psychotick
Dangerously confused
Hi,
Since I got challenged a little in the press realease section to put something up for critique I thought I'd throw out the first couple of pages of my latest - The Man Who Wasn't Anders Voss.
As its already out I guess I can't really change very much, but I am curious as to people's thoughts on the work, and particularly the hook. Does it catch you?
Cheers, Greg.
The man who wasn’t Anders Voss arrived in theworld and screamed.
He wasn’t completely sure why he screamed.There was no point in it. It wasn’t for pain or out of fear. It wasn’t for excitement either. It was simply some sort of reaction to having experienced what he had. To have known what no one should. And to know that one day he would be returning that place. Some might have called that horror, but it wasn't. It was something far more terrible than that. But for whatever reason he did it, it felt right somehow, and he screamed again. And then he screamed some more. He kept doing it until he simply couldn’t any more. Until his throat was raw and his strength gone. And then when he could scream no more he just moaned; trying to come to terms with what was unbearable.
And it was unbearable.
They said that being born was painful. And maybe that was what this was. Maybe babies went through this. He didn’t know.What he did know was that he hadn’t really just been born. Not of childbirth anyway. He’d merely just arrived on the planet. In the universe.
They also said that dying was difficult. And maybe that was why he screamed, because of what he had just done. Save that he knew he hadn’t. He had not died at all. Anders Voss had. And he wasn’t AndersVoss.
He had been though. Once. Sort of. Maybe. It was hard to be sure of such things. But he had all of Anders Voss’ memories. His mind and heart, his flesh. Everything he knew told him he was Anders. But he also knew one thing with absolute certainty; Anders Voss had died. He had felt his passing as his body had been torn apart into a million billion pieces. He had felt his shock and outrage at his passing. And finally he had known the terrible pain of his soul being torn apart along with his flesh. And he had known all of that in the same terrible instant that he had been brought into this universe. Created from those same pieces of him.
He wasn't Anders Voss. He was the thing that had been built from his death. And that death was a part of him.
It was a simple equation really. One man died and another took his place. Another identical man. The same in every respect save one. The soul. Until then he would never have believed there was such a thing. Or actually he wouldn’t have known anything about such things. Anders would not have believed that there was such a thing. But Anders was dead, and he had been born out of his death.
And in all of that he knew one thing above all else. No man should ever have to experience death and live. Not true death. It was knowledge that should never be known by the living. And that knowledge would never leave him.
It might be a simple equation. The scientists no doubt thought that nothing had changed, and as far as all their instruments would be concerned, nothing had. But they would be wrong. Profoundly wrong.
They would be murderers too.
As he lay there, simply trying to come to terms with what had happened, he knew that for the truth. They had led him, led Anders Voss into the arena of Terra Nought, laid him down under the machine knowing that it would kill him. They had to know that since others had gone through the thing, and some had reported back. Those reports had been famous. System wide broadcasts that had been seen a million times over. Broadcasts that he now knew for certain were fakes. Those who had arrived at the other end would have told them what had happened. They would have screamed it at them from the highest mountains. And even before they'd started sending people to the stars with the wave function transport they'd done the testing on Earth. They'd pronounced it safe. So the scientists knew, they'd buried those reports, created new ones, and carried on. That was murder.
But they didn’t care. What was one man’s life when compared with the chance to explore the stars? Nothing. Less than nothing when another identical man was there to take his place. But he guessed that even so not a one of them would ever have stepped into the machine. Not even for the chance to explore other worlds. Because they knew that if they did it, they would never explore those worlds. Other people who looked like them would.
Which finally reminded him of one other matter. He wasn’t on Earth any more.
It was then that he opened his eyes, never realising that they had been shut, and saw the light of this new world. The first light his eyes had ever seen.
It was blue. The sky was a perfect blue above him, which he found comforting. It looked like Earth. Maybe they’d made a mistake and sent him to somewhere much closer to Earth rather than G483 as they’d designated the system. But he doubted it. He doubted it a lot more when he twisted his head to one side and saw jungle. Strange jungle. Trees of funny greens and reds, funny shapes too. They looked like giant mushrooms and ferns, competing with one another for space and light.
It wasn’t Earth.
He lay there for a while trying to take that in. That he was alone on an alien world over a hundred light years from Earth.And that he would never go home again. But then he couldn’t actually go home since this was the only world he’d ever known. He hadn’t been born on Earth. Anders Voss had. He'd never been here before and yet this actually was his home. And the only way back to Earth was to build the machine again and broadcast himself back. But then he would die, and another man, another person who not only wasn’t Anders Voss but who also wasn’t him, would arrive on Earth. Screaming in horror.
There was no other world for him. This was his home. He had been born here and he would die here. And he would never build that evil machine. No matter what they wanted.
Who would build a suicide machine?
And yet as he looked around him at the endless assortment of carry bags and plastic crates full of equipment, he realised that that was exactly what they’d expected him to do. Why? What could possibly make him do something so stupid? Or did they have a plan for that? Did they have a way of forcing him to build it? That thought did not fill him with confidence. He was alone on an alien world with nothing between him and it save the machinery and equipment they had sent him. Maybe they had a way.
