by Nightbird (Doug Myers)
Episode I
by Steve Pulley
The gunk on the tea kettle was not to be immediately detected, since it so closely resembled the normal greasy gunk most tea kettles accumulate if they aren't washed regularly with soap and hot water, a tendency particularly prevalent when it's a man who is left in charge of the kitchen without proper supervision. How it got there in the first place was a serendipitous blend of chance and stupidity.
The day of its appearance promised to be a hot, muggy one. Life's greater discoveries usually are. Outside, meanwhile, the wild parrots raged out of control in the loquat tree, their raucous cries shattering the calm of Temple City suburbia. Not even the usual cawing of crows could compete with them, no small trick. The brush jays swished about locating secret hideaways to stockpile their stolen food, and mocking birds dive-bombed unwitting cats and crows that wandered too near their nests.
Not a good omen.
Arnold Schwartz felt somewhat fowlish, standing now in his front yard, surrounded by bird calls and droppings and flapping wings. He had stumbled out there, still half asleep, in pajamas and slippers to retrieve the morning paper, and the wanton pillage of the loquat tree by robber birds soon captured his attention.
The newspaper he'd set out to rescue was sitting in the center of his next door neighbor Senobia Perez's lawn, drenched by her sprinkler system, which was timed to turn on exactly five minutes after the delivery man skated the Times neatly across his driveway so that it would skip thrice before coming to rest deep into saturated neighbor territory. Arnold had called the newspaper many times to complain, and now they were even on a first-name basis downtown. But while a dry paper was quickly delivered to his door by the carrier's small son, a toothless child of perhaps ten years who smiled his gaping smile but spoke no English-or any other discernible language, it would seem-and so who could not take back with him Arnold's messages of outrage and correction, still the problem had not been resolved.
Arnold had no problem plucking the soggy mass of depressing news and classified ads from Senobia's front yard, for as mysteriously as the water turned itself on at 6:10 in the morning, it also turned itself off precisely at 6:40. It was now 7:05, and except for wetting the bottoms of his slippers, he remained safely dry from any surprise sprays. Arnold had stopped subscribing to the paper for a month, his small protest against this intolerable service, but the newspaper's indomitable telemarketers began to call and ask if he had enjoyed his vacation and should service now be reinitiated? It did not seem to phase them a bit his tale of woe, for they answered each of his protests with sincere thank-yous for his faithful patronage over the years, and would Monday be suitable to start up delivery again? He sighed and said that would be fine.
This particular morning, a beaten man, instead of calling the Times to task yet again and demanding a replacement copy, Arnold carried the paper indoors to the kitchen, opened it, and propped it on the stovetop so that the wet side faced the greasy kettle he'd fired up for a cup of morning Earl Grey, in the peculiar hopes that it might dry enough by the time the water was boiling. He calculated ten minutes and returned to the loquats outside, fully determined to secure his share of the harvest before the rapine of parrots finished off the tree for the season.
He soon quite forgot the heating water kettle and the newspaper. Avian invasion now occupied his mind, and he thought instead of Alfred Hitchcock and Tippy Hedren - two childhood icons who had prophesied future events. John James Audubon also came to mind, but images were nebulous blotches of colored pencil drawings in large scrapbooks, and Arnold couldn't remember whether he should revere or revile the man. He would have to do research, but it seemed too much of an effort. Instead, he plucked a loquat from the tree, and the parrots, startled from their fruity bacchanal, took wing en masse and scooted away, screeching like banshees with hiccups, their green and red wings beating the air mightily to keep aloft. Stupid birds, he thought, and popped the loquat into his mouth, chewing the tarty pulp around the slippery, stone-sized seeds.
While he disparaged the descendants of dinosaurs, a subliminal twinge of unease tickled the threshold of his consciousness that if something weren't done, and soon, sixty million years in the tar pits would come back to haunt mankind. Maybe not in Arnold's lifetime, but he envisaged relatives several hundred generations down the line to worry about. He reached for another loquat, thankful that this delicious fruit was still his to have, though his greatx10 grandchildren might go without.
Arnold was without work -- again. Being both fifty-three and unemployed did not seem altogether fair, but he was not bitter. He hoped that if he could survive until he was fifty-four -- or maybe fifty-five, a shining light would finally touch him and life would be mundane and prosperous once again and he could leave off being numinous and poor. Actually, what he did know was that he was dreaming in aces. Prosperity had never been really his, and in moments of deeper reflection, when desperation forced him into those morbid reality checks that make people swallow hard at their impending mortality, mortality that seems to impend more and more with each passing day and causes souls to pine for spiritual sustenance and remission, he realized that he should probably not hold his breath for some kind of dramatic outside force to change that condition, like a winning lottery ticket or maybe a talent scout -even an enzyme - to come along and thrust him into the limelight of a radical new state of destiny and fulfillment. It just wasn't going to happen on its own.
He lived in the home of his deceased mother and father who, a decade previous, shortly before their tragic deaths in a freak roller coaster accident at the Pike amusement park in Long Beach, had received him graciously after his mortifying separation from a wife who had finally despaired of him ever making anything of himself much beyond a jellyfish. He mourned his parents. They had been supportive always, had loved him unconditionally, treasured his loyalty and affection for them, encouraged him in his efforts to succeed, shored him up after his almost inevitable and usually embarrassing glitzy defeats. They knew that if he would only get a grip on his life, realize the potential that was there inside -- somewhere, he would at last triumph, someday do things that would be fulfilling and meaningful. But they were long dead now, and Arnold had no one whose shoulder he could cry on or who could give him advice and encouragement. No surviving relatives nearby. No significant other on the horizon. No intimate friends close at hand. His neighbor Senobia Perez had many times professed her desire to be an intimate friend, but Senobia had already survived four husbands, and Arnold suspected that becoming number five could only lead to number six. Once a month he might spill his guts to his barber, a Korean woman by the name of Pookie, but usually it was the other way around. Her own wacky stories were usually far more entertaining than his own, and he would sit there mesmerized, hair flying in all directions under her nervous scissors, as she would unravel, with accents nigh impossible to understand, funny, tragic, convoluted tales about her life in Korea and coming to America. Often, he would come home looking like a shorn sheep in shock.
Arnold spat the loquat seeds into his left hand. They were walnut brown in color, smooth and slippery as river pebbles, and by squeezing them hard one by one between forefinger and thumb, he could shoot them as far as the curb across the street. With his right hand he grasped one of the seeds and pressed. It shot backward instead of forward, and hit him in the stomach, dribbled down and landed on his slipper, sticking to the leather like a bloated dog tick. He quickly looked about to see if anyone might be passing by and had observed this shocking lack of coordination, but the entire block was empty. Arnold made a peculiar face - a cross between relief and self-disgust. Thank God for small favors, he thought, but still not an auspicious beginning. In any event, he was determined to get at least one of the seeds to sail in the right direction before he started his day. The next one ended three feet in front of him. The third popped out to the left and lost itself in his neighbor's oleander. But the fourth jettisoned according to plan and proudly winged its way three-quarters of the way across the street, bounced several times, and came to rest at the opposite curb. It was a heady moment after three previous failures and a soggy newspaper. God, the newspaper! he thought. He rushed back into the house, sweating now not only from his loquatian efforts and the quickly warming morning, but also that he might have a kitchen fire on his hands.
