Sunday, September 07, 2014

Opening of opening of my sci fi novel 3013--Copyright Kyi May Kaung

I posted the complete chapter with my speculative fiction group--for critiquing in 2 weeks--

here is the opening of the opening.

I only wish to know if you saw this in a bookstore (any kind, brick or mortar or electronic) would you plunk down $10-20 and buy it?
I may not post other chapters as I now have a group in place and also one--one on one Reader (anonymous)--so--

It felt just like an earthquake on the 46th floor, that she felt while she was lying on her futon in the afternoon, that moved sideways and caused cracks in the Washington Monument, still being repaired. 
It was a few years before the great stinky flower bloomed in the National Botanical Garden, Dr. Khine remembered.
Or it was like that time when her father and she and the long-spined peon came back from Moulmein in a World War II Dakota, and the plane dropped straight down so many times, so many air pockets, Khine threw up and thought, This is it. 
We are all going to die.
Her father Kong groped around in the seat pocket, found a brown paper bag, and hed it open for her, while she vomited into it.
But that time, they arrived safe and sound in Rangoon, a little rickety in the legs, but fine.
Kong would die later of a car accident.
In this dream nightmare, she was all ready for her poetry reading and waiting in the wings.
The West Wing.
She was waiting for her cue to come on, and the Organizer Woman was going to come and get her.  Just like Dr. Robert Finch said he’d come upstairs and get her when they were ready downstairs for her Masters orals then called viva voce.
But Organizer Woman was late.
Meanwhile a voice that sounded like the legendary Barrack Obama was addressing the crowd or the room.
Khine thought, 3013 and Mr. Obama is still alive? 
That is not possible.
She leaned her head and neck further into the Oval Office, and saw someone at the telephone, looking out the window with his back to her, talking.
There was not anything memorable about the conversation—something about the most recent international crisis, Gaza, Hamass, ISIS, Palestine, the PLO, more beheadings.
The man hurriedly signed off and put the receiver down with a clunk.
“I will call you later if anything new develops.  OK?”
Who was he talking to, Putin?  Kondratiev?
He turned around to face the audience.
Khine saw it was not the first African American President, Mr. Barrack Obama, but the first Asian-American President, Mr. Henri Kim.
Mr. Henri Kim, survivor and defector, descendent of one of only a handful who survived escape from N. Korya. 
Mr. Kim’s blood lines were inscribed in the white marble wall, veined with black, red and gold, at the Survivor Memorial. 
Only 35 people had survived the latest Holocaust. 
And contrary to what one might have thought, the ones who had survived were not the ones who had stored water and honey and maple syrup in glass jars, which after all could only last a few weeks or months at the most.
The ones who had survived were the richest and the brightest, who in addition to supplies of food and water had stockpiled the real currency—gene pools and frozen sperm of animals—mammals including homo sapiens, all the copyrights of all the botanical useful herbs and food crops, all the hybrids.
When will they give the neem tree back to India though, Khine thought.
It was then that she felt the room rise and be pulled up in the air.
She could see out the window that they were rising, as the Rose Garden outside grew smaller and smaller, they were being pulled up vertically, and then she could see Lafayette Square and the environs, and then more of The District.
But they were not pulled up very far nor very fast, and pretty soon the bunker Oval Office had been deposited with a thump. 
From the Washington Monument now visible in the window to her right, Khine saw that they were on the newly sown grass of the Mall.
President Kim has disappeared, she thought perhaps to a safe place during the Move.
She was surprised it all went so smoothly, and remembered with a start that in 2513 all this Mechanism of Moving had been already put in place so the Office could be moved en bloc.
Khine wondered if her scheduled poetry reading was still on.
Then the Administrator’s voice came on the invisible intercom, manifesting itself as intrusive, alien thoughts in her subconscious.
Khine let it in as she had no choice.
A receptor had been implanted in her brain at birth, even though her mother Glamis had objected. 
It could not be removed because by now, when she was 81, the device was deeply embedded, just like the sleeper agents she and Joy had precociously embedded in various politico-economic systems, Ha ha, Khine thought.
Moreover, it never ran out of batteries, as it did not need batteries, it recharged itself, feeding off the host’s own legitimate brain synapses.
But Khine had found a way to turn it off or at least mute it. 
She could do this by taking more Joint Supplement, but this was a trade secret that only she and Joy Verge, the modern leader of the modern Assassins or Hashishim, knew. 
At the moment Joy was ensconced in her own bunker and empire based in Konroe, Tejas.
No matter, she must concentrate on the Moment, see what was going on, Khine thought.
The Administrator came on again, and said “The Move is Complete.  We are now in our new location.”
Khine thought sourly why he had to emphasize the obvious.
She had eyes.She could see out the window.
The gold brocade drapes with the distinctive ovals and laurel wreaths in the Jacquard design that Michelle Obama had had installed, had hardly shifted. 
In the artificial air, they might last forever, Khine sniffed.
Copyright KMKaung
end of sample.

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