Far Galaxies

Mari Shu 3_Far_Galaxies_750FAR GALAXIES (Book 3, Adventures of Mari Shu)
By Jody Wallace
Genre: SFR + Erotic Romance Spoof
Length: 100,000 (!!) words
Rating: Adults with a sick sense of humor
From: Meankitty Publishing
Buy Links: Amazon, B&N, iTunesKoboSmashwords
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About the book: Mari Shu, a factory drudge in the year 4000-something, must choose how to protect her sisters, her purity, and her own conscience in a bleak futuristic society that’s been polluted by smog, rampant commercialism, tacky jumpsuits, sexual perversions, unjust socioeconomics, interstellar travel, and inconsistent use of the Oxford comma.

In this third exciting, universe-spanning adventure, will Mari Shu and her sweet sisters find love or mystery on the SS Rentaprise en route to the planet where they hope to start a new life…or will they fail before the ship ever arrives? Mari Shu has to battle aliens, sexual urges, evil computers, crash landings, and more before she ever gets her happy ending.

Warning: Book contains offensive material. Buttloads of boatloads of offensive, vulgar, disrespectful, and possibly triggering material. Sexual, political, economic, racial, physical, typographical, religious—really, trying to hit all the big ones. Please make sure to sign your correct name to the hate mail so we can give proper credit in the follow-up volume entitled, “The Hate Mails to Mari Shu.”

Tropes: N/A



Ok, fine, not really. 50% chance I won’t see the review. I’m not much of a self-Googler. 49% chance of me leaving you completely alone to share your opinion with other readers, since that’s whom I believe reviews are for. 1% chance, if your review is funny, of me telling you I think it’s funny. I love funny stuff. Particularly if they include cat gifs.

Link to Mari Shu Main Page

Adventures of Mari Shu #1 (free!): EARTHBOUND PASSION

Adventures of Mari Shu #2: MARTIAN CONQUEST

***** Excerpt from FAR GALAXIES *****

From Segment 1 (1500 words)

Mari Shu Three Million Even, a worker in a widget factory in the far flung future, did these things at the beginning of the story:

1) Received a pay cut from EvilCorp. Again. Because Evil.

2) Trudged home through an ugly urban landscape, since “trudging” is more dystopian, depressing and onerous than merely walking and certainly more evocative than skipping or lollygagging or something like that.

3) Got hit on by a fellow widgeter, a rare occurrence for poor Mari Shu with her unfashionably lush blond hair, big boobies and creamy, milky skin in a society that values dark, shimmering hair, orange skin and stockiness. She turned him down.

4) Mari Shu thought some stuffy stuff about how she’d vowed to her grandmother that she’d never become a sexxorer and her mom had been a sexxorer and women in her social class—the millioners—have sealed up vaginas and the author assured you that there was no reason to bother your pretty little heads about things like “menstruation” and “how did her mom have babies” and “stuff like that”.

5) She arrived at her flat on the seventy-seventh floor where her sisters, whom she supports, waited eagerly for her and their dinner.

6) In a very convenient way, her sisters revealed that they’d allowed their landlord Gerald Scumbag to vaginally sexxor them, putting them at risk for deportation to the Venusian penile colony (and yes, the author is hip to homonyms) since female millioners aren’t allowed to remove their vag seals unless they become registered sexxorers.

7) In a similarly convenient way, their Scumbag landlord raises their rent and Mari Shu realizes she’s got to figure out a new way to support herself and her sisters that doesn’t involve sexxoring, since that’s Book 1: Earthbound Passions. She opts to board an interstellar colony ship at the Relocation Commission, or RLC.

8) In book two, Mari Shu chooses the vessel traveling to nearby Mars, but in this book she makes another choice…a more mysterious and adventurous one. We’ll continue with the initial segment at the RLC, and if you already read Book 2 and have a fantastic memory, unlike the author who currently can’t find her car keys, you can JUMP AHEAD TO THE BIG DECISION…


Mari Shu fidgeted with her jumpsuit collar as she and her sisters stood in line at the Relocation Commission. She’d spent the last of her credits on goo tubes and a taxicraft to transport them to the RLC, positioned in the area that had been known as Florida in the 21st century. Now it was one of the least optimal sectors in the North American District due to the smells.

The smells, smells, smells, smells, smells, smells, smells. The roiling and the boiling of the smells. But that was what happened when you used the Everglades and Gulf of Mexico as a toxic waste dump.

Unlike the Sexxoring Commission in the less smelly northern portion of their great district, the RLC boasted no neon archways, no flashing lights, no air purifiers, no hoverwalks, no portals for instant transportation from location to location in the vast complex. Mari Shu had visited the SXC many times as a child, dragged behind her mother when she attended the seminars and health inspections required of every sexxorer. On their own dime, of course.

The RLC, on the other hand, was as drab and featureless as any slum apartment complex. In fact, considering the breadth and height of the building, stretching into the sky further than her eyes could see through the brackish, blackish, looming smog, it wouldn’t have surprised Mari Shu to find out that it was a decommissioned apartment building.

