The novel is about two-thirds complete. Call it displacement activity (I'm ignoring politics and most of the news outlets, in favor of digging in at my Pirate Cottage on a Utah mountainside). And proof-of-concept that I know more about the perfect virus and the current state of so-called artificial intelligence than anyone else on the planet. All I'll share now is the working title and first three paragraphs. Stay tuned for the rest.
The Last Will and Testament of
Harley Davidson
And His Dog
"Captain, I'm Harley Davidson. Apparently, my computer virus took over your ship."
"Crippled is a more accurate statement, Mister Davidson," replied the tall, porcelain-skinned woman with matching white hair. She answered in perfect English. "And possibly more than my ship has been crippled."
Just when I thought the month couldn't get ay weirder, I found myself chatting in my native tongue with a humanoid alien. Aboard a spaceship conveniently sunk in Boston Harbor. Me and my dog. Me, my dog, and a smoking hot captain.
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Implementation suggestions for THE MORGAN DOCTRINE are most welcome. What are the "Got'chas!"? What questions would some future Cyber Privateering Czar have to answer about this in a Senate confirmation hearing?