The water in the kettle had nearly boiled away, and the newspaper, subjected to the heat of the stove burner flame, had buckled inwards and lost its equilibrium, falling against the kettle spout. Only the constant flow of steam had saved it from drying and perhaps igniting. Arnold, much relieved, quickly turned off the heat and pulled the paper from the kettle. He removed the lid and peered into the pot, nearly scalding his eyelids and nose, and found that there was just a cup of water left, still bubbling. He noticed then that the grease on the kettle had changed color ever-so-slightly to a light, filmy green that reminded him of algae, and he speculated absently whether or not the change had come about with the contact of the newsprint against the kettle. He looked for telltale signs of headline news transferred to the pot, but could find none. In any case, the somewhat yucky new color was enough to determine him to wash the whole business thoroughly, but in the evening, not now. He returned the lid to the kettle, but it flipped upside down, its Bakelite knob out of his reach. He tried to right the lid, but the stainless steel surface was still much too hot to touch, and he turned away to look for a potholder.
It was in that pregnant interim that several drops of the green gunk, which had accumulated on the outside of the lid, now, by the heat of the steam, were enabled to drool into the kettle and fall into the water. After rooting about in six different drawers, Arnold returned at last with a large, insolated hot mitt on one hand and a china teacup with an inserted bag of Earl Grey grasped in the other hand, confidently placed the lid upright and poured the contaminated water into the cup.
Now only breakfast, a shave and ablutions stood in Arnold's way of another day in search of a new job. Those and the bus trip he contemplated into Los Angeles that morning. And not so much the bus trip, but the walk to and from the bus stop. And not so much the walk, but his pudgy white walking shoes, which were not only a half-size too small and caused blisters, but also were hardly a match to his white-collar apparel. Something wasn't quite chic about the combination, despite what current fashion seemed to be telling him. Screaming waxed orange Mohawk cuts with accompanying glitter, baggy pants that made gunny sacks appear conservative, nose rings, pierced ears with inserted multi-colored, semi-precious baubles, spikes through lower lips, chains and maces for necklaces, as well as tattoos depicting in lurid, graphical detail less-than-savory advice to readers' relatives. And this was only the stuff you could see. Arnold had initially attempted dress shoes, but these only added maiming to the blisters in the two-mile walk to and from bus stops, and so he opted for relative comfort over elegance and a sense of good taste.
He was without wheels. And so he now bused. When his car was totaled a few months earlier in one of those peculiar but common accidents which cause the L.A. Police Department to deploy three patrol cars, the paramedics, a fire truck, a helicopter, and a cameraman with an eye on "Cops" for dramatic purposes to the scene, he realized that he was probably being punished for leading a dissipated life, and decided to do penance by riding the bus for a few months. Indeed, he had no choice, for a new car, a "pre-owned vehicle," even a pre-pre-owned piece of junk, were all out of the question just then. Reality in one of those uncommon occasions reigned triumphant this time. He had no money for luxuries. Ergo, he bused.
Arnold threw two slices of Oroweat into the toaster, and shook out the last of the bite-sized Shredded Wheat biscuits from their box and into a bowl, sliced a banana onto the cereal, sprinkled raisins and a half-teaspoon of sugar, poured milk on top, and began eating. Usually he read the news - well, the comics - but now it was out of the question. The print which had been on the kettle side of the paper had oozed until it was totally illegible. He would have to call the Times after all. He read the cereal box instead, slurping distractedly on his tea, chomping on his toast, and crunching on his Shredded Wheat.
When he had finished, he gathered up the dirty dishes and dumped them in the sink, and quickly rushed to do whatever was necessary before his projected journey into Los Angeles. In 20 minutes he was reasonably ready, clean, tidy, dressed in a casual but becoming one-piece brown suit, pinstripe shirt and paisley tie, though his recent Pookie haircut resisted all attempts to lay down flat, and his walking shoes looked simply ridiculous. Locking up the house, he tripped outside, a vinyl folder tucked under his arm which contained his resume, an agenda, a yellow legal notepad, and a used P.D. James murder mystery novel he'd purchased at the public library, reached for a last loquat as he passed under the fruit tree, and trundled down the street in the direction of the bus stop. As he swallowed his final loquat, he felt his stomach rumble peculiarly, and blamed it on the parrots for provoking him to excess. He slowed down his pace slightly, then realized he would be late, and picked up again. He hoped that he wasn't going to have to face an intestinal emergency before a restroom became handy. On top of that, his toes were beginning to throb unmercifully. Walking shoes, I really do need new walking shoes. His bus pulled in just as he reached the stop, and he stepped aboard, feeling more than just a tad queasy now, tossing a token and a quarter into the coin trough while wondering if perhaps it would have been wiser to scratch his job interviews altogether and go back home. He hesitated an instant, but the bus doors closed behind him with a deciding hydraulic swoosh, and his fate sealed, he stumbled down the aisle in search for an empty seat.
The bus was unusually full for that hour at that particular stop, and Arnold fretted that he wouldn't find a place to sit down. He needed to sit down, and soon, he realized. His head was beginning to swim, and he felt the prickliness of an oncoming faint. He looked ahead, and there was a mass of people before him, children, youth, adults, thin people, fat people, conservative people, exotic people, Latinos, Asians, Blacks, Whites, all yet unaware of the sudden crisis that was suddenly seizing him. Where was an empty seat, he asked himself, feeling panicky. If I don't sit down in about ten seconds, I'm going to collapse. Damn those loquats and damn those parrots! The reverberation of the bus engine seemed to grow louder until it invaded his entire body, right down to his aching toes. Arnold reached for a seat back to steady himself, but his legs would not support him another second, and he fell to his knees. The crowd's attention suddenly riveted on him, and he could see their expressions of concern, but just as quickly as several reached forward to grab him, they pulled back in horror. And in that instant, things turned gray and then purple and then a light, filmy green that reminded him of the grease on his teakettle. I really need to clean that thing when I get home, he thought. He no longer saw faces, but heard screams, the deafening roar of the bus; and then these disappeared abruptly, as though somebody had switched off the volume, and were replaced by a low-pitched rushing sound he could not identify, though it somehow reminded him of water falls and bath water gurgling down the drain. He blinked twice, and then he saw faces again. Only these were not the same faces he'd seen on the bus. These were not faces he'd ever seen before in his entire life.
