Very Cliche Detective Story (Supposedly Science Fiction)

[Blackrook]

Well, here is the crappy first draft of my new story. Please feel free to rip it to shreds because I know it sucks. I wrote more, but after this the story started sucking even more. I will probably delete that part and keep going after this.
****
It was dark, which was unusual for a Tuesday. Usually Tuesday was the twilight time, as the local red sun hung low above the horizon. I had to check my sat-com twice to be sure of it. Weathercorp had thrown in an extra Tuesday, to make up for the difference between Hun Wat’s rotation, which didn’t take exactly seven days, Earth standard time.​

What that meant to me was that it was dark. Really dark like it never is on Earth. Hun Wat’s foul atmosphere, polluted by the coal belching mega-factories, never let in the stars. What made things worse was that Powerco never bothered to light this poverty-stricken part of the city. There was no one to pay the bill. Even with my lightstick, I could not see through the black fog more than 20 feet. But I kept my lightstick off, for fear of drawing attention to myself. It was dark like the inside of a coal-sack, excuse the metaphor. It was dark like the heart of a megacorp executive. It was dark like –​

A nearby cackling laugh disturbed me. Probably one of Hun Wat’s millions of homeless, human and alien of a multitude of species. I was already feeling edgy but now things were worse. This was a high crime sector, best avoided even in daytime. I had gone to this meeting without back up, not remembering it would be a dark leap-day Tuesday. I might pay for my folly with my life. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.​

But I had been on the Talbot case for two weeks, trying to find evidence of a murder, but so far nothing. The phone call this morning, from an anonymous informant, was my first solid lead. So I stayed where I was at the agreed-to place and waited for the informant to call me at the agreed-to time.​

I lit up a spice-stick and waited. The city throbbed with a steady pulse as the mega-factories cranked out machines, tools, weapons, and manufactured goods of all shapes and sizes. Hun Wat was the industrial capital of Known Space. That, combined with Hun Wat’s numerous wormhole gates, made Hun Wat a center of interstellar trade, the most important planet inhabited by humans, save only Earth itself. And yet, all but a few thousand of Hun Wat’s one billion residents lived within 100 kilometers of this spot I was standing on, a vast metropolis known simply as Hun Wat City. The rest of the planet was undrained swamp and poison seas.​

It was exactly 3:00 a.m. when my sat-com rang with that tune my wife had set for me five years ago. I never changed it, even after she left me. I held my wrist up to my jaw and answered. “Parker.”​

A man’s voice whispered on the line, “Is this Cole Parker the investigator?”​

“Right. That’s me.”​

“You’re investigating the Talbot death?”​

“Right.”​

“Please follow my instructions to the letter.”​

“Like hell I will,” I thought, not liking to be bossed around by an informant. But I said, “Go on.”​

“Proceed two blocks south and six blocks west to the Xenon nightclub,” the voice whispered again. “I will be waiting at the booth closest to the north exit. Please go now. Make sure you’re not followed.”​

I was about to say some rude words, but there was no use. I badly needed a break in the case. So I had to play by the informer’s rules. For now.​

I left Earth a year ago for a new life on Hun Wat. With my police training I ended up as the local equivalent: insurance investigator. My employer was the Benevolent Hands Life Insurance Company. I was investigating the death of one Chambers Talbot IV, a junior-level executive in Hartman Corp., Hun Wat’s largest and most powerful mega-corporation. Hartman neighborhood security had ruled it suicide. The claims adjusters at Benevolent Hands wanted to make sure. If Talbot was murdered, the life insurer could collect against the killer’s insurance company. Not to mention the acquisition of a valuable slave for the tirinium mines. I don't like slavery, not even clone slavery, but for a murderer I will make an exception.​

I did some maneuvers to make sure no one was tailing me. All I had to guide me was the dim light from my wireless. I didn’t want to use a lightstick because that would make me too easy to follow.​

At 7:21, I entered the Xenon. It was dark, loud, hot, humid, and jammed with young people having a good time and sweating profusely. Strobe lights danced on shadowy figures, writhing to what I assumed was music. My wife and I went to places like this on Earth when we were dating, many years ago. That ended with marriage, and kids, and a mortgage. The last of my kids were out of the nest. My wife left two weeks later. I tried drowning my sorrows with alcohol, but that didn’t work. So I immigrated to Hun Wat, the only colony that would have me.​

