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Because Life's too Short Not to Laugh at it

By David Roman   Wed, Jun 03, 2009

The mirror was mounted on the wall, its archaic frame slowly gathering dust. The room it reflected was empty, as it’d been for many years along with the rest of the house. But today that house had company…

     Detective Bowden was at the threshold, reluctant to step inside. He lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag, sweeping his eyes around the gritty interior of that godforsaken building: at the cracked walls covered in mildew, the cobwebs that hoisted the remains of famished arachnids, at the termite-ridden floor, and at the shattered staircase that ran alongside the right wall.

     “So this is the place the missing kids supposedly visited?” a voice of a female resonated from behind. 

     The detective cleared his throat. “According to Joshua,” he said. He then took another drag and added, “He mentioned the four of them were here prior to the disappearances, and....the murder.”

He threw the cigarette down, squished the butt with his sole, and turned around. “I want this place thoroughly searched.”

      His partner nodded and beckoned several uniformed officers to follow her inside. “What about you?”

     The detective shifted his gaze back to the house. “I'll take a look around,” he said and stepped in. There were rooms on either side of the main rotunda, but some insinuation urged him to go upstairs. He carefully ascended the decrepit steps—victims of moisture and termites. The banisters broke off, and now were just mere protruding posts. It was amazing how fast it took nature to demolish this deserted building since the last time he’d set foot here. That morbid day. All life ceased to exist in this place since that day, replaced by the stagnant death that left its touch on every object.

      There were two doors on the second floor. The one to the right was boarded, but the other was slightly open. The detective slowly approached the open door and peeked inside.

     It was an empty room with an oval mirror.

     How peculiar, he thought. He felt a sudden need to glance in that mirror and stepped inside.

      “Detective Bowden,” his partner called.

     The detective stopped in his tracks as if waking from a dream. After looking about and making sure the room was indeed clear, he went back downstairs. He descended, lighted up another cigarette, and asked, “What is it, Laura?”

      She extended her hand. “Look what we found.” There were several dozen tiny golden links in her palm, apparently a part of some exquisite piece of jewelry.

      He frowned for a second and reached for the remains of the necklace. “Where did you find it?”

      “Between the floor panels. What do you think? It belonged to one of the kids?”

      “I doubt it,” he said, studying it closely. “It’s been weathered for a long period of time. It must’ve belonged to the previous owners of this house…” He paused. “The poor Stevenson family.”

      Laura’s eyebrows rose in puzzlement. “What happened here?”

      The detective sighed—it was hard to bring back that horrid memory. “Triple homicide. Henry Stevenson and his family were gunned down in cold blood… nearly a decade ago… back when I was a rookie. I still remember it vividly.”

      She gasped. “Did they get the perps?”

      He shook his head. “Unfortunately not. It was the most grotesque thing that ever occurred in this Podunk town. Ever since, this building had been abandoned.”

      Laura began writing something in her notepad. “So visiting haunted houses late at night is those kids' idea of fun?”

      “What are you trying to say, Josh?” the detective mumbled under his smoky breath.

      “I think he's lying,” Laura said, fully aware the question was a rhetorical one. “He’s senile and Matthew Malone's death proves it.” She stopped scribbling, looked up. “How do we know he didn't murder the other teenagers?”

      Detective Bowden didn’t reply, standing in deep contemplation. Four teens went missing and one was found after committing cold murder. Nineteen year old Joshua is discovered twenty miles away, in some city apartment, locked in the room with the man he murdered. There was no trace of the other kids, just Joshua’s alleged claims that they visited this house before the disappearances…

     What occurred in this horrible place? 

     “What do you want me to do with the evidence?” Laura's voice awoke him once more.

      “Bag it,” he said, putting out the cigarette on the door frame. “I'm going back to the city, back to the Malone residence. I believe there might be something there we missed the first time around.” 

                                                              #

It was late in the afternoon when the detective pulled up by the victim's abode. He parked in the driveway, got out, pushed aside the police tape and went into the place where Joshua was found: deranged, covered in blood, incoherent.

     At the very doorstep was a huge, crimson spot over the green carpet. Amidst it was a silhouette of a human body marked with masking tape. The line of blood stretched on the carpeting throughout the hallway and into the living area—the late Matthew Malone crawled to the doorstep in a vain attempt to escape as Joshua plunged the butcher knife in his back.