Episode II
by S. Michele Smith
Bryna stood looking out the v-screen. Judging by the green haze on the horizon, the sun, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, was setting. When nightfall gave off this green haze, it was best not to be outside the safety of the station. Maddeningly, it had been this way from the time she had arrived. That was a bit unusual, but not out of the ordinary. So, she had been sealed in. Beached. She had been sitting here for hours, deploring her lost freedom. She so loved to be out and about, roaming the land, finding adventure, discovering the differences between her world and where ever she happened to be at any given time. Perhaps, she thought, it would not be so bad if there were just someone to talk to. Still, she had to be cautious. She had not been here near long enough to feel comfortable approaching any of the people she had seen thus far. She missed her family, her home. She missed her freedom! But, there was no way that she could ever go back. She had gotten this far, she had to keep going. Though, if there were many more days like this one, she might just turn around and skip the big adventure her parents had guaranteed she would have.
They had encouraged her to make this trip. Telling her that her life was out there, in the stars. A nebulous idea at best. Well, she couldn't let them down, could she? Yet, things had gotten a bit rocky lately. She turned from the v-screen and surveyed the place. Currently, she was sitting at a corner table in the eating area of the Common Pit. All the tables for this area were grouped by the v-screens. That way, everyone got a window seat. In the center of the Common Pit was the food selection area, where there were many tables piled high with trays of edibles from as many places are there were people. And there were many different tastes represented, too. Right now there were a couple dozen people milling around the food, all picking and choosing their evening meal. Some of these folk were just plain weird looking. As if they were going out of their way to be offensive. Hmm, maybe they just used their looks as a way to keep people at bay. Well, she wasn't sure what all the weirdness was about, but she was sure she didn't want to get to know someone who acted as weird as they looked. Her parents' lectures had not prepared her for this. Nevertheless, she would have to get to know some of them if she were going to feel accepted. Not to mention, just to have someone to talk to. Why did they all seem to view her with such suspicion, though? She headed on over to the tables. Might as well get some energy going.
Bryna picked up a tray and plate and got into one of the shorter lines. No one acknowledged her, even though they were talking pleasantly among themselves. She would have to get up some nerve! Make the first approach, or something. She was getting desperate for friendship! Her parents had always taught her to hold off on her opinions of someone until she got to know them. "Never judge a vid by its shrink-wrap." had been their creedo. Well, if they had seen some of this shrink-wrap, they might not feel the same. Though she had never known her parents to be wrong, either. She shrewdly surveyed the people in line, wondering which one of them she might befriend. Before she could come to any concrete decision, the line moved forward again and she found herself staring down at the odd assortment.
She swore that she could see some of the edibles moving around on the trays. Positively creepy! No wonder she had been losing her appetite lately. One of the problems in coming here had been the adjustments she'd had to make in everything - but especially in dietary choices. What ever happened to just simple food, she wondered. And what were all these strange things? Well, nothing for it, she still had to eat, and the selection today didn't look as unappetizing as it had yesterday. At least most things managed to taste like girken, one of her favorite foods back on Morja. She picked up what looked like a piece of fruit, then headed over to the meat trays. Ugh! What slimy little tid-bits today. She took a fork and pushed things around a bit until she uncovered something that looked similar to what she'd had for her last meal. Better to play it safe, she thought. She knew that she could special order her meals, but that would cost more than she could manage for this trip. Her father's trade had not been going very well lately, so this was a tight squeeze where currency allotments were concerned. She had offered to get a working trip set up, but her parents had refused. They felt that this should be strictly a learning adventure, not to be consumed by the details of work. They really did love her, she knew it. But, sometimes, they could be impossible! She placed a few more chunks on her plate and started to step on down the line just as someone bumped into her.
"Excuse me, please. I did not see you standing here."
"Oh, no problem." Bryna replied.
She stole a quick glance at the person's tray and noted a collection of odd-looking morsels. Some faintly reminiscent of things her mother had pulled out of their garden back home.
"What is that you're eating?" she asked, thinking that she could at least try and strike up a conversation.
"Oh, these? They're limpweeds. Taste very good the way they have managed to prepare them. I think they boiled them in garlunk or something. Here, try some."
Before Bryna could protest, the woman had slapped a heaping dollop onto her plate. Well, nothing for it, she thought. One way or another, she would have to give it a taste. One never knew here whether it would be considered offensive to beg off trying something. Best to play it safe - again. She just hoped she would survive all this new and mostly mucky stuff. At least none of it had done her any permanent damage. Still, the bouts with dysentery were getting a bit tiring.
"Well, thank you! I think I will." She responded politely.
The woman finished filling up her plate and headed for the tables. "Whisp it!" she said, as she shambled away. So much for striking up a conversation. She reminded Bryna of her pet Lumex, with the shambly gate and the pulled-in look. She had always thought it strange that such a delicate looking creature could portray itself as ungainly and pinched. They were fine, until they started moving. Then they just didn't seem to fit their bodies. Yep, just like a Lumex, she reflected. She watched as the woman moved away, cautiously placing one foot before the other, as if afraid that she were going to lose her balance and topple over. The woman's dainty feet carefully picked their way across the common area. Step, stop. Step, stop. Step, stop. Stop.
Bryna glanced up quickly, wondering why the rhythm of the dainty little feet had broken. Blushing in chagrin, she caught the woman staring at her. Ever so slowly, a smile spread across her face. She raised one hand in salute to Bryna, the other hand and arm gingerly balancing her eating tray. Bryna gave a half-salute and smiled, too. Well, that was odd, she thought, as the woman turned and continued her short journey to the eating area. What Bryna could not figure out was why there seemed to be so many Tupperworlders on this trip. Many more than usual. She supposed it was just one of those abundant mysteries that marked this particular journey.
Her mother had told her a bit about the them. Harmless, mostly. But they could be very persistent. And you had to be careful lest you ended up taking home a load of gadgets and containers that you never had enough of, or so the Tupperworlders would have you believe. The only purpose the gadgets seemed to serve was to drive one loony trying to figure out what they were supposed to do. Bryna glanced down at her tray and realized that, not only had the woman plied her with the limpweed, she had also gifted her with a gadget.
This one appeared to be packaged in some sort of note, probably an invitation to one of their endless parties. Nonetheless, she would take it back to her cubby. One never knew what uses these things could be put to, and she certainly had scant possessions as it was. Perhaps, if this were an invitation, she could attend with the excuse that she would like to know more about the gadget itself. Her mother had told her, time and again, that if she ever did find herself in the position of attendance at one of these parties, it was best to have an excuse as to why she had decided to come. Something like "I came because my best friend's mother's aunt's sister needed the favor of an extra body" or something like that. The implication had always been that you must have the excuse so that you could bow out gracefully and not end up getting recruited into their society. She supposed the excuse of wanting to know more about the gadget was good enough, and she truly didn't have the currency allotment available to purchase anything they might offer. Another thing her mother had warned her about - don't buy anything you don't absolutely need! Though the Tupperworlders were notorious for convincing you that you absolutely needed everything they had to offer, at whatever the price! She had heard horror stories of people spending the entire currency allotment for their dwellings on Tuppercraft. It must be an insidious addiction and she would have to be careful. Already her parents felt that she had picked up what they considered some bad habits of the unruly masses while she had done her mandatory time on her mother's birthworld. Well, she would just show them how responsible she could be when left to her own devices. Come to think of it, they must trust her, bad habits or not, or they would not have allowed her to make this journey without a chaperone. This thought lightened Bryna's mood somewhat.