Decommissioned as unsafe for human habitation—but fine for the RLC’s uses.

Behind the RLC, the engines of the vast space transports emitted dull, booming echoes as they loaded passengers or supplies or whatever the RLC saw fit to send beyond the stars. All one-way tickets to…somewhere.

Everyone, and everything, exited from the RLC. Nothing returned to it.

Well, except for employees. And security guards. And widget installers. And inspectors. And spaceship pilots. And tourists from Mars.

The dull black door of the RLC marked “Voluntary Departures” opened with the whine of unoiled widget hinges.

It was their turn.

“You can’t make me go in there,” Cassie declared, ignoring the fact that Mari had, indeed, made her leave their flat and get in the pay-elevator and then get out of the pay-elevator and eat her goo tube and get in the taxicraft and get out of the taxicraft and walk up the sidewalk to the RLC’s front doors.

Trish turned to her with a frightened expression. “I’m scared, Mare-mare,” she said, her use of the baby name a blow to Mari’s stomach. “I know this is the right thing to do, but what if we’re sent to Venus?”

“We aren’t criminals,” Mari Shu said firmly. “Only criminals get sent to Venus.”

But in fact, Trish and Cassie—and that damn Gerald—were criminals.

If relocation qualifications included intact vag seals, her darling sisters could be torn from her. If only she’d been able to afford more than basic vidscreen service, she could have researched the qualifications for relocation beforehand.

But they were here now, and they were almost completely out of credits. And it had to smell better inside than it did in the open air. If you could call it air. Only people on Mars got to experience real air.

“We must,” Mari Shu insisted, herding her sisters through the door.

It shut behind them with a distinctly medieval and ominous thud, despite the advanced technology that marks almost every other aspect of this story.

They entered an immense room that bustled with activity. Almost immediately, beefy security guards in the beige uniforms of the RLC relieved them of their carryalls and other possessions. At least, Mari assumed that’s what beef looked like. Only people on Mars got to see real beef.

Cassie wept. Trish’s chin trembled. Mari vowed to herself that she’d remain calm and strong for her sisters and hoped that this most recent vow wouldn’t be another one that was a potential life-ruiner. Vows were so important to her, after all.

A woman with a touchboard motioned them to a desk. Behind the desk of the woman and hundreds of others like her was a raised platform protected by a plexi layer. RLC employees, mostly males, stood next to the plexi and observed the goings on below.

“Voluntary relocations?” the woman at the desk asked in a monotone voice. Before they had a chance to answer, she continued. “Please press your hands to the identification plate.”

Mari Shu extended a trembling hand to the clear plexi plate on the desk. It beeped as it identified everything about her, from her ancestry to her favorite flavor of goo to her recently reduced salary at the LexiCorp widget factory.

“Ah, financial constraints,” the woman observed with disdain. Apparently RLC workers were paid better than widgeters. “Now you two girls. Step up, step up. We haven’t got all day.”

Mari held her breath as her sisters complied. Only when the identification plate failed to instantly brand Trish and Cassie with the scarlet letter of illegally dissolved vag seals could she release the breath she’d been holding.

That was when she noticed the man.

Directly behind the woman’s desk and above, his palms against the plexi, a blue-clothed man stared down at her. His expensive suit, the likes of which she’d only seen on vids, was a sapphire flame among the RLC employees in beige. He hadn’t been there when she’d first noticed the observation platform.

But he was now—and he was looking right at her.

The man, unfashionably tall, towered head and shoulders above the others. Dark hair swept away from his face like raven’s wings, or how Mari assumed raven’s wings would look sweep. Not even people on Mars got to see real ravens. His blue garments didn’t cling to his body the way jumpsuits and coveralls did, revealing one’s peak physical condition, and the suit’s bagginess evoked mystery. And temptation. And possibly chafing in the groin area, since the material looked rather thick.

And his right hand against the plexi? It was completely silver.

He was a cybermech.

That was outlawed as one of the most inhuman of all crimes.

Mari Shu gasped.

The man’s dark, brooding gaze, his coyly concealed form and most of all his forbidden silver hand awoke a shudder of awareness in her that she almost didn’t recognize…until her hoohah began to tingle.

Oh, Wal-Crap, had her sisters failed to completely rinse the cheap suds out of her jumpsuit in the crotch area? The last time this had happened, she’d had to leave her widgeting job early because she hadn’t been able to afford a permit to scratch herself in the privates in public—or at home. Such scratching was said to put the sexxorers out of a job, and they deserved to work as much as any widgeter.

The man flexed his silver hand. No, he was crooking one silver finger.

His forefinger.

At her.

As if telling her to come.

To him.

Was he…offering to scratch her itchy hoohah?

Was he a sexxorer?

But she didn’t have the credits to hire a sexxorer.

And oh, how she wished she did! Because this tingling itch was making her do a subtle version of the pee-pee dance.

(c) Jody Wallace 2015

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