He was waiting at a booth in the back, near an emergency exit. I was actually surprised. I hadn’t seen an emergency exit since I left Earth. Hun Wat had no government and no fire safety officials to demand such things. In this sector, there wasn’t even private security. Perhaps there had been a fire. Perhaps customers had died in a vain search for exits, a lesson learned about the dangers of unregulated and unprincipled free enterprise.​

I sat down and looked over the informer. He was short and thin. In the darkness, all I could see was his profile. There was something familiar about it, but I couldn’t –​

“You weren’t followed?” he said.​

“No.”​

“Talbot didn’t commit suicide,” he said, after the waiter took our order. The waiter was a clone, and completely hairless like every other clone.​

I lit up a spice-stick. Everything was legal on Hun Wat, even smoking. ​

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he said, coughing delicately.​

I kept smoking. I wasn’t going to let an informer interfere with my newfound freedom.​

There was a pause which lasted until he realized I had no intention of putting out my spice-stick.​

“Talbot wasn’t murdered either,” he said, cryptically.​

“So Talbot died of natural causes, after he ingested all those pain-killers?”​

“You’re not taking my meaning,” said the man. “The body tested positive for zenta poisoning. Death was by poison, that much is certain.”​

“So Talbot was poisoned?”​

“No,” said the man, who seemed to be enjoying himself. “Talbot was not poisoned. Furthermore, he did not poison himself.”​

I paused to consider this.​

“I don’t like mind games,” I said at last.​

The waiter brought our drinks. My informer had one of those fruity cocktails women drink. I had a beer, a brand from Earth I fondly remembered.​

“Listen to me again,” said the man, slowly, as if speaking to a small child. “Talbot was not murdered. Talbot did not commit suicide. Talbot did not die of natural causes.” He paused and took a sip at his fruity cocktail. It was dark, but I could almost see the smug look on his face. He was feeling clever toying with an old investigator like me, like a cat toying with a mouse.​

I took a few sips of my beer to think things over. It was time to put the informer on the defensive.​

“You’re wasting my time,” I said at last, standing up and turning to leave. Unexpectedly, he grabbed my arm.​

“Wait! Don’t go!” he pleaded.​

I grabbed his hand and twisted it back, something I learned from long years on the police force. The man had a soft palm and delicate fingers. He screamed with pain.​

I was walking out of the nightclub. I checked my wireless. It was 7:43. I would go home and call it a day.​

“You’re the only one who can help me!” yelped the informer, desperately dogging my steps.​

I ignored him and kept walking.​

“Please!!!”​

“Why should I help you?” I said at last, turning around on the street in front of the nightclub.​

The informer was standing next to rather obscene tri-vi projection, which was the owner’s attempt to lure the public to join the decadent fun in the Xenon. In the bluish light of the hologram, I got a good look at the man for the first time. He was young, mid-20’s maybe, handsome yet frail, below average height, and dressed in a ragged business suit that hadn’t been air-cleaned in weeks.​

“You should help me because Talbot isn’t dead,” said the young man, his familiar profile becoming a familiar face, a face I’d seen on the dead, not two weeks earlier.​

“I am Talbot.”​

 

[Gudanov]

It doesn't read bad to me. I'd like to lose the first two paragraphs and maybe cut down some of the exposition, but otherwise I was just kinda picking at nits. I think you have a good opening here.

I think you have a good hook at the end, if it was my kinda story I'd keep reading. I'm not a fan of first person and the hard boiled detective style, but that has nothing to do with your writing.

Your post made me think there would be tons of problems since you were so hard on your writing, but I didn't really see much to get down about here.

Is it too cliche? I don't know, it isn't my thing so I don't feel like I can make that call. If feels very cliche to me, but maybe that's fine for this style of story. I really can't say.

#

It was dark, (I don't like "It was" for the start of a sentence. But you really don't want to start with "It was dark" it's not a stormy night but still best to avoid. Maybe you want to play off the cliche though? I'm not sure where you want to go.) which was unusual for a Tuesday. Usually Tuesday was the twilight time, as the local red sun hung low above the horizon. I had to check my sat-com twice to be sure of it. Weathercorp had thrown in an extra Tuesday, to make up for the difference between Hun Wat’s rotation, which didn’t take exactly seven days, Earth standard time.