As the line moved on, she finished placing some of the more harmless looking food items on her plate and headed back to the corner where she had been staring out the v-screen. Unfortunately, her previous seat was occupied. She felt a shot of irritation run through her. After all, she had occupied this very spot, day and night, for the seven standard earth days she had been here. Didn't that indicate some sort of proprietary connection? As she veered away from the corner, the current occupant of her seat stood up and, bowing magnanimously, indicated that she should join him. UGH! All this time she had managed to avoid him, now it was too late to refuse. Her luck was not holding tonight. She took her tray over and dumped it unceremoniously on the table top. She plopped herself into the seat and stared glumly out the window. Why had her parents stressed the importance of not shunning anyone? Fear for her safety, they had said. There were, unfortunately, still people who would shoot you dead if you even so much as appeared to dis them. Also, it showed good breeding. Still, this was one encounter that she had hoped to avoid during her stay up here. Waiting for her next transport was proving to be stressful.
She had heard bits and pieces of gossip floating around the food section in relation to Jacko Jocular. Not that she was one to give in to gossip, mind you. But the snatches of conversation had been too frequent, and too similar, to avoid. Standing in any line, for any reason, one could hear the whispered innuendoes regarding the vile habits of this creature. He was said to be a collector of chastity bands, hence the nick-name the Artful Codger. His way of going about collecting these trophies earned him the equally repulsive title of Jacko Jugular. She had heard one particularly tearful lamentation one day while in line for her morning beverage. According to the complainant, he had used every ploy in the book to hook his prey. The poor girl's exact words were "He went for the jugular!" However, her upbringing was deeply ingrained, so here she was, stuck. What would her parents say if they knew that, in teaching her to have the utmost respect for all creatures, they had inadvertently caused her to be sitting here with the bane of the station? Well, she did have her own mind, of course. And she had to admit to a bizarre curiosity. Besides, she was in a semi-crowded room, so what harm could there be?
She touched the chastity band on her wrist. She felt very safe, actually. All the things her parents had taught her were running full-tilt through her brain. Nothing they had taught her had ever been untrue, undependable, or unhealthy. By the time she had reached the age of reason, she had reasoned that the issue of chastity bands was good solid advice. While they did not necessarily imply chastity, they did protect the wearer from certain potential problems, like bonding into a situation where there could be no offspring. Not that that was not allowed. Just that one needed to know these things before final, life-long decisions were made. And, while science had made incredible strides forward, there were still genetic divergences that one could not avoid, or be the carrier of. She had seen the offspring of a couple of these pair bondings and was not sure just how she felt about it all. Some of the offspring were pretty weird looking, to say the least. Not that it bothered her. Just that she knew there were problems to be had and tests to be overcome for those souls. Not everyone was as tolerant and accepting as she had been taught to be. And, while the majority of the people living in the various clusters were well educated and accepting of all these differences, there were still those renegade bands and planets that would rather enslave, sterilize, or just plain eradicate any and all who were not of their particular cluster. She thought that Jacko was probably a product of an uneven pair bonding. He certainly looked it!
She glanced up at him. He wasn't bad looking, if you could get past the ever-present sneer that seemed to perpetually frame his mouth. His skin, while a bit scaley, was a beautiful hue, a mix of iridescent blues and greens with touches of lavender. His eyes were the clincher, though. A tawny golden color with deep emerald glints. It was just the sneer that put her off. However, as she glared at him, in what she hoped was disdain, he smiled. The sneer vanished and she was left almost breathless. Without the sneer, without that arrogant sneer, he was almost beautiful! She hoped that he had not heard her sudden intake of breath. Nor noticed her sudden flinch or her eyes widening in surprise. Or her palms begin to sweat. Or her pulse begin to race. He winked. I suppose he did notice, she thought. Well, she would just have to put her best foot forward and take the other one out of her mouth, though she had said nothing! Of course, her actions, or lack thereof, had probably said it all.
"Limpweed?" she offered in as sturdy a voice as she could muster, holding out her plate to Mr. Jocular.
"No, thank you. I've already taken my repast." He said. Or, had he purred it? She couldn't tell. His voice had a deep resonance to it that she hadn't heard before. Yet, it was not loud or booming. Like a purr. Strange.
"Have you recovered your composure?" He asked, staring into her eyes.
"Excuse me? My composure? Well, um, yes - certainly, thank you. Are you sure you wouldn't like to try the limpweed?" she offered again, inanely.
He chuckled, and the sound was electrifying. What a strange effect he is having on me! Or am I just desperate for human companionship, she wondered.
"Bryna, dear! How are you doing? I have been wanting to talk to you for days now. It seems, though, that you have been avoiding me. Would you care to explain?"
"Well, you have me at a disadvantage, sir. You seem to know who I am, yet I don't remember ever having met you. Maybe you should explain…"
Her feelings that Jacko Jugular were no match for the years of wisdom instilled into her by her parents were quickly beating an exit from her frazzled mind.
Episode III
by Rosalie Ewald
Maurice swore. He swore at the job that lay in front of him, he swore at the lousy tools he had to do it with, but mostly he swore at that lousy newbie he was supposed to whup into shape. The lousy newbie whom the bosses referred to as "your new helper". Sheee-it! Some help!
"Ok, gotta take a breath. Git a holt of yerself, now, and just calm down. Ain't that - that - good-fer- nope, settle down, ain't his fault.
"Ok, there, new- uh, whut'd you say yer name was? Oh yeah, Festus (right!).
Maurice came from a family of bronc-riders. Ever since he could remember he rode something that was trying to kill him. And all the stories he heard about his pappy, and gran'pappy an' back beyond all the great-gran's, his family rode critters an' what-not that was tryin' to kill them. Now, in the beginning, it was mostly bulls and wild horses. But over the generations, they became too exotic. That, plus there were too many places that wanted that kind of action, but couldn't support the animals. Originally, Texas, that place with too much money and questionable sanity, invented the mechanical broncing bull. As new technology emerged, Japan, that tiny island with all the money and no room invented a new kind of bull - not strictly mechanical, but biomechanical. Looked like a bull, smelled like a bull, especially bucked like a bull - but didn't eat or make messes. Nice an' tidy. You could set it to stop once you were tossed, but you'd miss half the show that way. The pros let it keep going so it could try to gore you. Huge opportunity for the old-style clowns. Then the WWF of bronc-dom stepped in. They choreographed the "bull's" movements after the rider was tossed. The clowns performed friggin' ballets for the durn bull!
