Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

My Mission Commander, Ardenki Lathusia, asks me, “Elthodo, are you situated in your body?”

And I reply:  “I am, Mission Commander.”

“Good.”  He shuffles through his host-body’s pockets, and withdraws a skin-bound stack of plastic and paper.  The referential psychostructure of the host-body I’m in (I’ve decided to call it the Kentcypedia) recognizes it as something called a “wallet.”

He shuffles through it for a moment, brow wrinkled in concentration, then looks at me.  “Says here I’m a 39 year old male Earthling named ‘Harvey Johnson.’ ”

I look through my own wallet, and then return his gaze.  “I’m a man named ‘Kent Wayne.’ ”  I take out a sheaf of business cards that display my host-body clad in a mask and underwear, contorted into various poses that attempt to evoke hilarity.  Each card is emblazoned with the title, “Professional Man Whore.”

“Check this out.”  I show them to Ardenki.  He studies them for a second, then meets my eyes.  We both grin, then say the same thing at the same time:


“Ready to start exploring?” Ardenki asks.

I nod and look around.  The Kentcypedia informs me we are mere yards away from a location my host privately refers to as a Valhalla-on-Earth, but publicly refers to as a Wendy’s Hamburgers.  “I would like to partake of some Earthling sustenance.”

“I fully support this decision” Ardenki replies.  “Let us purchase some of these deliciously configured bundles of cooked tissue and formed plant matter.”

We start walking toward the front door of the Wendy’s, when suddenly an uncomfortable sensation shoots up from my crotch.  I look at Ardenki, a wince writ plainly across my face.

“What?” he asks.

“Do you have a tentacle between your legs?  One made of flesh that is cylindrical until the tip, where it then forms into something that looks like a one-eyed half-dome?”

Ardenki grabs himself between the legs, squeezing and probing.  He gives me a puzzled expression.  “I do.  Why?  What’s the problem?”

“I—“ I try to take another step, and a bolt of pain emanates from my flesh-tentacle.  I give Ardenki a frustrated look.  “Mine rubs against the top of my kneecap every time I walk.  Hurts like a case of the Mandroid Pox.”

“Really?”  He checks his own flesh-tentacle again.  “Mine doesn’t even reach midway past my thigh.  How curious!”

I take another few fumbling steps, then I figure it out:  in order to keep the flesh-tentacle (the Kentcypedia has hundreds of names for it; my favorite one is The Womb Hammer) from being chafed raw, I have to take a long, yawing step with my right leg (the limb that it snakes down and butts up next to) which diffuses the friction of my gait.  Apparently, Kent Wayne has to walk as if he is unable to bend whichever leg his flesh-tentacle lies against.  It’s not a concern, this is simply a research expedition; I won’t be inhabiting this body for any substantial length of time.

After consulting our host’s psyches, we both order heaping stacks of junior cheeseburger deluxes (for some reason, my host likes to lower his voice to a childish pitch and pronounce the word “cheeseburger” as “cheebooger”).  We find ourselves a table and begin consuming dairy-slathered meat-bundles with earnest gusto.

“I must say,” I remark to Ardenki as my cheeks bulge with tastiness, “this is by far one of the more pleasurable expeditions that the Elders have tasked us with.”

He smiles at me through a mouthful of half-masticated bread and cow.  “It is, isn’t it?  These ‘cheeseburgers’ are nothing short of delectable!”

We continue eating, and watch curiously as the empty parking lot fills with giant SUVs, each one taking up at least three parking spaces.  One of their blacked out windows rolls down, and a beautiful earthling female—in her mid to late forties, I’d guess—pokes her head out from the aperture and gives us a suspicious look.  Her eyes narrow with fury.

She turns toward the other cars and screams, “HE’S HERE!  HE’S IN THE WENDY’S!”

Gorgeous, middle-aged females begin pouring out from the automobiles, each one equipped with some form of melee weapon.  I spot weighted sticks, resistance training apparatus, and a few other devices that I recognize from a favorite Earthling movie of mine called Braveheart.  They storm the Wendy’s, and in a matter of seconds, they’ve surrounded our table.  

I’m subjected to a blitz of shoves and slaps, forcing me to raise my arms and cover my face.  Through the haze of adrenaline and anger, I fail to catch anything more than a few incomplete sentence fragments.

“Why didn’t you CALL—”


Helankia’s sense-organs, that hurt!  Right on the back of my cranium!

“You KNOW my husband lacks the circumference to satisfy me, and you STILL took a vacation, you dick-witholding bastard!  WHERE DO YOU GET OFF—”


OW!  By the Zero-point Demiurge!

“You work for ME, bitch!  Don’t you ever forget that!  I will make you question EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOUR LIFE CHOICES, YOU MAGNIFICENTLY ENDOWED PIECE OF—”


My vision doubles, and a monotone keen fills my ears.  That is IT, RILONTHI-DAMMIT!  

I reach into my host-body’s pocket and open his eReader to Echo.  Magic flash.

Suddenly, me and Ardenki are booted out from our host bodies and find ourselves hovering peacefully overhead.  We immediately sever the silver astral umbilici that tether us to Kent and his friend.  We take a second to watch our former hosts, now bewildered and gibbering, continue to be assaulted by the vicious Earthling entities known as “soccer moms.”

Before we take off into the Mindscape, we exchange a relieved look.

Ye Gods!  Soccer moms are no laughing matter!


Are you a disembodied alien taking a ride in an Earthling host, only to have that host’s neglected dalliances deliver a vengeful reckoning right to his freakin’ face?  Never fear!  Get Echo Vol. 1 on Kindle here:  Vol. 1 on Kindle.  Vol. 2 on Kindle here:  Vol.2 on Kindle  Vol. 3 on Kindle here:  Vol. 3 on Kindle  #kindle #kindleunlimited #sciencefiction #scifi #books #novel #book


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