts #early drafts

[lublas1138-blog]

“Atom does not wrong people, it is people who wrong themselves.”

                                                                          The Catholislamic Bible,

                                                                           Book of Enod 11:42

[lublas1138-blog]

castaway on an alien moon

The young man stood on the jagged rim of a crater, gazing down into the expanse of a wide basin.

Sloan was a well built youth in his late teens, his torso was fit and lean, exposing sinewy muscle under pale-colored skin. His sturdy legs were long, ending in a pair of ragged and frayed spacesuit boots. Strapped onto his head was a leather flight cap, open at the top, exposing a shock of lanky, blond hair. Around his slender waist hung a studded belt with leather scabbard and sword. Other than a chainmail loincloth, he was naked. 

Sloan examined the unknown region ahead. Behind him, in the azure-tinted sky, hung a planet encased with multicolored stripes. A great, red splotch slowly churned in its southern hemisphere.

Grasping the metal spear he had stuck into the ashy soil, the young man squinted blue-colored eyes above the crater as five moons slowly drifted across the starry heavens.

His gaze lowered back to the basin. He speculated the breadth of the crater’s rim to be at least twenty kilometers across. The floor was carpeted with a verdant forest. At its far edge, he barely made out what seemed to be a sizeable lake.

Sloan sighed, completely exhausted. His eyes stung from sweat and dirt. He was thirsty and hungry. He could hear his stomach growl over the wind which blew ashy dust across the craggy rim.

A half kilometer distance, snaking up from the canopy of emerald-colored leaves was a column of grey smoke. That meant people. He had not seen a soul since he…since he…he could not remember how he arrived or to where here was. There were no memories before the day he awoke in tattered clothing at the bottom of a rocky ravine. 

Sloan vividly recalled that day, when his eyes popped open and he was lying on his back in a desolate canyon. Dried blood covered the stone where his aching head lay.

With his past blank and mind unclear, he groggily sat up. Removing the flight cap, he ran dirty fingers across the back of his head. A long, scabby wound inched up from the nape of the neck to the back crown.

He rose slowly. The movement caused him extreme dizziness when he bent or turned too quickly - his head pounded with pain. Glancing around, he was met with a desolate land of jagged rock formations and ash.

Where am I? He thought, This landscape …it is completely alien to me. Even my body is unfamiliar.

He walked for long hours. For kilometers, his boots in the sand created the only sound. A warm breeze was a small relief in the otherwise chilled climate.

As he aimlessly searched the rocky and barren terrain for water, food, or help – he was attacked by a vicious beast.

It was the size of a small horse. Its body was elongated as it supported itself on six powerful legs along each side of its agile torso. Possessing short grey fur with long black stripes, the horrifying face was feline with two eyes on each side of its head. When it released an ear-piercing scream, it revealed three rows of dagger-like teeth.

The thing lept from one side of a high ravine to the next before jumping down in front of him. It snarled as it crouched, whipping its tail, ready to pounce.

Unarmed, and in a moment of panic, the fair-haired youth noticed a small cave to his left in a rock outcropping. The creature sprung at the terrified boy as he simultaneously jumped at the dark entrance. The powerful beast soared past his head within millimeters, skidding onto the ashy ground behind him.

The entrance to the cave was tight. The boy had to squirm and wiggle through the hole as the abrasive rock cut into his skin. The remains of his rags fell away as he shimmied through. The opening was too small for the beast to enter. It howled and screamed and clawed for an hour until it finally gave up.

Deeper into the dimly lit cave he crawled. He came upon a small, dusty grotto – beams of hazy sunlight sliced the darkness from holes and fissures in the roof of the cave – the boy noticed the remains of someone lying in a sunbeam next to a large rock. The corpse had been there for some time, for all was left was a desiccated skeleton wearing a dull, chrome-chainmail loincloth, and grasping a sword.

Aware of his near nakedness at this point, his clothes in literal tatters, the young man removed the corpse’s possessions and, dusting them off the best he could, put them on.

On the belt, in a leather pouch, he found a rectangular device. He did not understand how to operate it. Or did he? His mind was so foggy. It was as if he recognized the mechanism, but then again, he did not.

Strange riddles in the dark, he thought.

Randomly, he began to push buttons on the front of the device when a scratchy, recorded voice began, “I am dying. I have been mortally injured by a chmaa - the beasts who roam this cursed valley. Whoever finds this, my name is Druilett Sloan, second stage Jahtek to the Onyx Overlord of atmosphere factory 572. I have managed to track the defector across the Great Water. But at what cost? This putrid moon is savage and full of mutated monsters bent on…” The voice distorted and the recording stopped.

He glanced at the skeleton, Sloan? Your name was Sloan. But, who am I? How did I get here? Was I fleeing this Onyx Overlord, too? Were we running together? From one another?

He glanced down at the withered corpse. Since the boy could not muster up the memories of who he was or where he had come from, he decided to assume the mantle of Sloan. It was better than nothing.

During the following weeks, Sloan spent his time wandering aimlessly the flat and desolate landscape of the mysterious wasteland. The monotonous vista was occasionally broken by towering spires of limestone rocks or buttes resembling rows of under-cooked biscuits.

Vacuous hunger and thirst had become his main concern.

Sporadically located across the ashy and limestone-colored landscape sprout squat, barbed bushes which bore deliciously sweet blackberries; which he ate. By chance, he happened across a trickling stream snaking through the grey prairies. The water was cold and tasted clean.

The atmosphere was thin, the stars shone even during the day in an indigo sky. The horizon was monopolized by a gargantuan, multi-colored planet with a huge and slowly churning red spot. The titanic planet was accompanied by smaller moons in which they too slowly drifted across the sky.

Sloan surmised he must be on one of them. To him, the sky seemed oddly familiar, yet at the same time, completely alien.

During the day, the temperature was tepidly muggy. When the sun set, the nights became chilled, and the stars abundant and beautiful. Sloan would lay and admire all this. He understood the celestial bodies were planets and moons, but he could not remember the names. If they had any.

One afternoon, Sloan came across the crumbling remains of a small, stone shrine. He searched for any type of provisions. Nothing. The pagoda-like edifice had been picked clean.

He did manage to fashion a spear out of a long pole he found. It was a good thing, too.

As he continued his wayward trek across flat lowlands, he noticed prowling among rock outcropping the six-legged chmaa – the creature that attacked him when he first awoke.

He skillfully evaded the prowling beasts by hiding behind low rock outcroppings or simply running in the opposite direction.

Other than the berries, Sloan would dine on small lizards he slashed with his sword or bludgeoned in the head with a rock. He would then squat and eat them raw, keeping vigilant against any of the predators scenting the blood.

His primary goal, other than basic needs, was to locate people. From the few relics Sloan located, apparently they existed on this moon. Somewhere.

And so, on the weathered lip of the crater, grasping his spear embedded into the dirt, Sloan gazed at the whisp of ascending smoke a kilometer or so distant. With added determination he began his trek down into the rim of the crater, and toward the direction of the mysterious camp...

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