Earlier this month, the Canadian scifi author MCM wrote an entire novel on io9 over the weekend. And he got you to help him fill in crucial plot details in real time. Now you can read the whole thing.
In case you missed it, we've got the whole novel for you, in order, just as MCM wrote it. Plus, you can see all the input that readers gave in the process of pushing the plot forward. MCM is the creator of the awesome animated series Rollbots, as well as the author of other novels like Vector and The Pig and the Box. In just two days of frantic writing, he produced The New Real, a novel of interstellar drug enforcement. And it's a kickass good time, sort of a combination of Farscape, Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, and The Shield.
Learn about how livewriting works, and meet Darvey, a failed drunk of a cop who gets called on one last mission . . . a suicide mission among interstellar drug traders. Great moment:
He got to his feet and stumbled through the door, found himself staring straight into an iron bulkhead. Pipes ran everywhere, like the guts of a submarine. Darvey made his way down to the lesser-lit side of the hall, peeked through a door into what appeared to be a cafeteria.
At one of the tables was a very large insect playing chess.
Darvey just stood and stared for a moment, then rubbed his eyes.
"Less booze before bed," he muttered to himself. "Or more."
The insect looked up, scratched the top of its head with a long, thin arm.
"Greetings, biped," it said to him with a woman's voice, but he wasn't sure how he had heard the words. "You look like shit."
Darvey seems to be taking well to his new life as a member of the alien drug enforcement agency. Great moment:
"I'm not going to hurt you," smiled Darvey. "But I have to warn you… if you don't start telling me the truth soon, I'm going to have to take off my left sock."
The alien looked left and right urgently, as if someone might come to save him.
"What do you mean?" he hissed.
"What? You don't know?"
He pulled up his pant leg, showed his red sock. He dropped it again, grinned.
"Might be a cultural thing. Where I come from, red socks and tickling… they just don't go well together. Lethal combination."
"Tickling?" the alien cried.
"Must be the translator," Darvey shrugged. "Let me put it this way: we're going to need a big bucket and a mop to clean up the blood."
Will Darvey extricate himself from the alien drug politics, the insect who wants to have sex with him, and still fulfill his suicide wish? Great moment:
The pusher led them through the crowds of aliens to a back room, down a flight of concave stairs, to a palatial room littered with ornate tables, all orbiting around a central chair, upon which sat a pile of slime.
"This is them?" boomed the slime, its voice far too big for such a small bit of goo.
"That's ‘em," nodded the pusher. "Ask ‘em. Really, ask ‘em."
The slime's "front" turned towards Darvey and Kaps, bubbled slightly.
"You are after some Tobor, I understand."
"That's right," said Darvey. "Mr…"
"Ogro," said the slime. "You will call me Ogro."
"Ogro, then. We're after some Tobor who stole my merch. We heard you might be able to facilitate a meeting."
The slime bubbled again.
"I can do many things. I know many people. Do you know many people?"
"I know a few," said Darvey. "Are you looking?"
"I am looking for freedom," said Ogro.
"Freedom from what, exactly?" asked Darvey with a smile no one could see. "I deal in all kinds."
"Freedom from sycophants," said Ogro. "Always sucking at my ass, offering oils and jellybelts. Never bringing me value. I do not need more assistants, I need partners!"
No spoilers for the action-packed conclusion. But here's a great moment:
Darvey's eyes opened wide when he tasted it. He looked to Lucas.
"Rum?" he asked. "How did you…"
"Pure ethanol is not good for you," Lucas said. "For long-term alcoholism, I would recommend this instead."