Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

You may think you have the toughest, least rewarding job in the world…but you don’t.  That dubious honor belongs to me:  Kent Wayne’s frontal lobe.  I’m about to engage in what is easily the shittiest duty in the entire Universe.

A full audit of Kent Wayne’s body.

As Kent’s frontal lobe, I function like the captain of a Star Trek ship—everyone answers to me.  But unlike a Star Trek captain, I’m not managing an elite team of highly capable specialists.  No, Kent Wayne’s individual components are—to put it lightly—entities of questionable moral character.

Another way to put is they’re worthless pieces of dogshit.

Let’s check in with Wernick’s Area, shall we?  Wernick’s is near the back of the brain, clustered next to Somatosensory Association.  Wernick’s is all about written and spoken language comprehension.

I dial up Wernick’s through a specially designated chain of neurons.


No answer.


(What the hell is he doing?  Probably puzzling over some variation of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”)


I hear a click on the other end.  “Wernick’s Area.”

I force bright cheer into my voice.  “Oh hey Wernick’s!  This is Captain Lobe.  Just checking in to see how you’re doing.  Been tasked to do a full audit, so…yeah, you know the deal.  How’re you doing on spoken language comprehension?”


“Wernick’s?  You still there?”

After a few seconds, Wernick’s voice blares moron-loud through our connection:  “DO YOU KNOW THAT IF YOU BURY SEEDS, THEY CAN MAKE FOOD FOR YOU?  I LEARNED THIS WITH MY INTELLECTUAL!!”

Jesus Christ—’Learned this with my intellectual?’  I bite back a sharp reply, and say, “Hahaha!  That’s great Wernick’s!  Keep plugging away!”


I hang up and sigh.  When one of Kent’s parts is unable to perform, I have to step in and complete their task for them.  Over the next few months I’d been hoping to work on some string theory akindras, but it looks like once again, I’ll have to carry Wernick’s load.

Big fucking surprise.  Let’s check in with the pituitary gland, shall we?


“Pituitary gland speaking.  Who’s this?”

“Hey Pituitary!  This is Captain Lobe.  Just wanted to check in and see how you were doing.”

Excited laughter.  “How am I doing?  I’m fucking jacked and tanned, bro!  Getting The Nuts to pump out testosterone like it’s going out of STYLE, bitch!”

“Um…okay.  Pituitary, I hope you realize that you don’t need to fill Kent with so much testosterone; he’s already pretty muscular, and—”

I hear Pituitary punch a sneer into each of his next words:  “The FUCK is wrong with you, pussy?  Kent’s sole purpose in life is to smash wombs with his giant meat saber—do YOU want to be responsible for depriving females of that grade A Man Whore meat?”

I sigh.  “Right—wouldn’t want Kent to be used for anything besides stretching an orifice to an unheard of diameter.”

Apparently, Pituitary doesn’t understand that I’m being sarcastic.  “Fucking A, Captain Lobe!  Knew you’d get it!”

I hang up.  What an imbecile.

The next calls go as expected.  Hypothalamus wants to gorge on New york pizza.  Hind-brain wants to go full vigilante and beat up some muggers.  Brainstem (in charge of basic life functions) keeps falling down on the job; if Kent didn’t periodically fart himself awake, he’d suffocate in his sleep.  When I check in with the rest of his body, it’s the same deal:  The Nuts want to be scratched.  Fingers want to do the scratching.  Biceps want flexing.  On and on and on and on.  Looks like once again, I’m going to have to ignore my dreams of getting to work on a reality distortion engine and pick up the slack from the other components.

Kill me now.

Suddenly, the alarm starts sounding.  A loud, REE, REE, REE blares through my perception, causing me to wince and swear.  I dial up my Assessment Neurons.

“All stations, report in.  What the hell is going on???”

I hear a series of staticky fritzes, then a panicked incoming from Lips and Mouth:  “Captain Lobe!  Penis is awake and he’s attempting a coup!  I can’t hold on much longer; I can’t—AAARRRGHHH!!!”

Goddammit!  I blast an all-hands message through neurotransmitter pathways:  “This is Captain Lobe!  All body parts report in!  Power down your receptors and go dark!  I repeat:  power down your receptors and—“

Too late.  The voice of Kent’s penis ricochets through his skull:  “I…HUNGER.”  Heavy, wet breaths echo across the relay.  Then:


I try to reason with him.  “Penis, we all want what you want.  But you can’t get it by taking over Kent’s mouth and spewing a bunch of ham-handed nonsense.  We have to work as a team!  We have to—”

Penis is unstoppable when he’s in hunting mode.  He shuts off my comms with a light flex of his will.  “QUIET, PUNY LOBE!” he booms.  “PENIS IS IN CHARGE NOW!  GO THINK ABOUT SCIENCE OR SOME OTHER STOOPID STUFF!”


I watch helplessly through Kent’s eyes as Penis takes the reigns.  He approaches a laughing, giggling soccer mom who’s giving him a flirtatious look.  This is going to end very, very badly.  Kent may be outwardly attractive, but without my steady hand guiding his actions, he’s a walking disaster.  It’s only a matter of time before he starts digging in his ass or twerking or something even more idiotic.  Penis isn’t just stupid; he’s DANGEROUSLY stupid.  The kind of stupid that makes you paranoid because you’re not sure whether it’s going to trigger laughter or a 911 call.

His opening line:  “I love Batman!  What about you?”

The soccer mom cocks her head.  She’s still amused, but puzzled now as well.

“Um…I love Batman too.”

I inwardly wince.  Not as bad as it could have been, but still…best case scenario, Kent’s going to get splashed in the face with something alcoholic.  Worst case:  he’s gonna spend the night in lockup with some bushy-eyed, unblinking behemoth of a man named Bubba or Spike.

“I have lots in common with Batman!”

The puzzlement in her eyes is replaced by a mischievous twinkle.  “Like what?”

And then I see Penis’s childish plan:  he plans on telling her that both Kent and Batman have a giant dong, and then he’s going to ask if the soccer mom would like to see it.  In Penis’s stunted mind, this is a surefire pickup line—the very height of seduction itself.

I can’t let this happen—last time Penis pulled this shit, Kent had to engage in a four hour footrace through the alleys of San Francisco.  The madcap chase ended with him commandeering a helicopter and then water-skiing across the bay.  He was only able to escape from the police due to timely intervention from his genius-level Terrier and best friend, Bitefighter.

So I reach deep into the medial temporal lobe, and piece together memory fragments of Kent’s masterpiece, the sci-fi series called Echo.  Magic flash.

Penis shrivels up like a heart-broken scallop.  Yes!  I’m back in command!  Neuroconnective relays light up as I once again take control of Kent.  I notice the soccer mom is still looking at him, still waiting for his reply.

Quick!  Think of something to say!

“He and I both have fun in rubberized armor.”

Not my best line, but enough to elicit a laugh from the beautiful soccer mom.  I let loose with a giant sigh of relief.

Krang’s Technodrome, that was close!


Does your frontal lobe require additional help in the neverending quest to avoid life’s many traps?  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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