From: DL20@lafibm.lafayette.edu (DL20)
Newsgroups: alt.prose
Subject: Re: Contact (1-3)
Date: 26 Jul 92 04:08:56 GMT
Organization: Lehigh University
Originator: news@lafcol

Sorry I've taken so long to respond to this, but it was a fairly
lengthy story, and I don't always have an abundance of time.


>                        Contact

Just out of curiosity: why this title?  "Contact" sounds more like a
Aliens-from-outer-space story than a story about androids.  A more
fitting title might be something along the lines of "Electric Sheep,"
an allusion to the s-f novel _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep_, on
which was based the movie _Blade Runner_.

>     My new life began when I opened my eyes and realized that I remembered
> nothing. The room was small and cramped and covered in dust. I was cold
> and naked. My clothes were lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. I picked
> myself up off the steel table I was lying upon and tried to ignore my
> throbbing head. My bare feet were chilled by the cold concrete of the floor.
>    There was a smashed robot crumpled in the far corner of the room, a needle
> and syringe still clutched in one pincer. The blank optical lenses surveyed
> the room with dead clarity. The robot scared me for some reason, though I
> couldn't put my finger on it. I had a strange, disjointed memory of the thing
> advancing towards me. I glanced back at the steel table, then back at the
> syringe.

This is an *excellent* beginning.  There's an element of mystery here,
as well as a speaker we can both identify with and feel for.  This
beginning had me, shall we say, rivoted immediately.  Most stories on
alt.prose completely fail to grab my attention, but this one succeeded.
And I read all three posts--not bad, when you consider I usually just
press "n" for most articles.

> give me a clue. I was a faceless stranger in a strange land...and as I thought
> of that metaphor I remembered a book I had once read, but the name of the
> author escaped me.

This can mean one of two things:

1) Your FBI agent read Heinlein, or
2) He was familiar with the Bible.  (Heinlein borrowed the phrase from
   Moses; I believe Abraham was the first man to be called a stranger in
   a strange land.)

> Strange memories floated through my minds which eluded me as I tried to grasp
> them.

That shouldn't be "which," but "that."  And in any event, it's confusing
whether it applies to memories or to mind.  The sentence needs to be
restructured into something more like "Strange memories floated through
my mind, eluding me as I tried . . ." etc.

>      I made up my  mind and entered the library, walking slowly around the
> rows of tables and piles of scattered books until I stood before her. She
> glanced up and a look of surprise crossed her face.

Just out of curiosity . . . why is there a library in the middle of
a top secret CIA installation?  I mean, I suppose they would need
something to read and maybe need resources for their research, but the
image that springs to my mind is something huge.  Some sort of
description is needed to bring this down to size and make it fit.

>      My knees began to feel weak and a throbbing started in my head.
> Was I drugged? Chemicals? I grabbed the edge of one of the tables to steady
> myself.
>      The woman walked towards me with concern on her face.
>      A high-pitched scream suddenly rang through those ancient metal
> walls. She stopped and listened, her eyes wide with fright.
>      I was even weaker. I fell down.
>      She came running to my side.
>      All around us, the lights went out.
>      So did I.

Why?  I don't think this is ever really explained.

>      Carly was horrified at what I found and she drained the cocoon of the lif
> fluid. The little girl's body slumped to the bottom. I helped Carly open the
> front and we carefully pulled the girl out. She was dead; Carly studied the
> readouts on the cocoon and decided the hibernation fluid had been contaminated
> I stared at the girl's body. No arms. I felt a strange, numbing fear run
> through my blood, a feeling that I was glimpsing something that I had no right
> to see, something that would inevitably bring me to my death.

So what we have here is a plant affiliated some way with the CIA in
which little children are being brutally and savagely experimented on.
We also have a foreshadowing of Michael's (I think that's his name)
discovery that he himself is an android, awakened some fifty years after
he was stolen from his body.
     Some questions spring to mind, such as why was the CIA involved in
this sort of thing?  How did the FBI get wind of it?  What happened when
one branch of the government started fighting the efforts of another
branch?

>      We sealed the door and each took a bed and I fought back an urge to climb
> into hers with her, knowing that she would, at the very best, not be overly
> impressed. But even if she were receptive to sexual advances, there was a
> feeling I had that it wouldn't be right, that there was something inherently
> wrong with the idea.