     The room itself was completely ransacked. The table was broken in half, its glass surface shattered; the television was flat on its face, smashed to pieces; the chairs were turned upside down, some broken in half; and the couch was torn apart, covered in bloody hand prints. Magazines, DVD's, CD's, and other sundries were scattered along with the victim’s wardrobe. A picture of Matthew and some other fellow—who resembled him very closely, perhaps his brother—was on the floor, crossed with a red line. Thousands of tiny little shards sparkled in the blood-stained carpet as if Joshua deliberately grinded the glass. But the most bizarre thing, the enigma that perplexed the detective, was the blanket nailed to the wall behind the couch, covering a huge, broken mirror.

      He hunkered down and began to carefully look around the pile. What am I missing? What, Josh?  Then he saw something shiny amidst a stack of broken plates. How could I miss it the first time?  It was a part of a necklace with a charm that had the initials “M.S.”

      “Marlene Stevenson,” the detective whispered, clutching the chain. It was part of the same piece of jewelry that Laura had found earlier. How odd. Still, something wasn’t right.

     He got up, his mind boiling at an unbridled rate, trying to make sense of the situation. But of course! He looked at the wall. The mirror! No, not this one, but the one in that empty house… Mayhap there was a clue there.

     He set the necklace down and stormed out.

#

The sun nearly set, its last rays dragging the shadows of the buildings on the empty street as if an ominous army of demons headed towards their refuge: that deserted edifice.

     The detective neared the porch, flicked away his cigarette, pulled out a flashlight, and crept in.

     It was eerie and dark inside that vile place, especially at that late hour. He was never a spiritual man, but one thing was obvious: evil took its presence there. Yet he was a detective, thus he had to succumb to the mystery of the unknown. He turned on the light and climbed up the stairs, reaching the empty room.

     There it is. It was an ancient oval mirror, its frame carved into multiple ridges and engraved with hieroglyphics. He guided the light around, looking for any marks.

     Nothing out of the ordinary.

     Then he flashed at its surface and froze.

     There was something odd.

     He stepped in closer and suddenly his image disappeared—the room only reflected everything else behind. His jaw dropped and perspiration formed on his brow, but he continued to gaze at the transformation. Something was different about the reflected image: the walls restored themselves, the railings on the stairs were intact, and there was furniture in the room. In the corner there was a bed, in which slept a little boy.

     As he studied the unimaginable, two figures in black swiftly ascended the stairs and entered the opposite room. He quickly swiveled around and reached for his gun, yet there was nothing behind. Panting with relief, he eagerly turned back to the mirror, continuing to observe the paranormal event.

     The little boy jumped up in bed as if he’d heard something. Three times a light flickered under the crack of the other room's door. The boy crawled under the bed and stared into the mirror, looking at the detective. The door swung open and a woman stumbled out, her nightgown covered in blood. One of the men was behind her with a drawn gun. He fired a shot and she fell down, continuing to crawl away. He stood over her and unloaded four more slugs in her back.  The child saw everything through the reflection… The men entered the room. They approached the bed.

     “No!” the detective cried out. But it was to no avail; he knew how it was supposed to go down, he was there the very next day.

     The boy ran out of view. The men simultaneously opened fire in his direction. Blood splattered on their masks. They took them off and looked into the mirror, at the detective.

     Those faces! It was Matthew Malone and the man in the picture—his brother.

     The image disappeared and he saw himself once more. Sweat poured down his face as he ran out of the building, lost in confusion, rummaging through his pockets in an attempt to find a cigarette.

#

The interrogation room was a square cubicle with a table and two chairs. Detective Bowden tapped his fingers on the metal table, avidly looking ahead at the closed door. He was exhausted, running for the past twenty four hours on nothing but the buoyant combination of nicotine and caffeine.

     The door opened and a large correctional officer stepped in, holding a frail, young prisoner who was cuffed and shackled, his face scratched up—visibly from self-induced injuries. The officer roughly pushed the prisoner down in the chair across the table. “Watch this one,” he warned and left the two of them.

      “Hello, Joshua,” the detective began.

      There was no reply; Josh simply looked down, a semi-catatonic expression on his face.

      “I know why you did it Josh.”

      Silence.

      “I visited the house.”

      Josh suddenly looked up at the detective, grinning. “You looked into it, didn't you?”

      “Yes… and I saw the whole thing.”

      Josh began laughing. “Now, you're not safe either!”