A movement caught his eye. That - Festus! Cripes, what a screw-up! Exactly right for only one job, Maurice thought. "Rodeo Clown"! Maurice cheered himself up with this new thought. "Festus", he said, "I come up with a nick-name fer ya. Now, don't thank me, an' don't ask me what it means. It comes straight from my heart", he said with a straight face, "an' that's what's important. I'm gonna start callin' ya "RC" - classier than "Festus", don't'cha think?"
A big smile spread over Festus's face. He seemed pleased, and left off what he was doing.
Festus was both more, and less, than he appeared. A thin, lithe man, he appeared to be a bit of a simpleton. But he was fast - oh, mama, was he fast! That's what won him the chance to work with and be trained by Maurice. If you tried to give Festus a written test, he'd be as likely to eat it as to wear it. But a practical test - that's where Festus shone. He had _speed_. Not mental speed, exactly, but reaction speed. And he learned fast - the kind of learning that comes from survival adaptation. He could read body language and know what emotions were coming from the other, and what sort of reaction was expected of him. Just as now. He knew the nick-name was not meant in any sort of kind way. But he did know that the cowboy thought he was being clever and wanted him, Festus, to think this was a buddy-bonding thing. So far as physical speed, he was blessed with the right physique and reflexes to act on what his mind perceived. He appeared to be a mind reader, but that was the furthest thing from reality. He didn't filter anything through the intellect, it was straight raw instinct - like the animals. So he smiled his simple smile, and saw that it reassured Maurice.
"OK, RC, git over here and let me show ya the ropes." Maurice was calmer now, ready to teach his new helper. "Now, this rope, it'll turn the whole thing this-a-way....
The ropes Maurice was showing RC about were not literally ropes. But the analogy held. Think back to an old-fashioned parade, in New York City, like you probably saw on TV as a little kid. There were the floating balloons of Underdog, Snoopy, Heathcliff, Tick, Earthworm Jim, and the other sorry out-worn characters. Remember that each of the balloons had a small army marching underneath them? They were connected by ropes coming from the balloon. Most of the time, each army controlled its balloon, keeping it from smashing into the buildings or the balloon in front of them. Once in a while though, it went the other way around. One year, several of the 'loons were caught by the wind, and careened into buildings and even the slower helicopters filming the spectacle. The armies were dragged around by their ropes - the more cowardly armies let go and ran away, leaving thier balloons to the wind and fate. There was one balloon army that held its own against the wind, the 'copters, and even the other balloons. That army was the family of Festus, a few generations ago. Their reactions were so good, they could actually feel the first shudders from the balloon (they had Underdog) as it was beginning to go off course, and could compensate before any trouble could happen.
So of course, this stuff that Maurice was showing RC came very naturally. How to handle the "ropes" that controlled the WORM, and not let the WORM control you.
Of course, Festus had heard of the WORM - who hadn't? It was only the major way to move materiels between earth and the off-worlds, and vice-versa. Major? as Festus ruminated, he figured it was the only way to move bulky stuff, once it had been rocketed out from Earth's gravity.
Episode IV
by Ray Watters
Schaup-Stix stared at the holographic chart. "Seven more cycles", he thought. "What is that island in the universe like?"
Ever since the discovery of the mysterious planet in quadrant 5, scientists on the planet Bwana have wondered if sentient life existed in a single star system. Surely, life on a molecular level must exist. After all, that has been discovered on visits to numerous orbs; but intelligent life has never been discovered by Bwana's scientists... until 3465 cycles ago.
Curiosity and fascination overwhelmed Schaup-Stix ever since that crude drone was discovered just beyond the nine planets circling the single star. The drone was a clear indication of intelligence, albeit at a beginning period of evolvement.
Communication signals from the planet resulted in more curiosity. The beings from this orb use a form of communication that scientists and historians say may have existed on Bwana millions of cycles in the past, but no clear proof has ever been found. Even more curious is the drawing that must depict how these creatures appear. Strange! It will be interesting to study the evolutionary development in these strange looking creatures. Scientists have only hypothesized, but are fairly sure of one thing. The two objects at the top part of their being appear to be visual organs. Two visual organs would naturally be necessary in order to see objects on the surface of their planet...a planet circling one star.
S-S chuckled to himself. He could imagine his offspring seeing a holograph of these strange beings. The little ones have been enthralled at the entertainment center on Bwana watching stories of what life on other systems may look like. Naturally, each story-teller wishes to outdo the other on the horror scale, but no story-teller could possibly match the horrific appearance of the creatures on that third planet from the single star.
At least the Bwananian scientists have determined that the creatures on that planet are carbon based...similar to theirs; but how an evolutionary cycle could result in such a loathsome appearance is beyond understanding. So much for the fairy tale about The Great One creating intelligent beings in His own image!
Episode V
by John Marquis
Moments after the first icy object was pulled into the small, dark ship, the computer console displayed the results of the analysis. A gaunt figure leaned forward from its command chair to read the glowing screen.
"Left-handed!" a soft voice proclaimed hence. "Well, at least I won't be at all tempted to eat these things myself...."
The voice of Kidrin Rrau (roughly phonetic), speaking to no one but her loneliness, broke several hours of sleep aboard the private craft she had dubbed The Silver Claw, of which she was owner, captain, chief engineer, science officer, and the entire rest of the crew. Not exactly female -- her species is perpetuated by three genders, not the usual two (as in 89% of the known sexual species in the galaxy) -- Kidrin still preferred to think of herself as an entity displaying those characteristics typically attributed to the "female" of a species, though indeed she was the "intermediate" of the three genders found in Mirraurians (or more correctly, among nenrau, the native name for the sole intelligent species which developed on Mirraur. "Nenrau" is thought to have originated from an ancient phrase meaning "we, the mighty, furry ones", though whether it is "mighty, furry" or "mighty furry" is a topic of hot debate on Mirraur). She had to deal with the fact that most intelligent beings had grown used to only two genders, and that many translators didn't even understand the phre/phrom/phros sequence (which is the little-known third-gender equivalent for "he/him/his" or "she/her/hers"). Female was fine with Kidrin. She hoped, upon her return to Mirraur, and reacceptance into society, to find to find two pleasant nenrau to settle down with and together raise a litter of nenraute, someday.
Forced at the age of 12 (equivalent to human development of roughly 19 years) to leave her planet -- Mirraur, some 130 light years distant, now -- Kidrin had been given her spacecraft as the requisite farewell gift from her three parents. The send-off was nothing traumatic, but rather, completely expected. It was the Mirraurian way of preserving the ancient tradition of Ghir'rauk in the Space Age. The young, once given enough training and guidance and knowledge, are cast off into far-off realms to prove their worth by the mere act of surviving long enough to return, some 4.8 Earth years after. Kidrin had been somewhat fortunate to be an only child, and her parents thus had plenty of wealth to equip her with one the finest ships ever given to a cast-off Mirraurian youth. After saving her, three months out, from a near-disastrous choice precipitated by naivete and her desperation to find a niche for herself in the cosmos, The Silver Claw, with its tyryllian armor and magna-pulse cannon, earned her gratitude and its name, which she had etched upon its side in graceful Mirraurian script.
