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Guerrilla Warfare for Writers
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Category:
Science Fiction
Publisher: Intrigue Press
ISBN-10: 0989369684
Type: Fiction
Pages: 248
Copyright: July 2, 2014
ISBN-13: 9780989369688
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
In the future, dependent children, wives or husbands can be pawned for immediate cash. The unfortunates are even shipped to the moon to work in slave camps.
Eighteen-year-old Tilly Breedlove's father has sold her into a form of modern day slavery on Luna—the Tranquility Harbor Mining Company, 240,000 miles from home. Family Trade and Loan, an unscrupulous company, is more than willing to take her on and exploit her talent. Forced to be an exotic dancer, she performs risqué shows for the filthy but filthy rich ore miners—a far cry from her classical and modern dance training. If she isn't resisting obscene advances from bearded "Prairie Dogs," she's fending off jealous head-liner acts who view her as a threat to their status—and when those jealous showgirls say "break a leg," they aim to cause it. The only reprieve she finds in this shop of horrors is a few close ward friends, a sympathetic dance coach, and Buddy Gunner Bell who just might become the love of her life. It's just enough to stem her psychological meltdown.
Excerpt
“I’m Reginald Breedlove. I’m here to pawn my daughter.”
I’m here to pawn my daughter. Tilly Breedlove knew they had another word for it—they called them “kickouts”, people who were sold to the establishment to cover debts. She and her girlfriends used to laugh at the K-Span commercial on late night Holoview. She wasn’t laughing now. She’d never seen so many kids gathered in one spot, except at a school assembly.
The first floor of the auditorium-sized building had at least twenty standing lines and a waiting area filled to capacity. This building area was reserved for the Sunflowers, teenagers who ranged in age from 13 to 19 years-old. At 17, Till fit right in. Sure, there were sniffles and tearful goodbyes, with an occasional knock-down-drag-out, but the worst scenes were reserved for the six to twelve-year-old kids, the next wing over. Those kids were on the Daffodil Plan, commonly called Daffys, and their screams pierced through the air conditioning vents.
She’d seen the entrance door for the Daffys on the outside of the building, next to the Sunflower entrance, which was her admission portal. The Daffys were hardly equipped to handle the emotions of severing bonds with their parents, and Tilly couldn’t even begin to understand what kind of jobs assignments those kids would have in order to work off a debt for their parents.
“Pawn is a term reserved for the intercity establishments, Mr. Breedlove, most notably found in the vicinity of Forty-Second Street, “ said the check-in receptionist, who didn’t crack a smile when in a husky contralto, she added, “You cede, or relinquish custodianship of your ward here at Family Trade and Loan, for a specific time period. Do you have your identification wafer and DNA cube, sir? I don’t want your hard-card identification.”
Reginald unsnapped the lid on his wrist-held Omnicomp and handed a small wafer diskette and cube to the woman. “Pawn, sell, loan, trade, it’s all the same,” he said. “I’ve already been through the psychogram and background check. So I’d appreciate it all to hell if I was not held up any longer.”
The receptionist, whose name tag read Aurora slipped the wafer and cube into a console and adjusted her monitor. “Bear with me while I double-check the contract-application.”
“Mother Mary on a wagon wheel,” muttered Reginald. “It’s taken me three hours to get to this counter. I’ve got varicose veins as thick as rope, ready to burst from standing in this line.”
Tilly chanced a look around and saw a few eye rolls, mixed with a few sympathetic smiles from the other kids. This place was drama central. Her father wasn’t helping any with his over-the-top exaggeration. The man had always been brutally impatient.
Aurora remained calm, steadfast. “I’ve already had microsurgery for such an affliction, sir, so you are not alone…and…I think we have a winner.” She pulled down a headset magnifier and grimaced. “There seems to be one discrepancy here…I cannot make out the residence location. Is it Sealand Condominiums or the Sealand Community Housing Authority?”
Reginald raised his voice above the din. “Neither of the above. I’m housed at the Pier J Settlement on Long Island. I live in a converted Sealand transport container.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh, my mistake. You mean the projects.”
“Used to call ‘em steel deals without the wheels,” boomed someone behind Tilly. “They became low-income housing for the financially impaired in 2024 during Palin’s administration.”
Tilly heard a few gasps and guffaws behind her. Way to fucking go, Dad, another cringe-worthy statement. If she could find a crack in the floor, she’d cram her shamed self inside it. She could feel the stares burning holes in the back of her head. But she had vowed from the start she would get through this and hold her temper.
“And you must be Tilly Breedlove,” said Aurora, locking eyes with her. “What a bright-looking, attractive young lady! May I have your identification wafer and DNA cube?”
And you must be Aurora Borealis, as in Bore-me-Alice, with your smile ready to bust collagen bags in your face, and your head stuck firmly up your liposuctioned ass. Tilly bit her lip and handed the items over.
“Thank you very much, Miss Aurora. I’m looking forward to a pleasant stay at my Eff-TALC assignment.” She implied a bit more meaning in the company acronym than intended. The whole place could eff-off as far as she was concerned.
Aurora processed the items and handed them back. “Looks like you check out, dear.” She turned to give her father a puppy dog tilt of her head. “Looks like you’re cleared to proceed, Mr. Breedlove. Your last stop will be with Mr. Frampton, your financial counselor. Follow the yellow line to suite 175. Or enter the suite number on the foot tram console, and you will be transported there.”
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