Groan.
     This whole thing with sexual escapades 'twixt the hero and the
heroine is horribly overdone, trite, and does not belong in a story as
good as this.  The relationship they have of not completely trusting one
another is much more interesting than the cliched love theme you are
introducing.  Take my word for it: your story will be far more
interesting if Michael is suspicious and untrusting of Carly than if he
is in love with her.

>      I saw a long assembly line. There were rows and rows of maintenance
>  droids,too many to count, stationed at intervals along the impossibly long
>  treadmill.
> The treadmill was covered with blood.
>      Carly was standing there smiling. I turned to her and asked, horrified,
> what was going on.
>      "43-90-87 Jazebro," she said with a smile.

Seems to me that this should build up his suspicions of Carly; his
subconcious is trying to warn him that Carly is behind this mess
somehow.  I would continue with this.  Rather than revealing her to
be an android with memories of a little girl, why not have her be a
CIA agent who had her psyche transplanted into an android with the
goal of becoming immortal?

>      Suddenly she screamed and jerked her hand away from the panel. At the
> same time my brain registered the sound of a sharp crack. I turned and saw
> a Sentinel droid down the corridor, a gun extended from its chest panel,
> the barrel smoking.
>      Carly slid to the floor.
>      I cocked the shotgun and fired three times, blasting the droid
> apart. The first two bursts tore the chest cavity to pieces, and the
> third demolished the head.

A couple questions spring to mind:

1) Why is the shotgun still working after about fifty years of just
   sitting there?  Seems to me it should be in lousy condition, given
   the state this state-of-the-art installation is in.  By rights, it
   should blow up in his face.  For that matter, why is there a shotgun
   in the same room as advanced android technology and lasers?

2) Why has this droid (probably not a good word to use--I have a
   sneaking suspicion George Lucas would regard it as "his) not been
   destroyed in the huge war that took place here?

>      Something else had been bothering me, something I had been unable
> to  put my finger on. I remembered walking through this place when it
> was still active, fifty-three years ago. I wasn't sure how old I was,
> but I doubted if I were over thirty-five. I had lain on that table
> for fifty-three years. It made no sense. All I could guess was that
> the drug I knew I had been injected with had put me in some sort of
> comatose state. Something like that.

Suspended animation.  People in comas still age.

>        Something was bothering me, nagging at me, something I still
> couldn't remember. Absently, I said, "Great work." Then I hesitated
> and kissed her.
>        She was surprised, but let me. Then she hesitated and put her
> arms around my neck and kissed me thoroughly. We held each other for
> what seemed like a long time.

Remember what I said earlier?  I mean it--this sort of thing is
HOPELESSLY overdone.  Moreover, I think it distracts from the rest of
the story.
    Anyway . . .

>        There were hundreds of small lockers in this room, some of them
> rusted shut, some smashed open. Needle in a haystack. I walked up and
> down the rows for several minutes before finding one marked,
>    HATCHER, MICHAEL J.   And I knew it was mine.
>        I pulled it open. Inside I found my dark blue raincoat. It said
> FBI on the back in bright yellow letters. I also found a wallet and a
> gun. The wallet contained fifty-six dollars and a driver's license as
> well as a badge and an FBI I.D. card. The gun was an automatic pistol,
> a Jazebro Mongoose. Powerful. FBI issue. I left the jacket and the
> wallet but took the gun.
>         I searched the room for several minutes more but didn't find
> a locker with Carly's name on it.
>         There's probably dozens, maybe even hundreds of rooms like this
> one, I reminded myself.
>         Probably.

Nice bit of uncertainty here.
     I like the idea of the house divided against itself: FBI and CIA
fighting one another.  This needs to be developed more.  I would expand
the time in this installation more; perhaps make it semi-functional.
Give Michael a chance to remember more about the situation, how the CIA
was doing soemthing it shouldn't and the FBI attempted to infiltrate
it (Hatcher being one of the infiltrators), he was found out, tried to
fight his way out, and became a tets subject.
     The basic ideas you have in this story are excellent, I just think
the implementation needs some more development.
     Also, since Hatcher is trying to find some sort of identity,
wouldn't it make sense for him to take the rest of his possessions
with him at this point?  They would give him some sort of continuity
with his past and a sense of identity.  In a world as unfamiliar as
this one, it only makes sense that he would cling tightly to that
which is familiar.
     And is there any signicance to "Jazebro?"  It's shown up as a
type of android and as a handgun.  Personally, I can't see the
connection.
     Nor can I think of why the CIA would keep that stuff in a locker
where he or some other trouble maker could find it.