      “Matthew's brother,” the detective continued, “we got him.”

      “What?!” The youth’s eyes widened and he leaned over the table. “Tell me, tell me!”

      “We got him as he left the morgue. I doubt if the courts will believe the paranormal, but I found enough substantial evidence to con—”

      “You fool!” Joshua slid over the table in an attempt to grab the detective despite his chained limbs. “You have to kill him!”

     Guards ran into the room and grabbed the young man on either side.

     “For both our sakes!” Joshua shouted as he was being dragged. “I don't know how much longer I'll survive here! You have to kill him! You have to do what it tells you…”

      “I'm sorry sir,” said the guard.

      “I guess he’s senile after all,” the detective muttered, reaching for his last cigarette.

      #

It was late at night as he stepped into his study. He took off his jacket, threw it on the couch, and sat down in his computer chair.

     What a crazy day, he thought, clasping his weary face. He still couldn’t believe what he witnessed earlier. But something wasn’t right. His paranormal experience made him completely forget his main priority: whatever happened to the missing kids?

     He rolled the chair towards his desk in haste and reached for the notepad. There was a pencil atop the notebook that fell on the ground. He leaned down to pick it up and froze. He thought he saw something out of his peripheral vision. He looked up and around.

     Nothing, I really need some sleep. I’m tired, so tired…

     He reached down, but once again hesitated.

     No, you did see something.

     There was a huge mirror on the opposite wall and he could've sworn that in the reflection, the pencil fell to the floor a fraction of a second later. His body shuddering from trepidation—but curiosity playing the greater part—the detective got up and slowly approached the mirror. He looked around it for a second and then he saw, saw the truth, and everything finally made sense—yet too late.

     His reflection was gazing back at him.

     Cold hands gripped his shoulders and an immeasurable force yanked him into nothingness. The detective disappeared.

     The room was empty, as it’ll be for years to come. The mirror was mounted on the wall, its archaic frame slowly gathering dust…

By Jill Christine   Wed, Jun 03, 2009

Franklin K. Peabody, professional zombie, removed his left eye every night. It was not, he insisted, so different from a living person removing a contact lens, although it took an unpleasant deal of poking and gouging. Lifetrue(tm) jelly acrylic eyes required regular disinfecting soaks; leaving one in a rotting socket overnight would be would be unsanitary, and Franklin took personal hygiene very seriously. He had devised an entire series of sanitation rituals designed to prolong the viability of his corpse, and he had managed to avoid significant decay for nearly two decades and counting.

There were . . . issues now and then, of course. Ears fell off. Gangrenous wounds opened and oozed unsightly green pus at inopportune moments. Brittle bones snapped; limbs swiveled awkwardly out of joint. Franklin kept his briefcase stocked with a necessary arsenal of quick fixes - needle and thread, medical tape, gauze, splints. At home, he experimented with more permanent solutions. He had once reattached a finger with spackle. Five years later, the digit was still in place.

Anything could be saved with enough spackle.

His only real loss to date was his left eye. Soon after his death, an infection had liquefied the eyeball and sent it dribbling down his cheek in a thick, milky glob. If I knew then what I know now, he often thought while gulping down another course of black-market antibiotics.

Each day began with an invigorating soak in a diluted bath of arsenic-based preservatives and industrial cleansers, which disinfected and safeguarded his various problem areas nicely. He followed that with a bleach gargle, a liberal dousing of cologne - without which he smelled vaguely like a restaurant dumpster on a summer afternoon - and a brisk rubdown with a concoction of antibacterial creams and lotions. He repeated the routine before bed. On particularly warm days - and Los Angeles had plenty of those - he often did it around lunchtime as well. It kept him feeling fresh.

After discovering how difficult it was to keep blood from going stale and rancid, he had drained his and replaced it with a formaldehyde blend. The change left him with a constant reptilian chill. He did not enjoy the feeling, but he rationalized it with the hope that his lower body temperature might retard decay. He enjoyed the regular build-up of putrid gases in his abdomen even less, but such matters were an inevitable consequence of the decomposition process. His solution came in the form of a small spigot, not unlike the plastic stopper on a child's inflatable pool toy, which he implanted near his navel. Once or twice a day - and always, always in private - he held his nose, unplugged the spigot, and ridded himself of bloat. The process embarrassed him, but he preferred it to the far greater mortification of an accidental gas expulsion in public.