What that meant to me was that it was dark. Really dark like it never is on Earth. Hun Wat’s foul atmosphere, polluted by the coal belching mega-factories, never let in the stars. What made things worse was that Powerco never bothered to light this poverty-stricken part of the city. There was no one to pay the bill. Even with my lightstick, I could not see through the black fog more than 20 feet. But I kept my lightstick off, for fear of drawing attention to myself. It was dark like the inside of a coal-sack, excuse the metaphor. It was dark like the heart of a megacorp executive. It was dark like – (There are a lot of words here to establish that it is dark, really dark)

(I'd consider starting here and dropping the first two paragraphs)A nearby cackling laugh disturbed me. Probably one of Hun Wat’s millions of homeless, human and alien of a multitude of species. I was already feeling edgy but now things were worse. This was a high crime sector, best avoided even in daytime. I had gone to this meeting without back up, not remembering it would be a dark leap-day Tuesday. I might pay for my folly with my life. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

But (lose 'But')I had been (Maybe rephrase to remove the 'had been' - 'Two weeks on the Talbot case and I didn't have a single shred of evidence for murder.' or, you know, something better than that) on the Talbot case for two weeks, trying to find evidence of a murder, but so far nothing. The phone call this morning, from an anonymous informant, was my first solid lead. So I stayed where I was (,) at the agreed-to place and waited for the informant to call me at the agreed-to time.

I lit up a spice-stick and waited. The city throbbed with a steady pulse (It doesn't sound bad, but the city having a pluse is kind of a cliche) as the mega-factories cranked out machines, tools, weapons, and manufactured goods of all shapes and sizes. Hun Wat was the industrial capital of Known Space. That, combined with Hun Wat’s numerous wormhole gates, made Hun Wat a center of interstellar trade, the most important planet inhabited by humans, save only Earth itself. And yet, all but a few thousand of Hun Wat’s one billion residents lived within 100 kilometers of this spot I was standing on, a vast metropolis known simply as Hun Wat City. The rest of the planet was undrained swamp and poison seas. (Info Dump - Try to work in the detail gradually)

It was exactly 3:00 a.m. when my sat-com rang with that tune my wife had set for me five years ago. I never changed it, even after she left me. I held my wrist up to my jaw and answered. “Parker.”

A man’s voice whispered on the line, “Is this Cole Parker the investigator?”

“Right. That’s me.”

“You’re investigating the Talbot death?”

“Right.”

“Please follow my instructions to the letter.”

“Like hell I will,” (I thought he said this at first and it threw me off a bit, does it need to be quoted?) I thought, not liking to be bossed around by an informant. But I said, “Go on.”

“Proceed two blocks south and six blocks west to the Xenon nightclub,” the voice whispered again. “I will be waiting at the booth closest to the north exit. Please go now. Make sure you’re not followed.”

I was about to (I'd rephrase to get rid of 'was about to' I think it weakens the sentence) say some rude words, but there was no use. I badly needed a break in the case. So I had to play by the informer’s rules. For now.

I left Earth a year ago for a new life on Hun Wat. With my police training I ended up as the local equivalent: insurance investigator. My employer was the Benevolent Hands Life Insurance Company. I was investigating the death of one Chambers Talbot IV, a junior-level executive in Hartman Corp., Hun Wat’s largest and most powerful mega-corporation. Hartman neighborhood security had ruled it suicide. The claims adjusters at Benevolent Hands wanted to make sure. If Talbot was murdered, the life insurer could collect against the killer’s insurance company. Not to mention the acquisition of a valuable slave for the tirinium mines (Kinda info dumpy here, there is stuff that is needed, but it felt like too much detail and slowed me down.)

I did some maneuvers to make sure no one was tailing me. All I had to guide me was the dim light from my wireless. I didn’t want to use a lightstick because that would make me too easy to follow.(maybe something like 'wireless, the lightstick would be like a beacon out here.' that's maybe still clunky. But the last sentence doesn't sound good to me.)

