A hugely rotten two hours...

I got up early today specifically to do some writing, and instead I found I couldn't start my computer. This was was particularly galling, as there was no way I had forgotten the password (and anyway, what I had memorized matched what I had written down on the Post-It^® stuck to my monitor—just kidding!).

That's when I broke out the rescue boot CD, which didn't work either. It was at about this time that I started to wonder about the scope of items that I had potentially lost, among which the primary loss would be two weeks of files added, deleted, and changed for my work, although all of the "residue" files—final versions of translations, invoices, etc.—could be retrieved from my Web mail account.

'twas not a pretty picture.

Eventually, for some reason, I decided to disconnect my monitors and keyboard from the laptop and just boot it "by itself."

Ah, sweet success!

* * *
The story I've been considering writing for Idol came to no satisfactory conclusion in my dreams, although I was pleased to note that I had begun to backtrack to various points in my budding narrative and look for alternative paths. My principal problem right now is that my story so far might make an interesting first chapter for a book, but not a self-contained story.

Nevertheless, I shall press on and rely on a phenomenon that I've recognized ever since last year's story of the psychic and the man who sought assurance of an afterlife from his dead wife: the ending just comes to me in a just-in-time "flash."

As the "honeydew" list has gotten lengthy, I have allotted myself three hours to come up with something. In the event this does end up being a dry hole, I will feel justified in taking a strategic bye.

Cheers...

LJ Idol 7.6: Not of Your World

Duke Jacobs looked up at the smear of the Milky Way that stretched across the night sky above his wilderness camp site and wondered what it would have been like to explore the universe. Then he looked over at Max, the mutt that he and Ann had rescued from the pound, so many years ago, and wondered which of them would die first—the dog, of old age, or he, by blowing his brains out before the inoperable cancer in his guts killed him. He put his hand on the .45 caliber pistol that was strapped to his thigh. The Montana wilderness was no place to go unarmed.

Ann had died almost three months previously when, as the driver of a pickup drifted off to sleep, his truck wandered into the oncoming lane and struck Ann's car head-on. With Ann gone, Duke was ready to stick the barrel of the pistol in his mouth and pull the trigger, except for the thin thread of comfort he derived from knowing that memories of Ann were still lodged somewhere in Max's canine brain. As long as Max was alive, thought Duke, he had a living link to Ann.

Duke pictured Ann in his mind and recalled the time—

Whereupon Ann stepped out of the bushes across the little clearing where he and Max were camped. She was naked in the dim glow of the campfire. Then she stepped toward him.

Ann?...Alive? Duke's thoughts raced. Or is this a ghost?...It looks like Ann…But do ghosts move branches out of their way when they walk? In his peripheral vision, Duke saw Max stand up and look at Ann. Do dogs see ghosts, too? he wondered, and knew something was wrong.

A moment later, Duke's .45 was pointed at the approaching figure. "Stop! Don't come any closer!" he said. Then Max made a low growling sound, whereupon the figure's eyes turned vaguely reptilian and a moment later, its body began to unravel. Over the next second or two, Max yelped as if struck by something, Duke quickly fired two rounds at center of mass of whatever it was, and that mass disappeared in a bright green flash.

What the— thought Duke, and looked over at Max. Something had sliced into Max's side, and deeply. There was a pool of blood on the ground and Max's breathing was labored.

"Hello?" called a voice. "Hello! You, there, please don't shoot. Let me approach. I can help."

"Come on out," said Duke, and pointed his pistol in the direction of the voice. A squat old man in a skin-tight uniform emerged with hands raised from the bushes near where Ann's simulacrum had appeared. "Who are you?" asked Duke. "And what was—that?"

"My name is N'klaus," said the man. "And before I start answering your questions, would you please point your kinetic energy weapon elsewhere?"

"Not right now, buddy," said Duke. "Something that looked like my dead wife just showed up out of nowhere, took a piece out of my dog, and then went 'poof.' You want to tell me what's going on?" The old man thought for a moment, then sighed as he came to a decision. His hands remained in the air.

"I am not of your world," said the man, pausing as if he expected to be shot on the spot. After a moment, he continued: "I am an interstellar trader. A Gydra I was transporting to a zoological client seduced my co-pilot telepathically and forced my ship to land here. Then it killed my co-pilot and decided to escape before killing me. Once loose on this world, the Gydra almost immediately found you and again used its telepathic power, this time to assume a form that would allow it to approach and kill you in order to restore its nutritional reserves." The man paused. "Your weapon did nothing. I killed it with a phase disruptor."

A moment later, Duke lowered his pistol and holstered it. "Okay, put down your hands. Your story's so crazy it has to be true." N'klaus lowered his arms. Duke pointed at Max. "Can you help my dog?"

"Yes," said N'klaus, "my ship is not far. Bring your animal and let's see what we can do."

In the darkness, Duke could not make out the size or shape of N'klaus's craft, but he found it roomy enough after he stepped inside. As Duke lay Max down on a counter-like surface, N'klaus asked, "Can I interest you in a job as my new co-pilot?"

"Not really," said Duke. "First, I wouldn't know the first thing about driving this thing, and second, the tumors growing inside me make the prospect of holding any kind of long-term employment look pretty lousy. Now, how about helping Max?"

"But you are smart, intuitive, resourceful, have excellent reflexes, and willing to act and to place the welfare of others ahead of your own. All excellent traits," said the old man, placing a hand on Duke's arm. "Let me be frank, I can help Max, and I can help you, but not in the sense of saving either of you physically." Duke frowned. "What are you trying to pull?" he said.

"Hear me out," said N'klaus. "What I can do is transfer your mind, and Max's, into a quantum matrix that happens to be this ship's co-pilot. The matrix is designed to create a link between various parts of your human subconscious and all of the ship's systems, from navigation to life support. You do nothing conscious to guide the ship—nor can you, actually—while otherwise maintaining complete control of your conscious mind. The ship's library is extensive and you'll have access to all sensor data, which means you can be as intellectually active as you choose. Indulge your curiosity. Explore. Get to know Max in a way that no human has ever known a canine. And as long as the ship remains whole, so will your minds."

"What you describe sounds like eternity in solitary confinement," said Duke. "And it also sounds like you can't help Max or me—we may as well die and be done with it."

"What I can offer is what every co-pilot is offered," said N'klaus, and his voice changed subtly. "An unlimited universe to explore until you have enough credits saved to buy yourself—and Max—new biological bodies. I know this place—"

"And how long will it take to save enough to do that?"

"Co-pilots get 50% of the profits of any venture, so it depends on what we decide to do. What do you say?"

Duke looked down at Max, whose breathing had by now become very shallow. "What do you say, boy?" he said to the dog. "Go for it?" Max opened his eyes and feebly licked Duke's hand.

Duke thought for a moment and then turned to N'klaus and said: "You've got yourself a co-pilot, and his dog."