>        Carly stood up and came back into the passenger compartment and
> sat down beside me on the couch. She gently touched my shoulder, then ran
> her fingers through my hair. It was electric, it sent chills down my
> spine. I didn't want her to ever stop touching me. I put my fingers on
> her hand and kissed it. Then I kissed her, slow and deep, and she melted
> against me.
>        Do you talk in your sleep, Carly? The question kept running through
> my mind.
>        For the time being, I ignored it.

Why this constant jerking around?  I mean, you have a good idea here
in his distrust of Carly, but it seems to get forgotten in the endless
French-kissing in the story.

>         "Who are you?" someone called out. I turned and saw a large man
> clutching an axe. He seemed to be the leader. His hair was long and dirty and
> he wore a black bandana.
>         "FBI," I said.
>         Everyone laughed.
>         "FBI, huh?" he said, swaggering close to me. His knuckles were white
> as he clutched the axe. "I don't think the FBI has a lot a say-so around here.

This COULD be insightful into 21st century America, but then you ruin it
by trying to pass it off as, "Oh, we thought you meant God."  Right now,
it implies that these people have some sort of historical knowledge and
realize that the FBI lost to the CIA or somesuch.
     I think you lose a good deal when you change your mind about this.

> us, clean. Probably the most frightening piece of news came from the fact
> that one of the older men - Jared, his name was - remembered something about a
> bright flash of light, many years ago, which had been followed by endless
> snow, grey snow, falling for months and months.

No, please--not a nuclear war.  Nuclear wars and disasters are overdone,
too.  Scrap this--and the psions bit.  Again, you're detracting from
what made the story interesting in the first part: who Michael is,
why he was at this installation, what had happened to him.  You need to
focus on the original part.  As I said, I would have left him at the
installation to learn more, but if you want to bring him out, have it
be to learn more about himself since that's what gave the story appeal
in the first place.

>        There were doubtless times in Shakespeare's life when he would
> awake with a burst of inspiration and hurriedly write down a brilliant
> line that had occured to him in his sleep, or perhaps Einstien had
> moments of insight when he suddenly realized a key aspect of his
> formulas and physics which put all his other problems into perspective.
> This was exactly what happened to me later that night when I awoke
> in the darkness. I got off the couch and glanced back at Carly, who
> was still sleeping soundly in the bed.
>        Why would the CIA make androids? The question had passed through

Has Michael even figured out who the CIA and FBI are yet?  Seems to me
that to someone with a few scattered memories, those are nothing more
than random letters.  Again, he needs to spend more time at the
installation and learn more about his past.

>        I looked back at Carly as she slept so soundly, so peacefully.
> I wondered how many killing techniques she had had programmed into her
> brain, how many different ways she could break my neck without my
> even knowing it. I wondered if she could kill someone with a pen, or
> a paperclip, or a sheet of paper.
>        Human CIA agents could do that. Carly would certainly be able to
> do much more.

Okay, reality check.  A pen, I can buy.  You stap someone with it.  A
paperclip, well, you MIGHT be able to electrocute someone with it, but
you would need a strong current that you could not be in touch with.  Or
you could unwind the paper clib and stab someone in the throat with it
and if you're good enough at it, rupture a major blood vessel.
     But a piece of paper?  I would LOVE to know how a human or android
could kill someone with a piece of paper.  A stack of paper, maybe,
from a height of ten meters.  But one piece?

>        Moving through the tin shacks of New Phoenix I saw at least a
> dozen men in uniforms with machine guns, mowing down everything in sight.
> Women. Children. I saw a man lunge at a guard with an axe before being
> cut apart and I was certain it was John.

What is the point of this?  It seems like a rather useless distraction,
AGAIN.  I pray you, sir, please return to the far more interesting
story you began to tell.  You have talent at writing--that is obvious.
I think you are merely being sidetracked by other possibilities, but
they are undermining the original strength of the story.