Now, 28 Mirraurian "months" into her exile, she had not only found but grown comfortable with her niche -- a dealer of exotic foods. The fabulously wealthy all around the galaxy generally got a kick out of eating the wildest, most bizarre things they could sink their teeth, beaks, or other anatomical equivalents, into. The easiest and most exotic quarries were to found in orbit around a particular kind of planetoid. The surface had to be ice, but with a subsurface ocean warm enough for life to have formed, prospered, and evolved. That icy crust needed to be thin enough to crack a bit routinely, and to shatter upon the impact of a large comet or asteroid. The impact would hurl the occupants of the ocean into various (typically low) orbits, effectively dessicating and chilling them solid, waiting to be picked up by the enterprizing or the merely bored and hungry.
Time and chance had brought the life to this frozen moon below her. They had also blasted some of its lowly aquatic inhabitants into orbit. Now, she was there, fulfilling the rest; scooping up freeze-dried fish.
They weren't really fish, of course, but they were similar enough. It didn't matter to her clientele, though. In fact, the stranger, the better, and the more expensive. What did matter to her and the average diner in the galaxy was the chirality (literally, the "handed-ness") of the amino acids in whatever it was you intended to eat (and 96% of all known galactic life contains proteins made up of amino acids). A left-chiral lifeform cannot assimilate right-chiral proteins, and vice versa, so eating food of the wrong chirality would be worthless from a nutritional standpoint, as was painfully demonstrated in the great starvation on Tilonus VI five hundred years ago, in the early days of the OATO (Orion-Arm Treaty Organization).
Like all life native to Mirraur, Kidrin was right-chiral in physiology. So even the thought of "fresh" fish -- an appealing one to any being of feline (the closest Earth comparison) descent -- would not be enough to make her dip into her harvest. It would simply be a waste. Better to save the credits earned until her next trading rendezvous, and then use them to buy some krin-fed Farlonian beef-rats!
Thoughts of food were getting to her, so to calm her mind, she decided to put on some light music as The Silver Claw's computer worked on the calculations for the best low, fishing orbit. The music was something from home she'd brought along to ease any separation anxiety she might have, though it was not nenrau nature to be particularly prone to homesickness. This particular piece was Merr'a Kirr Rralla Merm'dra, meaning roughly "I Stalk Throughout these Hills", and it sounded a bit like a reedy combination of Earth composer J.S. Bach's Toccata and rock group Foreigner's Long, Long Way from Home, though of course Kidrin missed the significance.
She was becoming one, emotionally, with the melodic tones that echoed faintly through her small metallic craft. The music took her to places she had yet only imagined experiencing -- images and facts taken from her StarNet database and presented to her at her console, or sent impersonally to her and billions of other receiving sentient beings in the occasional tachycasts she'd listen in on.
She travelled to the Ring Islands of the watery world of Rylandra, circling carelessly on the literally endless beaches. She soared over the jewelled terrain of Y'llandis III, glaciated time and again in different directions as the odd mechanics of that world and its system created cycling Ice Ages of a most peculiar nature. And, presently, she found herself on the savannah of some unknown planet, standing atop a twisted hunk of shiny metal, which, though abused by a high fall, still bore the obvious hallmarks of a highly advanced maker. Dressed in robes which accentuated her long features and brought out the platinum color of her fur, she stood above a group of cowering natives, all decked in odd hides and plant material, and chanting softly, slowing their pace deliberately. Then they stopped.
And she awoke. Her music had stopped. As she regained a truer sense of reality, she had to laugh at her dream. She hadn't realized she had aspirations of goddess-hood. But no, she figured, she knew from whence her dream had come.
She had been wishing to be elsewhere, quickly. To leap from system to system at leisure, without the tediousness of space-warp drive.
She had been dreaming of worm drive.
It was foolish, she knew. Even the most stable worm drive was about as dangerous as riding a Mirraurian Slither-Beast, though the consequences of a wormhole accident were far more horrific than being squished into a swamp by a thousand-pound Slither-Beast. Such was the way when you started messing with higher dimensions. In school, she and her classmates had been subjected to the horrors of those young nenrau who thought they would joyride down a wormhole and back. To see a fellow nenrau turned inside-out by the dimension effects of a wormhole gone awry was more than enough to turn you off from such thoughts. There had to be another way to go....
...between worlds, she appended, shudderring at the train of thought she'd just derailed.
She began to think, instead, about the discovery of worm drive as she'd heard it told. The government of the Pirralic Empire had been at war with neighboring governments for centuries. Eager to build a horrific WLR (Weapon of Last Resort), just in case things turned ugly for the empire, they hit upon the idea not of an explosive device, but rather of a space-warping implosion/explosion device, which would radiate shockwaves in the very fabric of space and "disorganize" (that was their euphemism) matter on a subatomic level. A nasty piece of work it was to be.
On the day of the first test, once all the dummy ships and sensors were in place, and all personnel evacuated to at least seven light-hours away, the machine was turned on. It rotated and shuddered horribly, emitting measurable amounts of truly exotic particles.
Then it disappeared.
Sensors indicated that mass/energy had not been conserved in the incident, however, so an extensive search was ordered to locate the machine, if indeed it still existed, as the detectors seemed to indicate. Seven years later and fifty light-years distant from the test site, it was found on a backwater planet, being worshipped by the locals. Tests on some of the more sensitive parts, busted open by its twenty-five meter drop onto the surface after appearing quite suddenly in the airspace of the planet, indicated that it had been exposed to weathering for seven years -- meaning that its travel time might have been nearly instantaneous (the crude verbal records kept by the locals agreed with this theory). The Pirralic Empire was thrilled with this new technology, and devised a plan to conquer the local spiral arm using a technology it alone possessed.
That plan failed, many Pirallians were turned inside-out, and the Empire crumbled, to make a long story short. But the spoils of war brought worm-drive technology to much of the rest of the galaxy, and the shipping of bulk materials would never be the same. People, outside of daredevils, were left to transport by space-warp drive, a much safer but considerably slower way to go.
Once again shifting herself back into the here-and-now, Kidrin decided it was time to get down to business. The computer had finished plotting the best orbit, and everything was ready to start her newest harvest. She had had most of The Silver Claw powered down to conserve energy -- it might be a long haul back -- and now she moved to restart its primary systems, fire up the thrusters, get its searchlights up and running, and deploy its active radar.
But she stopped herself. What now!? she wondered, knowing her keen senses were picking up something that was not quite right, yet unable to discern exactly the cause. She turned to face out one of the two real windows on the Claw. Normally, she used viewscreens, but it was always a fair idea to have at least one actual window on a spaceship... just in case. Through the window, she saw the tremendous form of the gas giant planet this moon orbited. What was so odd about that?