At 7:21, I entered the Xenon. It was dark, loud, hot, humid, (I don't like strings of adjectives like this, but that may just be me) and jammed with young people having a good time and (while?) sweating profusely. Strobe lights danced on shadowy figures, writhing to what I assumed was music. My wife and I went to places like this on Earth when we were dating, many years ago. That ended with marriage, and kids, and a mortgage. The last of my kids were out of the nest. My wife left two weeks later. I tried drowning my sorrows with alcohol, but that didn’t work. So I immigrated to Hun Wat, the only colony that would have me. (It seems like a bit much in detail about his marriage, we already know he wife left him and that he immigrated here, it feels kinda redundant to me)

He was waiting at a booth in the back, near an emergency exit. I was actually surprised.(Lose this sentence, his comments tell me he is surprised to see it.) I hadn’t seen an emergency exit since I left Earth. Hun Wat had no government and no fire safety officials to demand such things. In this sector, there wasn’t even private security. Perhaps there had been a fire. Perhaps customers had died in a vain search for exits, a lesson learned about the dangers of unregulated and unprincipled free enterprise.

I sat down and looked over the informer. He was short and thin. In the darkness, all I could see was his profile. There was something familiar about it, but I couldn’t –

“You weren’t followed?” he said.

“No.”

“Talbot didn’t commit suicide,” he said, after the waiter took our order.

I lit up a spice-stick. Everything was legal on Hun Wat, even smoking.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he said, coughing delicately.

I kept smoking. I wasn’t going to let an informer interfere with my newfound freedom.

There was a pause which lasted until he realized I had no intention of putting out my spice-stick.

“Talbot wasn’t murdered either,” he said, cryptically.

“So Talbot died of natural causes, after he ingested all those pain-killers?”

“You’re not taking my meaning,” said the man (picky, the man said, all the other attributions are he said, I said so putting said first is odd it feels like a different style). “The body tested positive for zenta poisoning. Death was by poison, that much is certain.”

“So Talbot was poisoned?”

“No,” said the man, who seemed to be enjoying himself. “Talbot was not poisoned. Furthermore, he did not poison himself.”

I paused to consider this.

“I don’t like mind games,” I said at last.

The waiter brought our drinks. My informer had one of those fruity cocktails women drink. I had a beer, a brand from Earth I fondly remembered.

“Listen to me again,” said the man, slowly, as if speaking to a small child. “Talbot was not murdered. Talbot did not commit suicide. Talbot did not die of natural causes.” He paused and took a sip at his fruity cocktail. It was dark, but I could almost see the smug look on his face. He was feeling clever toying with an old investigator like me, like a cat toying with a mouse (cliche, but maybe that's what you want in this POV, I'll point it out but I don't object to it being there if that's what you want).

I took a few sips of my beer to think things over. It was (I don't like to start setences with 'It was', this is probably just me) time to put the informer on the defensive.

“You’re wasting my time,” I said at last, standing up and turning to leave. Unexpectedly, he grabbed my arm.

“Wait! Don’t go!” he pleaded.

I grabbed his hand and twisted it back, something I learned from long years on the police force. The man had a soft palm and delicate fingers. He screamed with pain.

I was walking out of the nightclub. I checked my wireless. It was 7:43. I would go home and call it a day. (This paragraph reads kinda choppy to me. Maybe rephrase.)

“You’re the only one who can help me!” yelped the informer, desperately dogging my steps.

I ignored him and kept walking.

“Please!!!”

“Why should I help you?” I said at last, turning around on the street in front of the nightclub.

The informer was standing next to rather obscene tri-vi projection, which was the owner’s attempt to lure the public to join the decadent fun in the Xenon. In the bluish light of the hologram, I got a good look at the man for the first time. He was young, mid-20’s maybe, handsome yet frail, below average height, and dressed in a ragged business suit that hadn’t been air-cleaned in weeks.

“You should help me because Talbot isn’t dead,” said the young man, his familiar profile becoming a familiar face, a face I’d seen on the dead, not two weeks earlier.

“I am Talbot.”

 

[Blackrook]

You're probably right about the first two paragraphs. I could probably cut them out.

The problem I have with this story is it went downhill fast after I finished this part of it.

Another problem is that the explanation for why Talbot is still alive is not all that surprising given the science fiction setting. Everything's been done, so it's not easy to surprise people anymore.