>        "The FBI was disbanded years ago," the voice said, patiently.
>        "All I remember is that I'm FBI. I woke up in the factory about
> a hundred miles from here."
>        A pause. "What about the woman?"
>        "Her too."

Given what Michael has already figured out about all this, might it not
be more wise to 1) drive away from here; 2) mislead the man, either by
an outright lie or by a deceptive presentation of the truth?

>       Deep down inside, I knew she was right.
>       We closed the door. Clank.
>       Outside I heard explosions. Boom.

Sound effects don't generally work in prose.  Describe the sound
instead of writing "Boom" or whatever.

>         Then I pressed the accelerator. I just had time to see a look
> of horror and shock on the face of one of the guards before we sailed
> over the cliff. Then we were flying, flying to a place where there were
> no children in pain, no assassins, no guns, no fires, and no CIA.

This is a good ending.  Unfortunately, you digress even further by
bring us a third part.  If you prefer to make this a story about
the adventures of the androids Michael and Carly, fine, but make it
clear from the start; don't clutter it up with the questions about
Michael's identity and nature which ultimately become irrelevant to
the rest of the story.

>      The guy was wearing one of those cheap suits with the tie slightly
> loose. If anyone looked more like a rat than a human, it was that guy.
> His hair was slicked back and his teeth were yellow from cigarette tar.
> I could barely make out the bulge of a gun in his jacket.

Wouldn't clothing styles have changed by this time?

>      "I'll tell you, then. CIA headquarters is in Seattle."
>      "I thought it was Langley."
>      He looked confused, then shook his head and chuckled. "I keep forgetting,
> you're fifty years out of date. You're thinking pre-war, Michael. CIA moved
> after the big, big one."
>      "Oh," I said. "I want Carly."

Yes, Michael, we know.  The narrator has been telling us that for the
past page.  Please, Michael, grow up.  You sound like a love-sick
teenager.

>        He re-adjusted his tie and grinned. Bastard. "Sorry. As I was
> saying, Carly is...valuble to us. You see, most of the androids we
> developed before the war were disfunctional. Some worked, of course,
> but those that did have slipped through our fingers or been destroyed.
> The war, of course, wiped out what we had left of the technology and
> we've had to start from scratch, running around for the past fifty
> years. The world, by the way, is in a real mess, Michael. The United States
> as we knew it doesn't exist anymore. It's now divided into five separate
> spheres of influence. The CIA controls just about-"

1) The USA as Michael knew it, that is.
2) Why didn't they just visit that old site and see if any androids
   were still functioning?
3) The impression I received from previous parts was that the CIA was
   taking over the States, hence the reason for the one government
   agency (FBI) to infiltrate and fight the second (CIA).  Your call, of
   course, but this is what you have implied so far.

>         For the first time, he lost his cool. He glared at me. "You think
> this is a joke? Well, let me tell you something. She killed three agents
> during her escape."
>         I leaned forward and spoke quietly and seriously. "I hope it hurt."

Making Michael into a hypocrite, eh?  He WAS, after all, incensed by the
CIA "butcher shop."

>         He grinned wickedly. "Fine. Do whatever you want. Let me tell you
> something, Hatcher. You aren't in Kansas anymore. You are in Seattle,
> 2083 A.D. You have no identity, no money, nothing but the clothes in that
> closet," he said gesturing. "So you rot in hell. And after you've roamed
> the streets for a few days, look us up. We'll not only feed you, we'll
> give you some clean clothes. And if you help us get Carly, we might even
> give you a job."

And on top of that, we'll even disassemble you so we can figure out how
to build more androids.

>       Maybe we both are, I thought to myself. But I didn't say it.

Better off not even suggesting this.  Let the reader figure it out.





Overall, I think this story has class and can become a first-rate,
top-of-the-line s-f story.  But you're allowing yourself to be
distracted from what made the story interesting in the first place.
Spend some time, figure out what the story is supposed to be about,
and then MAKE it about that.  That might mean scrapping a substanital
part of what you've written so far, but it will be worth it.
     As I've said, I really DO like this story.  It's rare indeed when
something on alt.prose captivates me enought that i read it all the
way through, and even rarer for me to respond at any length.  Keep up
the good writing.
Newsgroups: alt.prose