Since I got challenged a little in the press realease section to put something up for critique I thought I'd throw out the first couple of pages of my latest - The Man Who Wasn't Anders Voss.
As its already out I guess I can't really change very much, but I am curious as to people's thoughts on the work, and particularly the hook. Does it catch you?
Cheers, Greg.
Chapter One
The man who wasn’t Anders Voss arrived in theworld and screamed.
He wasn’t completely sure why he screamed.There was no point in it. It wasn’t for pain or out of fear. It wasn’t for excitement either. It was simply some sort of reaction to having experienced what he had. To have known what no one should. And to know that one day he would be returning that place. Some might have called that horror, but it wasn't. It was something far more terrible than that. But for whatever reason he did it, it felt right somehow, and he screamed again. And then he screamed some more. He kept doing it until he simply couldn’t any more. Until his throat was raw and his strength gone. And then when he could scream no more he just moaned; trying to come to terms with what was unbearable.
And it was unbearable.
They said that being born was painful. And maybe that was what this was. Maybe babies went through this. He didn’t know.What he did know was that he hadn’t really just been born. Not of childbirth anyway. He’d merely just arrived on the planet. In the universe.
They also said that dying was difficult. And maybe that was why he screamed, because of what he had just done. Save that he knew he hadn’t. He had not died at all. Anders Voss had. And he wasn’t AndersVoss.
He had been though. Once. Sort of. Maybe. It was hard to be sure of such things. But he had all of Anders Voss’ memories. His mind and heart, his flesh. Everything he knew told him he was Anders. But he also knew one thing with absolute certainty; Anders Voss had died. He had felt his passing as his body had been torn apart into a million billion pieces. He had felt his shock and outrage at his passing. And finally he had known the terrible pain of his soul being torn apart along with his flesh. And he had known all of that in the same terrible instant that he had been brought into this universe. Created from those same pieces of him.
He wasn't Anders Voss. He was the thing that had been built from his death. And that death was a part of him.
It was a simple equation really. One man died and another took his place. Another identical man. The same in every respect save one. The soul. Until then he would never have believed there was such a thing. Or actually he wouldn’t have known anything about such things. Anders would not have believed that there was such a thing. But Anders was dead, and he had been born out of his death.
And in all of that he knew one thing above all else. No man should ever have to experience death and live. Not true death. It was knowledge that should never be known by the living. And that knowledge would never leave him.
It might be a simple equation. The scientists no doubt thought that nothing had changed, and as far as all their instruments would be concerned, nothing had. But they would be wrong. Profoundly wrong.
They would be murderers too.
As he lay there, simply trying to come to terms with what had happened, he knew that for the truth. They had led him, led Anders Voss into the arena of Terra Nought, laid him down under the machine knowing that it would kill him. They had to know that since others had gone through the thing, and some had reported back. Those reports had been famous. System wide broadcasts that had been seen a million times over. Broadcasts that he now knew for certain were fakes. Those who had arrived at the other end would have told them what had happened. They would have screamed it at them from the highest mountains. And even before they'd started sending people to the stars with the wave function transport they'd done the testing on Earth. They'd pronounced it safe. So the scientists knew, they'd buried those reports, created new ones, and carried on. That was murder.
But they didn’t care. What was one man’s life when compared with the chance to explore the stars? Nothing. Less than nothing when another identical man was there to take his place. But he guessed that even so not a one of them would ever have stepped into the machine. Not even for the chance to explore other worlds. Because they knew that if they did it, they would never explore those worlds. Other people who looked like them would.
Which finally reminded him of one other matter. He wasn’t on Earth any more.
It was then that he opened his eyes, never realising that they had been shut, and saw the light of this new world. The first light his eyes had ever seen.
It was blue. The sky was a perfect blue above him, which he found comforting. It looked like Earth. Maybe they’d made a mistake and sent him to somewhere much closer to Earth rather than G483 as they’d designated the system. But he doubted it. He doubted it a lot more when he twisted his head to one side and saw jungle. Strange jungle. Trees of funny greens and reds, funny shapes too. They looked like giant mushrooms and ferns, competing with one another for space and light.
It wasn’t Earth.
He lay there for a while trying to take that in. That he was alone on an alien world over a hundred light years from Earth.And that he would never go home again. But then he couldn’t actually go home since this was the only world he’d ever known. He hadn’t been born on Earth. Anders Voss had. He'd never been here before and yet this actually was his home. And the only way back to Earth was to build the machine again and broadcast himself back. But then he would die, and another man, another person who not only wasn’t Anders Voss but who also wasn’t him, would arrive on Earth. Screaming in horror.
There was no other world for him. This was his home. He had been born here and he would die here. And he would never build that evil machine. No matter what they wanted.
Who would build a suicide machine?
And yet as he looked around him at the endless assortment of carry bags and plastic crates full of equipment, he realised that that was exactly what they’d expected him to do. Why? What could possibly make him do something so stupid? Or did they have a plan for that? Did they have a way of forcing him to build it? That thought did not fill him with confidence. He was alone on an alien world with nothing between him and it save the machinery and equipment they had sent him. Maybe they had a way.
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