 

[Blackrook]

Here's more:
****
Talbot was hungry so I brought him to a diner and bought him a sandwich and a cup of coffee. He wolfed down the sandwich and asked for another. He obviously hadn’t eaten in days, and had a malnourished look. The auditors at Benevolent Hand would not reimburse me this expense, so I didn’t log it in my journal. The company had a well-deserved reputation for watching every centicredit. What that meant to me was that I bought my informant’s meals on my own 10 centicredits.​

I loaned Talbot my hat and raincoat and he tried to hide in them, pulling the hat low to his brow and pulling the raincoat collar up his neck. Darcy, the waitress, knew me and the kind of people I associate with, so she didn’t try to make small talk with my nervous informant. Talbot wanted to be invisible and Darcy let him think he was succeeding.​

“So Talbot, let’s be totally frank here.” I said at last. “Officially, you are dead.”​

“Apparently so,” said Talbot. “But here I am, living and breathing. Two weeks ago I entered my condo and found myself dead on the floor, with a bottle of pills in my hand. I didn’t know what to think so I ran. I’ve been hiding in the lower levels of the city ever since, away from security. I ran out of money three days ago and I’ve been missing meals ever since. I’ve been attacked twice. I don’t know how much longer I can survive.”​

“I saw your body at the morgue, Talbot. It was dead.”​

“It must be a clone,” said Talbot.​

“That’s one possible theory,” I said.​

“What happens now?”​

“My job is to investigate your death,” I said. “Now that I know you are not dead, I have a duty to report it to my superiors at Benevolent Hand. After that, it’s not up to me.”​

“What will Benevolent Hand do?”​

“My guess is they’ll demand a refund on the money they paid out to your beneficiary. Who was that anyway?”​

“It went into an education trust for my two nieces. They’re two and four.”​

“Unlikely murder suspects,” I said, “but you can never tell.”​

“What happens to me?” asked Talbot.​

“Nothing,” I said. “You go back to your ordinary life.”​

“Don’t you see?” cried Talbot. “That can’t happen. Whoever killed this clone will want me dead too.”​

“I’m sure you can request extra security from your company.”​

“Parker, I really need your help. Find out who did this. Please…”​

Long ago, when I was young and idealistic, I might have taken on this man’s cause, even if it meant breaking the rules. But those days were over. I can’t help everyone. Hell, I can’t even help myself. I hated myself, but I had to say, “I’m sorry, but I am not authorized to investigate the death of a clone. My work here is done. Case is closed.”​

Darcy always pretended not to hear but I knew she had heard everything. She gave me that look of hers. I felt like a louse.​

 

[FionaW]

I hesitated before critting this bit, but I think if you recognise that the next section isn't as good, you've polished up your writing antennae, which is a plus.

What has happened is that your dialogue doesn't read nearly as well as your prose. I was spinning through the first section, and here went headfirst into a bowl of custard. Your dialogue needs to be tighter and snappier; sometimes it helps to think of characters in this sort of detective story as actors. Many of the lines need to teeter on the edge of humour - think of the scene as a performance.

NB, as a point about the actual story, I can't believe either of them haven't asked the obvious question - OK, someone tried to murder him, but where in the world did the clone come from?

Green is comments and suggestions, red is stuff I think you could lose.

Talbot was hungry so I brought him to a diner and bought him a sandwich and a cup of coffee. He wolfed down the sandwich and asked for another. He obviously hadn’t eaten in days, and had a malnourished look. The auditors at Benevolent Hand would not reimburse me this expense, so I didn’t log it in my journal. The company had a well-deserved reputation for watching every centicredit. What that meant to me was that I bought my informant’s meals on my own 10 centicredits.

The only issue with the first para is the sentence length; not enough variation, too choppy.

I loaned Talbot my hat and raincoat and he tried to hide in them, pulling the hat low to his brow and pulling the raincoat collar up his neck. Darcy, the waitress, knew me and the kind of people I associate with, so she didn’t try to make small talk with my nervous informant. Talbot wanted to be invisible and Darcy let him think he was succeeding.

No issues here.
​

“So Talbot, let’s be totally frank here.” I said at last. “Officially, you are dead.” This is bordering on "As you know, Frank..." The reader has figured this out for themselves, and both characters know it, too. I'd go for a wiseguy comment like 'Never bought coffee for a dead man before.'
​

“Apparently so,” (stilted) said Talbot. “But here I am, living and breathing. Two weeks ago I entered my condo and found myself dead on the floor, with a bottle of pills in my hand. I didn’t know what to think so I ran. I’ve been hiding in the lower levels of the city ever since, away from security. I ran out of money three days ago and I’ve been missing meals ever since. I’ve been attacked twice. I don’t know how much longer I can survive.” Infodump. He's starving, terrified and unlikely to live much longer - he's going to struggle to put together a coherent sentence, let alone all of this. And why, exactly does he trust this detective?
​

“I saw your body at the morgue, Talbot. It was dead.” again, you're stating the obvious twice.
​

“It must be a clone,” said Talbot. 'A--a clone?' Talbot hazarded.
​

“That’s one possible theory,” I said. 'Who cares?' I said. 'I was hired to investigate your death. You're not dead. Game over.' I started to stand.
​

“What happens now?”​

“My job is to investigate your death,” I said. “Now that I know you are not dead, I have a duty to report it to my superiors at Benevolent Hand. After that, it’s not up to me.”