"Wait! There!" she said softly, but aloud, as her fur began to bristle.
"Wait where?" replied the computer, using its voice for the first time in days. It could sense something was wrong, and knew Kidrin might not respond to a printed message.
"No," she hissed, aggravated. "There's something wrong with the limb of the planet! Can you scan that area -- about 30 degrees south of the equator...," she asked, then added, "but passive mode ONLY! No active sensors!"
The computer responded with an affirmative *whirr*, implying to anyone familiar with it that it was initiating the request.
"Put the results on the main screen, frequency by frequency."
Again, the computer complied without a word.
In the radio frequencies, only a small dark smudge along the very limb of the planet was visible. The infrared frequencies went by without much change -- just that same dark smudge. The visible (nenrau vision is roughly comparable to a human's, though slightly shifted to the infrared) frequencies looked the same. The ultraviolet range proved no different. But as the scanning moved into the very lowest end of the X-ray frequencies, a faint line began to appear, extending radially outward from the planet.
"Stop there! Can you magnify this at all...?"
The image was magnified, but still fuzzy.
"More?"
Again, it was magnified. This time it made a real difference.
"Oh, Fortune!" she cried, for there was no deity's name to take in vain in the Mirraurian culture. Kidrin paused, aghast.
It was a long and frightening pause. She had never imagined she'd see such a sight as this. They had to be hostile, else why the stealth, or the amazing numbers? Why would they be here? And were they really what they appeared to be, in crude silhouette?
"Whatever they're using to make themselves stealthy," the computer chimed in, "it seems to be emitting minor amounts of very low energy X-rays."
The voice was enough to bring Kidrin back to her senses, so to speak. She preceived the danger this new finding represented, and to her horror, realized her position near a highly reflective planet. As long as the Claw wasn't emitting any significant energy, nor blocking the normal light flux of the moon below, as seen from the point of view of the dark mass, they might remain undetected, presuming they hadn't already been spotted.
"Computer," she began, realizing that maybe she should name the computer someday soon, "are we obscuring any part of the moon's surface, as seen from their point of view?"
"No, we are not. Nor will we be in the next forty-two minutes, after which we will move behind the moon, as seen from their point of view. I have no reason to believe they will be able to detect us should we choose to power up, then. In the meantime, I recommend keeping all non-essential systems powered down."
"No kidding," Kidrin said plainly, with only a slight laughing noise, the kind one might emit upon the realization of imminent death by ludicrous means. And for the next forty-two minutes, she sat in utter fear, her platinum tail swishing sporadically behind her. She feared, with a deeply primal fear, the sight before her -- a tiny X-ray-emitting smudge that was a thousand oddly familiar yet utterly black ships drifting silently and ominously in tight formation around the gas giant a few hundred thousand kilometers away. And in space travel, Kidrin knew, that was just a wee bit too close for comfort.
by Nightbird (Doug Myers)
Cowboy sat with all the stillness of a statue as the evening fog curled about his feet. He had been in the same position for several hours by now but he had used the time in productive meditation. From his vantage point he could see the entire plaza with its abandoned storefronts looking like toothless old men at the end of their road. From here he was able to see and hear the approach of anyone below. He could hear the live band four blocks away at the Round Up Saloon. They did not play the best Country music by any stretch of the imagination but there was always something more satisfying in drinking and relaxing to live music instead of the canned stuff.
Then he heard it. Just a quiet rustle of paper. There was no breeze so it had to be them arriving. Without moving a muscle he extended his awareness of sight and sound to its limits. Down on his right two men were sneaking around the corner of an old hardware store. They signaled someone to their right and each took a position with a view of the plaza, one up stairs and one down stairs. Off to his left another man scurried into an ambush position. That was four. Just right. That only left the boss, and he would be coming later, alone. "Yeah, alone!", he said to himself. As if Cowboy was so stupid as to believe that.
Time to begin work. This evening's work along with what he already had in hidden bank accounts was going to give Cowboy enough money to live the rest of his life in moderate comfort anywhere he wanted to go. His tastes were not extravagant. Actually, when he got where ever he would finally settle down he would buy a small business and be as respectable as his family had been when he was growing up in the Sonora Desert of Arizona. As he prepared for action his mind remembered the old family homestead. It had been a wondrous combination of saguaro studded desert and rolling grassy hills not to far from Sonoita. Good horse and cattle country with some deer and javalena for meat and sport. His father had taught him there was a weapon for every use and every weapon had its use. Tonight he had one of his favorites. A 243 Winchester bolt action rifle with a 4 to 10 variable power scope. There was just enough ambient light with the fog for him to see through the scope. Besides this was not like shooting at a tin can 350 yards away. His targets would be at least five times that large. He had clear shots at three of the men in the plaza and the fourth would be visible by taking two steps. He had figured their strategy well. Now to wait a little longer for the fun to begin.
Who would have guessed his road through life would have passed through a situation like this. Certainly not Cowboy only ten years before. He had been out hunting javalena with bow and arrow. The first evening out as he was sitting at the camp fire after a sumptuous repast of fresh quail in mushroom sauce he saw a glow in the eastern sky that should not have been there. He quickly threw sand and water on the fire, saddled up his horse, and took off across the desert in full flight. There was enough of a moon to show him the trail home. What used to be home anyway. He arrived about ht same time as the Volunteer Fire Department. The ranch house was a totally engaged. He could not see his parents of brother and sister anywhere. It took the Sheriff, State Police, Immigration, and the Drug Enforcement Agency a day to sort out but when they did it was not a pretty picture. Two Immigration officers had stumbled across some drug runners near the house. The drug runners had killed Cowboy's family and both of the Immigration agents and gotten away except for two who died in the gun battle. The drug runners had set fire to the house to distract the reinforcements the agents must have radioed for. The Immigration Agency did get the radio call for assistance but being understaffed and trying to keep this "their" case blew the coverage and enabled the drug runners to escape. The next day Cowboy followed the criminals trail but lost it outside Tucson.
Cowboy heard the car. Now or never! He aimed the 243 Winchester at the first target. The 243 is a flat shooting varmint rifle the same caliber as a 6mm but with a different shaped shell case. Cowboy had perfected his load for this job. He was using an 85 grain hollow point boat tail bullet with metal jacket and 34 grains of Red Dot 4895 powder. Not the hottest load, only the most accurate. It had enough power to penetrate the outer layer of anything up to an eighth inch of steel then explode like a hand grenade leaving absolutely no traceable metal fragments. When he had first tried it out at the ranch the can of corn he was shooting at just disappeared with a wet spot on the ground and a few kernels of corn here and there. He had added a flash suppressor and silencer that was so good the only way to see the flash was from the front and if you saw the flash it was the last thing you ever saw. And while silencers are not perfect the sound of the approaching car would cover up what little noise there would be. Gently squeeze the finger on the trigger. Whoosh! Work the bolt, move to the second target, take aim, squeeze the trigger. Whoosh! Swing far left, slide the bolt, and set up on the third man. Aim, fire, whoosh! Now take two steps to the right and the fourth man in the middle came into view. As Cowboy aimed he saw the man's face. It was concerned about something. He must have heard the man in the second story drop his rifle. Too late. Squeeze the trigger. Whoosh! This time Cowboy stayed on target and saw the man's head disappear in a fine mist.
