First Contact is a multidimensional narrative connecting centuries, continents and sub/cultures, unravelling coincidences and conspiracies, computer viruses, and viruses which infect your mind. It details a kaleidoscope of revolutions and counter re...
IN 2002, SHORT OF LAND AND DROWNING IN CASH, THE SINGAPOREAN GOVERNMENT CONSTRUCTED THREE FLOATING CITIES OFF THEIR ISLAND'S EASTERN SHORE. Jinyang, Dungarpur and Bawang, named respectively for the three dominant racial groups of Singapore, were connected rafts supporting a combined population of 900,000. They boasted all the usual South East Asian amenities: climate-controlled malls and hawker food courts, butterfly aviaries and Buddhist statues in evergreen parks. Their principal industries included robotics, tourism and marine science.
In 2003, bursting with racial tension and African guest workers, the government of Malaysia built four floating cities off the coast of Borneo. Their names were Gemolang, Nanchun, New Jhunjhunu and Atlantis #2.0.
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ON THE FAR SIDE of the world Willem Boonzajer, a PR officer for the transnational Glam corporation, was on a Dutch commuter train fighting with a refugee for the last seat. The refugee was Sudanese with the usual ridges of scarified dimples running across his cheeks and brow.
<<I know you were the first to sit, mate>> Willem argued <<but that's not the etiquette here. Do you understand what etiquette means? It might be all right to go on a mad stampede for the nearest seat in subSahara or wherever it is you hail from but this is Europe yeah, this is the land of respect yeah. I got on the train first, I saw the seat first. Therefore, I should have it.>>
The refugee, having understood only the reference to the Sahara, repeated his pidgin: <<I first sit.>>
Willem shouted <<I know you bloody sat down first but you shouldn't have pushed me aside to get it! It's not feeding time at the Khartoum Displaced Persons Camp.>>
The refugee just gripped his seat and said as smugly as he could in such broken Dutch: <<You not intimidate me now.>>
<<Is there a problem here?>> another African man interjected. He stood up from his bench on the opposite side of the carriage and levelled Willem with a seven-foot high stare. <<I do believe you're disturbing the other passengers.>>
<<Go on then>> Willem conceded <<take it.>>
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WHEN WILLEM GOT TO WORK it was at the Glam European headquarters in Rembrandtplein, Amsterdam. His office was a ripoff of a hash coffee shop with dogeaten couches, Pink Floyd posters and an ornamental bong. He had a secretary named Moya and a gift for media promotions.
<<Jesus Christ, what a morning>> he sighed. <<And they talk about a coffee-coloured Europe!>>
Speaking of coffee here were four men sipping decaf on his divan, three white men in suits and a brute whose skin was a sickly shade of green.
<<What are you a>> Willem asked <<Martian or something?>>
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