Excerpt From The ol' WIP

Now that Someone Else's Book Club is out in the wild, I'm hard at work on the next novel in the Kilroy Universe: The Department of Potentially Dangerous Things. I'll reveal more details as it comes along but wanted to start by teasing the opening. Here is an excerpt from the first scene of the new book:

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The Herpezoid Junkcruiser chugs along at the speed of blight.

In most corners of the galaxy, the Herpezoid Junkcruiser is considered less a spacecraft and more a cautionary tale. Widely regarded as the worst thing to ever achieve escape velocity, the Junkcruiser is what happens when a once-advanced extraterrestrial race discovers duct tape. No serious civilization would be caught dead in one, which explains why Herpezoids are rarely taken seriously.

The Herpezoids of the Seventh Folded Empire were once, by most galactic measures, an accomplished species: seven-foot-tall lizards with the musculature of Greek statues and the emotional intelligence of a traffic cone. They conquered planets, dominated star systems, and built an empire on belligerence and borrowed technology. Their downfall came not through war, but books. Terrified of reading, they stagnated. Repeated attempts at planetary hostility eventually reduced them to illiterate, belligerent nomads. Now they are wanderers who long for their glory days and blame the universe for moving on without them. Until such an unlikely restoration of greatness arrives, Herpezoids now travel from planet to planet in starships assembled from whatever they can steal, scavenge, or pry loose with their grubby talons.

This particular Junkcruiser, The Tempting Fate, is not—strictly speaking—designed for comfort, style, aerodynamics, safety, flight, or really anything useful. It is a barely functional mash-up of stolen parts: part Federation shuttle, part uninsurable death trap, all wrapped in something that might once have been a boat hull. The cockpit smells faintly of pond scum, burning electricity, and reheated chicken tenders. The Tempting Fate stands as a crowning underachievement in the annals of Junkcruiser technology.

Inside sit Gorpl and Vrex, two Herpezoids whose long chain of increasingly catastrophic decisions have led them to this exact moment. Neither appears concerned. This, too, is the Herpezoid way. Responsibility is a myth propagated by a hostile universe—one that, according to Herpezoid philosophy, harbors an active vendetta against them.

When asked why an indifferent universe would bother to carry such a grudge, Herpezoids typically respond, “Because the universe is stupid.”

“You said that thing was inert,” Gorpl hisses, gripping the controls with claws never meant for finesse.

“It was inert,” Vrex snaps, slapping the dashboard. “Until you pressed B-17.”

From the cargo bay, the unmistakable voice of Steve Perry fills The Tempting Fate, singing about believing in things that probably didn’t deserve it. The Junkcruiser shudders, lurches sideways, and dives toward the blue planet below.

“You entered the portal coordinates correctly, I assume,” Gorpl says, in the tone Herpezoids reserve for insulting intelligence.

“I thought you entered the portal coordinates,” Vrex counters, genuinely uncertain. “You’re the pilot.”

“And you’re the co-pilot. The co-pilot enters the coordinates. That is the job of the co-pilot.”

“What if you’re the co-pilot?” Vrex says, attempting intellectual dominance.

“Then I would have entered the coordinates myself,” Gorpl replies. “But you’re here.”

“So, you need me.” Vrex turns to stare out the window as the indifferent, Herpezoid-hating universe streaks past. “Thank you for admitting it.”

“Don’t start,” Gorpl says, focusing on the empty space where a portal should be opening. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Then I’m not in the mood to enter coordinates,” Vrex says, folding his green, scaly arms across his yellowish, scaly chest.

“You vex me,” Gorpl snarls. “You truly vex me.”

“Call me Vrex the Vexer.”

It should be noted that Gorpl and Vrex did not steal the jukebox because they liked music. They stole it because someone told them it could control human emotions, which terrified them. The plan was simple: sell it to a collector on Earth with his own nefarious intentions and collect a generous paycheck. Unfortunately, no one mentioned the jukebox was sentient—or chronomelodic. It didn’t just play songs. It played eras.

As “Don’t Stop Believin’” reaches its second chorus, the cockpit begins filling with holographic sweatbands, pastel windbreakers, and the faint scent of citrus-scented hair gel. The Junkcruiser rattles violently as it pierces Earth’s atmosphere instead of using a portal.

This is what happens when the co-pilot doesn’t enter the coordinates in time.

“We’re losing structural cohesion!” Vrex bellows, punching buttons that make things worse in entirely new ways.

“Enter the coordinates or we will crash!” Gorpl yanks the steering mechanism—a stolen oversized joystick topped with an eight-ball from a pool table. The navigation screen flashes HELP in forty-seven alien languages, then switches to a Windows 95 error message.

Below them, a sleeping town called Willow Bend, Missouri dreams quietly of better decades—when its football team mattered, its factories worked, and its hair defied gravity. Fate, and poor piloting, are about to indulge that longing.

The Tempting Fate tears through the clouds trailing cassette-tape ribbon and spare parts, clips a water tower, and slams into a quiet field on the outskirts of town. It skids through the wall of a barn that has seen better days and comes to rest with a sound somewhere between a thunderclap and a power chord.

Sparks fly. Smoke billows. “Don’t Stop Believin’” fades to a whisper. The jukebox plays on. The Herpezoids emerge from the wreckage and survey the damage.

“Not catastrophic,” Gorpl says.

“Yet,” Vrex adds. “We’ll need parts.”

“Did you pack the DNA morphers?” Gorpl asks.

Vrex is already emerging from the cargo bay, his human disguise active: a six-foot-three man in jeans, a dark blue pullover, and cowboy boots he clearly cannot walk in. Gorpl grabs a syringe, injects himself, and transforms into a five-foot-three blonde woman in full workout attire.

“Who are you supposed to be?” Vrex asks.

Gorpl checks the label. “Gail Russell. Soccer mom. You?”

“Marshall Hasselbeck. Pharmaceutical sales.” Vrex poses. Marshall studies Gail a moment too long.

“What?” Gail asks.

“My human male instinct suggests a compliment regarding your posterior,” Marshall says. “Nice ass appears to be the phrase.”

“Do not sexually harass me,” Gail says evenly. “I know seventy-three ways to kill you. Forty require only one talon.”

“What’s the plan?”

“We find our contact, sell the contraband, and leave,” Gail says.

“We should hide it first,” Marshall suggests.

They pry open the smoking cargo bay. Inside sits the battered chrome jukebox, humming faintly. Its display flickers between alien script and blocky English:

BONZAPHONIC MODEL DESIRDERIUM

Marshall pokes it the way one does a possibly dead animal.

“How does it work?”

“Who knows?” Gail says. “We sell it.”

The jukebox sparks. Hums. Glows faintly—like an ember refusing to die.

“We’ll have to fix that too,” Gail says. “Surely this town has parts.”

“You know, I was just trying to be nice earlier. You really do have a nice ass. You should be proud of it.”

“Forty ways,” Gail reminds him. “One talon.”

“So much for Earth girls are easy.”