Cowboy quickly took the rifle apart and put it in a small case. After descending via mountain climbing ropes he deposited the gear and rifle in his car. He pushed the car down the small hill and started it at the bottom of the grade. He swung out onto the road that would bring him into the plaza from the opposite direction from the car now entering the plaza.
As Cowboy drove into the plaza the first car was stopping, the door opening, and a man getting out. Cowboy pulled parallel, opened his door and got out with a big smile on his face.
"Hi there Tommy!", said Cowboy, "It looks like a good night for business."
Tommy returned the comradeship, "Hey Mike, you're lookin' fine! Been eatin' good lately I see."
"Yeah, I'm flush. Business has been great."
"For you maybe! Ah've been bustin' my butt but some clown has crossed me once to often."
"Then you figured out who has taken down your couriers?"
"90 percent sure an' Ah'll nail it down soon. What have ya got for me tonight?"
Cowboy said, "Just as good as I always have for you." as he pulled out a suit case, set it on the trunk of the car, an opened it exposing row after row of small bags filled with white powder.
"Oooooh Eeee! Ah like the looks uh that! My buyers have been little dry lately what with the hits Ah've taken an' all. Party time! Ah'm gonna cook a little now. Want some?"
"Nope. I got business to do down the road and need a straight head. You cook up some and I'll get us a couple a beers outa the back seat."
"Yeah, Ah know what ya mean. Ah got business to so to, that's why I need it. Heeh, heeh, heeh."
As Cowboy got the beers Tommy got out his pariphanalia and prepared a dose of the drugs. After he injected himself he leaned back on the car as the rush washed over him. He smiled and took a beer. As he drank he started to get serious.
Tommy asked, "How come ya done me wrong Mike? Haven't Ah always treated ya fair?"
Cowboy had expected this conversation. His eyes twinkled with pleasure and having arranged everthing so neatly.
"Tommy, you've treated me as fair and any of you scumbags know how. Now it's payback time."
"Scumbags! Scumbags! Nobody says things like that to me!", Tommy shouted. "An' payback time? What ya mean? If Ah been good to ya what ya mean pay back time."
Cowboy calmly drank his beer and said, "Do you remember ten years ago, down in Arizona, a little ranch house that burned to the ground with some folks in it? Well, that was my home and my family. It took my several years to find out who did it but once I did I also know there was no way to prove it legally so I learned who, what, and why you are. I got so I know what is in your mind before you do. All the trouble you have been having with your couriers being caught, robbed, and killed has been my doing. I have been selling your own drugs back to you for a very tidy sum. Tonight is the end of the road for you and I'm enjoying it. You might say I'm savoring this moment like a fine wine, watching this supposedly great man falling apart and now I'm ready to watch you die."
"I needed a good laugh, Mike. Ah'm sorry about your family but ya know how it is. What's done is done. But Ah don't think ya'll be the one walking out of here tonight. Ah got a few guys out and abouts with guns on ya right now."
"Sorry Tommy, but they are dead and so are you. You're just to dumb to lay down and die yet."
Tommy lurched to signal his men and fell over. His face was confused and surprised.
"What's wrong with me? I should be able to stand and fight ya with no problem."
"Like I said, you're dead. I walked on the powder, cut it with strychnine. Better thank me now or you won't have enough time." Cowboy laughed and put the money in his car. He broke open the powder bags and let it drift to the ground. Tommy slumped over, eyes wide open in horror as if he had seen Hell as drool fell from his mouth and mixed with powder and earth.
Cowboy caught the midnight shuttle from the Denver Interplanetary Spaceport to the Moon. He had already set up some bank accounts at several Lunar banks. As with all small places that have large banking interests, smuggling cash to the Moon was notoriously easy. He had sold his ranch years ago, made Tommy pay a fortune with his little scam, exacted his final revenge, and now had no ties to Earth. He had enough money to do whatever he wanted, so he was off to the stars to see what was out there.
by Judy Cools
Daybreak. Again. Gina looked out her window briefly and then fell back on the pillows, her long, dark hair poofing as she did. "I hate Daylight Savings Time, " she muttered to the walls.
Another day, another opportunity for Gina to make a difference in the world. God knows she's had enough training: PhDs in four areas of psychology/psychiatry with specializations in Intergalactic Marriage, Planetary Travel Stress, and domestic violence. She served full internships on Pluto, Gamma Globulin IV, Aeolis, and Doost as well as brief stints on several star ships and space stations. She speaks 6 languages fluently and can get by in 23 others.
After a series of go-nowhere post-grad jobs, Gina was "discovered" at a seminar entitled: "Premarital Sects: Gender Bonding as a Foundation for Healthy Marriage" given by her current boss' former vice president. Both were (and still are) high-ranking members of the Governments' Organization to Advance Technology -- the G.O.A.T.s - a board of various governments' officials who combine to promote peace in the universe, Milky Way division.
Gina jumped at the chance (figuratively, of course, she's way too classy to REALLY jump at a chance) to get a government job. She has loads of credentials, but is too young to be appreciated by her peers on Earth. The interstellar position is tough with all the travel, but the wider spectrum of colleagues is great for her career.
Old Pavlovian techniques are about all that's needed with some of the lower life forms -- the ones that haven't been analyzed, tested, probed, questioned, introspected, support-grouped, and recovery-trained to total psychological numbness. Some of them actually get better! And they treat Gina like a goddess. Ahhhh... the fruits of honest labor!
Or... it could just be another day of the same old crap. She'd know soon enough. Gina spoke to her voice-activated message center...MESSAGE 1: Gina... [she yelped and dived under a pillow] you missed your aunt's birthday, you know. Gina, are you there? It was very important to her, you know. Gina???? Call me. This is your mother. "Like I couldn't guess..." she said.
MESSAGE 2: Ms. Scott, this is the dispatch center. We've just received assignment orders for you to leave tomorrow [Oh, no! They mean TODAY] for a planet in the Zebnog System. It's a classified position, ma'am, you'll be given more details en route. Approximate assignment time is three months. We'll send a transport for you at 13:00 hours.
Suddenly alert, Gina began building the mental checklist for yet another extended trip. MESSAGE 3: Hi, it's Raul.... Gina... ? Sweet Gina.... won't you reconsider? Call me, Darling. We can work this out....
Thrashing in the covers at this point, Gina finally freed her feet to swing over the side of the bed. Trying to negotiate "vertical", she reached for the bottle of Antizac and the waiting glass of water. "Zebnog System, here I come!" she said, and with that began tossing provisions into her well-traveled bag.
