The Weekend Writing Warriors blog hop is a weekly event in which writers are invited to share eight sentences from one of their works for other writers, readers and random bloggers to read, critique and comment on. Visit their site by clicking on the button below for a list of other participating writers and share the love!
Today’s WeWriWa is from The Last Hour of Gann, picking up where Wednesday’s Hump Day Hook left off and continuing with tomorrow’s Sunday Sneak Peek. Feel free to catch up if you’re just joining me, and don’t forget to leave a comment if you want to enter my Gann Giveaway! One lucky winner will be drawn just as soon as I’m ready for the book to go live. You can keep an eye on my progress with the Work-In-Progress widget in the sidebar. Just remember that, like all my books, The Last Hour of Gann contains graphic violence and strong sexual content, so if you want to enter the drawing, you have to tell me so each and every time you leave a comment. Thanks for reading!
Not a vaccine. The Vaccine. And even Nicci, who obviously tried so hard to understand as little as she possibly could, knew what that was. Because before the Director had been the leader of a bunch of space-happy freaks, he’d been a doctor, and much as he would like to say that his greatest contribution to humanity was the ship that would carry the first colonists to another world (and he said that a lot), he would probably always be known best for the Vaccine, which worked itself all the way down into your DNA and made it so you could never get sick again. Here on Earth, people paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to endure the agonizing year-long process while the Vaccine was introduced, but the Director was just giving them all away to his happy little colonists, who’d get them painlessly in their Sleepers, which was the perfect application process, according to the brochure. No more worrying about that niggling little 14% failure rate or the greatly exaggerated reports of the birth defects caused by genetic drift. They’d just wake up, secure in the knowledge that now they were cured for life of every possible virus—of the flu, of HIV, of whatever alien illness might be crawling around on Plymouth. Of everything.