'You'll tell them I'm alive?'

'They're employing me.' (have Talbot ask who his employer is somewhere upstream. And I'd suggest that the company name be abbreviated in conversation)
​

“What will Benevolent Hand they do?”​

“My guess is they’ll demand a refund on the money they paid out to your beneficiary. Who was that anyway?” 'Demand a refund, I guess. Who was your beneficiary?
​

“It went into an education trust for my two nieces. They’re two and four children.”​

“Unlikely murder suspects,” I said, “but you can never tell.” 'Probably didn't put out a contract on you then.'

'No.' Talbot picked up sandwich crumbs with his finger and ate them. “What happens to me?”
​

asked Talbot.​

“Nothing,” I said. “You go back to your ordinary life.”

I made a who cares? kind of gesture.

'Someone tried to kill me. Somebody,' he leaned across the table and reached for my arm, 'will try again.'
​

“Don’t you see?” cried Talbot. “That can’t happen. Whoever killed this clone will want me dead too.”​

“I’m sure you can request extra security from your company.”​

“Parker, you do this sort of stuff for a living. I really need your help. Find out who did this. Please…”​

Long ago, when I was young and idealistic, I might have taken him on this man’s cause, even if it meant breaking the rules. But those days were over. I can’t help everyone. Hell, I can’t even help myself. I hated myself, but I had to say,

“I’m sorry, but I am not authorized to investigate the death of a clone. My work here is done. Case is closed.”​

I couldn't look him in the eye while I said it, so I stared past him to where Darcy stood at the back of the diner. Darcy always pretended not to hear but I knew she had heard everything. She Darcy gave me that look of hers. I felt like a louse.


So at the end you have:

“I saw your body at the morgue, Talbot.'
​

'A--a clone?' Talbot hazarded.
​

'Who cares?' I said. 'I was hired to investigate your death. You're not dead. Game over.' I started to stand.
​

'You'll tell them I'm alive?'

'They're employing me.'
​

“What will they do?”​

'Demand a refund, I guess. Who was your beneficiary?
​

“It went into an education trust for my two nieces. They’re children.”​

'Probably didn't put out a contract on you then.'

'No.' Talbot picked up sandwich crumbs with his finger and ate them. “What happens to me?”
​

I made a who cares? kind of gesture.

'Someone tried to kill me. Somebody,' he leaned across the table and reached for my arm, 'will try again.'
​

“I’m sure you can request extra security from your company.”​

“Parker, you do this sort of stuff for a living. I need your help. Please…”​

Long ago, when I was young and idealistic, I might have taken him on, even if it meant breaking the rules. But those days were over. I can’t help everyone. Hell, I can’t even help myself.

“I’m not authorized to investigate the death of a clone. Case is closed.”​

I couldn't look him in the eye while I said it, so I stared past him to where Darcy stood at the back of the diner. Darcy gave me that look of hers. I felt like a louse.​

:

​

 

[Urien]

I enjoyed it. I like hard boiled detective stories. A lot of people do, that's why they survive. Think cop shows, amatuer sleuths, medical shows... people return again and again to the same areas for their entertainment. There is no doubt certain music you will like forever, you'll never get bored of it, the entire species is like that. We're monkeys, we like to watch (and listen to) other monkeys do the same thing over and over again... only this time with a little twist.

I think for a first effort it's very good indeed.

Also just a wee note on the receipt of critique; everybody looks for something different, what they say is often interesting and useful, but it might be contradicted by the next equally qualified commentater. If it sounds better to your ear, (read it outloud) then it probably better approaches the hidden template you're trying to see.

Keep going.

 

[Blackrook]

Well, I do appreciate all the detailed criticism. This is a first draft, of course, so it needs lots of work.

