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...
WHEN MICHAEL JACKSON ANNOUNCED THAT HE WOULD SHORTLY BE CELEBRATING HIS 50TH BIRTHDAY WITH A PARTY OF SPECIAL MAGNIFICIENCE, THERE WAS MUCH TALK AND EXCITEMENT IN HOLLYWOOD.
Jackson was very rich and very peculiar, and had been the wonder of the world for more than 40 years, ever since his pre-teen debut. He had churned out hits on a fairly regular basis since then, each album a bigger spectacular than the last. And if that was not enough for fame, there was also his prolonged vigor to marvel at. Time wore on, but it seemed to have little effect on Mr Jackson. At 40 he looked much the same as at 25. At 45 they began to call him well-preserved; but finely-sculpted would have been nearer the mark. There were some who shook their heads and thought this was too much of a good thing; it seemed unfair that anyone should possess (apparently) perpetual youth as well as (reputedly) inexhaustible wealth. <<It will have to be paid for>> they warned. <<It isn't natural, and trouble will come of it.>>
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BUT SO FAR TROUBLE had not come of it, not unless you counted the resurgent allegations of child abuse, the business with his collapsing face and the bounty on his ass imposed by the Reformed Black Panthers. Jackson released a new record every three years, promoted them with ever-more outrageous global concert tours, got married about twice as often. Apart from that, he kept to himself.
Magda Maria had been hidden from public view too, but unlike Jackson she was frantic for some scrutiny. She'd pimped her portfolio to every agent in Tinseltown, attended umpteen auditions, even snuck into the occasional industry party. It had all been for nought. Then there was the Iishi factor. While the courtship had proceeded smoothly, she couldn't help but worry now and then about his motives. After all, he was the stylist for the stars, and she was just a hopeful bum. Like what was in it for him?
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<<Have you heard of that>> Maria asked her friend Su one day <<have you heard of that artist who makes bikinis out of her own cloned skin?>>
<<It sounds like the perfect disguise>> Su said. Maria burst out laughing, amazed at the implications.
<<You could design a whole suit>> she speculated. <<And you wouldn't have to limit yourself to your own skin.>>
<<Do you think you could alter your appearance so much you could fool your closest friends?>> Su wondered, and that was how Maria's next adventure began.
Maria couldn't splice together a new suit of skin, but she did have access to epidermal dye through some contacts in the special effects deparment at the studios. She stained her hide an elegant olive shade, straightened her hair and secured a short skirt which would have shamed most of North Africa. She dabbed herself with a scent "engineered from synthetic blue whales", plucked her eyelashes and strutted into Iishi's Beverly Hills salon.
They were playing a derivative of the Chucky Poong Show in his waiting room, some Vietnamese refugee with a hilariously feeble grasp of English. She watched Iishi instead... along with half the waiting room. <<He's so gorgeous>> the man beside her gushed. Maria couldn't be sure, but he resembled a redrawn Leonardo DiCapprio.