The thing is, I've been advised by more than one source not to go back and nit-pick, but to plow ahead. So that's what I'm going to do.

I will make an exception for a next bit, which I didn't even post because I didn't like it at all. It was late and my writing powers had waned considerably by this time.

I think I will keep all of the suggestions you've made and incorporate them in my story, if you don't mind. I really think Fiona made big improvements.

 

[Gudanov]

The thing is, I've been advised by more than one source not to go back and nit-pick, but to plow ahead. So that's what I'm going to do.

That's what I did to get through my 178K rough draft. I did end up chucking the first two chapters entirely, but having that draft done does help.

 

[dustinzgirl]

Well, here is the crappy first draft of my new story. Please feel free to rip it to shreds because I know it sucks. I wrote more, but after this the story started sucking even more. I will probably delete that part and keep going after this.
****
​

That is exactly why you will not make the big bucks as a writer.

Everything you do, craptastic or fantastic, is practice. Practice makes perfect. Deleting your practice means you can't review and revise and improve.

 

[Sapheron]

Furthermore; McDonalds burgers, Fosters and Big Brother all sell well; thus it is proved that one man's crap can be another's choice of amusement. Sometimes you think something you wrote is bollocks on a stick, but when you go back later you find some hidden (or obvious but overlooked) merit. As dear dustinzgirl is saying, keep everything!

In addition, the plowing ahead route is near universally advised, I believe. Otherwise you end up going over more times than you can count until you have a very, very shiny first chapter and you've forgotten what happens next.

Anywho, the stuff you wrote. I don't personally like detective stories, so I probably wouldn't read on. (This also means I can't see the cliche, if it's there.) If I did like them though, I probably would. It's decent enough, and I like dystopias (nasty pessimist that I can be), which your world seems to be to at least a certain extent. First person is something I usually find refreshing different, as I read it rarely. That's nice. I don't mind how often you go 'off topic'; the scene must be set and you're not at a fast paced place right now, so it's fine by me. I quite like your main man, so far. He seems quite flawed and down to earth, as humans tend to be. I can imagine him being quite an interesting character to follow if you keep the same feeling to him.

The dialogue is my biggest concern. Quite a bit of it read quite badly. As others have suggested (forgot who, sorry!), try to make it a little more flowing and realistic.

I also echo the question of where the hell did the clone come from, and why does no one seem concerned by its appearance?

 

[FionaW]

The other thing that may be a problem (from what you've said elsewhere) is that you do have a major 1950s cliche - the Waitress in the Diner. Why can't this woman be the owner, and employ men to serve at table? You've got two men - one a detective and one a company exec, and yet the first woman we meet is a waitress. If this really was set in the 1950s, I'd read on. As a SF story - no.

You do have to be really careful here - even I find my upbringing sneaks in when I'm not looking. Sometimes it helps to assign gender and build the character round that. I did that in my last SF story; Having made the captain of the ambassadorial flagship male, the captain of the battle flag had to be female. The head of engineering and medical are women; helm is female; security has a male head and a female second. I envy the generation coming up behind us, because they are less fixed in these prejudices, and don't have to stop and examine their thoughts in the way I sometimes do.

The other thing to note is that most of my characters are not caucasian. Some are just the ethnic mishmash to be expected in the 22nd century, while those with an identifiable genetic heritage are, for the most part, non-white. If you read your story and make Parker black, Talbot asian and Darcy a Pacific Islander, how much more can you build into it?

 

[Xelebes]

Comment: Good start, but this has to be at least a finished first draft before I decide to rip it apart. Finish it, pronto.

 

[Pyan]

You're probably right about the first two paragraphs. I could probably cut them out.

If you need to put "probably" in consecutive sentences, I'd say you're not that sure...

I rather liked the first two paras as atmosphere, as I also liked “I saw your body at the morgue, Talbot. It was dead.”, which struck me as exactly what a hard-bitten, wise-cracking private dick would say.

Be careful of cutting out all the descriptive passages in your story, as some of the the more extreme show-don't-tell advocates would have you do - there's a lot be said for a certain amount of scene-setting. Some of the re-written pieces in this forum read more like scripts than stories after all the "unnecessary" bits are excised...

 

[reiver33]

I liked it but, then again I'm into retro noir. Loved the 'I saw your body' line which was just perfect.

 

[Blackrook]

I'm going to surprise you. I have thought it over and I like it just the way it is.

 

[Blackrook]

Skipping ahead, Porter goes back to work and Talbot goes back to his life. His company covers up and things are apparently normal again.

But Porter's conscience disturbs him so he hits the booze.

Porter learns that Talbot has "commited suicide" again, falling out a skyscraper window. He drinks himself unconscious and passes out for two days.

Darcy is approached by two men who ask questions about Talbot and then run her over with a ground car, leaving her for dead. But she lives.

Porter visits Darcy at the hospital and promises to find the men who hurt her and make things right.

Porter is leaving the hospital when...

****

They were waiting for me on the landing pad. Three of them, gorillas barely contained in business suits. I dashed for a taxi, but they got there first. Two of them blocked my way, while the third came at me from behind.​

I did a vicious back-kick at the gorilla behind me, breaking his leg just below the knee. The other two swarmed me. The last thing I remembered was a guy swinging a gun straight down on my forehead. Then it was lights out.

I woke with my head in the lap of a woman. Her face hung over me, an angelic vision which contrasted sharply with my pounding headache. She spoke,

“I would have invited you in a more civilized manner, but you would have said ‘no’.”

Her accent was upper-city. She was one of the privileged class who live behind high walls, protected from the lawlessness that defined Hun Wat. I smelled perfume, and realized one bottle of the stuff was probably more than a year’s salary for me.

I sat up, taking in the room. With no surprise, I noted the art, the carpets, the chandeliers, the piano, the usual things you see in the living quarters of the rich. I walked around, inspecting each artifact. The woman seemed nervous as I tossed around a delicate statuette in a careless fashion.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” she said. “I am Cornelia Thane, sister of the late Chambers Talbot IV.”

I sat down on a chair and reached into a pocket, pulling out a pack of spicesticks. As I lit up, her mouth pursed in disapproval.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” she said, in a voice accustomed to being obeyed.

I blew spice smoke in her general direction. “Why am I here?” I asked.

“I was surprised when my brother committed suicide,” Cornelia said, sniffing the air with irritation. “You must realize that I was even more surprised when he committed suicide a second time.”

“You don’t want it to be murder. Your daughters are the beneficiaries of his life insurance,” I said. “That makes you the number one suspect.”

“I realize that,” said Cornelia, “nevertheless, I want you to investigate Chambers’ death.”

“No.”

“I knew you would say that,” she said. “That’s why I brought a whole lot of money.”

She signaled and one of the apes who clobbered me brought in a briefcase. She opened it to reveal stacks and stacks of 100 credit notes. Enough money for me to retire, with style. She smiled radiantly, arousing in me feelings I had long suppressed.

“The answer is still ‘no’.” I said.

She was outraged. “Why not?”

“Because you didn’t say the magic word.”

Cornelia’s face turned red with fury. She was not used to being defied like this. “And what is the magic word?”

“Please.”

It took all her effort to maintain her temper. “Will you please investigate the death of my brother?”

“The answer is still ‘no’.”

Cornelia’s fists clenched at her side. “Why not?”

I stood up. “You rich people are all the same. You send your goons to drag me here against my will, and then you think you can buy me off with money.”

“If I thought you would come voluntarily, I would not have resorted to such crude tactics.”

“Why did you assume I would not come?” I asked, already dreading the answer as I spoke the question.

“Because you refused to help my brother,” she said. “And now he is dead.”

That was like a punch to the stomach.

“Yes, that’s right Mr. Parker,” she continued cruelly. “He asked for your help, he begged for your help, but you turned him away. Now my brother is dead. You turned your back on him and now he’s dead.”

“I need a drink,” I said, gasping for air.

A whiskey appeared in my hand. I didn’t even see who put it there. I drank deeply.​

“You can’t escape what you did by killing brain cells,” Cornelia said. “Your only redemption is to find out who killed my brother.”

“I was not authorized…” I pleaded.

“Don’t give me that bureaucratic crap,” she snapped, “you’re a cop, not a corporate stooge. On Earth you swore an oath to protect and defend. You broke that oath, and now my brother is dead.”

“Please,” I said, “Please stop.” I stood up to escape this room, escape this woman, escape what I had done.

Instead I got woozy and fell to the floor. I hit my head hard. The last thing I remember was her voice. “Put him in bed,” she said. “Let him sleep it off.”

Then there was darkness, which pushed away the pain.