If he anticipated a lot of time spent outdoors, he added a strong sunscreen to his daily routine. His skin was deteriorating rapidly enough without the addition of avoidable sun damage. He had experimented with a range of enzymes and hydroxy acids, but none were strong enough to keep his skin from graying and flaking, so he made use of moisturizers and cosmetics on days when he had to look presentable.

The employment prospects for a professional zombie were limited, but Franklin managed to exist comfortably. Horror movies were his specialty; he had been an extra in dozens of films. Occasionally he won a small speaking role, but his lines usually consisted of moans and slack-jawed grunts, which embarrassed him greatly.

He was proud, however, of his convincing portrayal of Jacob Marley in a made-for-television adaptation of A Christmas Carol.

The Halloween season always brought extra work, especially in advertisements. He had a special disdain for used car lot commercials, which invariably had him staggering among rows of dented Toyotas and discounted Ford pickups while an announcer went on about "frighteningly low prices," but the resulting wages had paid his October rent more than once.

Still, movies were his bread and butter. He was famous among the industry's best make-up artists, who dropped his name whenever directors and producers were casting new horror projects. Make-up artists loved him because he saved them so much time.

When his agent, Jim Newberg, called to arrange a meeting, Franklin assumed Jim had lined up some auditions. The last year had been lean, as far as working gigs went, but Franklin was optimistic about the upcoming autumn.

"Have you eaten yet?" Jim asked when Franklin entered his office. "I'm just about to send my assistant out for sandwiches. We've got this great deli down the street - let me tell you, the turkey's top notch. Want a sandwich?"

Franklin sat down, placed his briefcase near his feet, and smiled. "No, Jim, but thank you. I'm vegan, remember?"

"A vegan zombie." Jim shook his head. "You'd think that'd be weird enough for me to remember, huh? Well, uh, what can I order for you? What do vegans eat, again? Sprouts?"

"I'm fine," Franklin said. "But again, thank you."

Jim shrugged and, over the intercom, asked his assistant for a turkey on rye. Then he returned his attention to Franklin. "How'd a zombie ever become a vegan, anyway?"

"I've found that a simple, natural diet keeps me fresh," Franklin said. "Not that it's easy to turn to broccoli when I'm really craving a brain, of course, but in the long run, the trade-off is worth it."

"Brain, hah." Jim smiled. "You're a funny guy, Frankie. I like you."

"Thank you," said Franklin.

"Which makes what I have to say even harder," Jim continued. "Look, Frankie. I'm sure you've noticed that you haven't been working much lately."

"Yes, unfortunately. I've learned to accept dry spells. But with Halloween coming-"

"This isn't just a dry spell," Jim said. "The movie business has changed. Your last few pictures bombed, Frankie. People don't want zombie flicks anymore. You know what people want? People want psychos and stalkers and axe murderers. They want new kills and fresh corpses, not a pile of old rot."

"Pile of old rot? What exactly are you saying?" asked Franklin, who hoped he did not already know exactly what Jim was saying.

"It's nothing personal, buddy, but I'm not going to be able to rep you anymore."

"What?" Franklin's jaw fell open, and he felt its joints pop out of place. Frowning at the inconvenience, he signaled a pause, then gave his jaw a painful upward shove. The joints reconnected, and his teeth clicked together.

Jim grimaced. His assistant slipped in with the sandwich, threw Franklin a glance of absolute terror, and hurried back out.

"Could you move your chair back a little, Frankie?" Jim asked. "I'm trying to have my lunch here, and that stink of yours isn't exactly appetizing."

"I'm sorry," Frankie said, scooting back. "It's a very warm day." He moved his jaw from side to side, testing its stability. When he was satisfied, he said, "Jim, please. Let's talk about this. You were instrumental in getting my career off the ground. I can't lose you now. The movie business is cyclical; we both know that. In another couple of years, all the studios will be looking for zombie projects again."

"I have clients who need my attention now," Jim countered. "I can't afford to keep wasting resources on a has-been. I'll give you a ring if I hear about any open casting calls, but the horror market isn't what it used to be."

"Well, what about those remakes of Japanese horror movies? There's been no shortage of them in production."

"You remember what happened last time I got you a part in one of those," Jim said around a mouthful of sandwich. "You dislocated both shoulders during a stair crawl and delayed the shoot for three hours. You might look like a ghoul, Frankie, but you can't play one anymore."

Franklin was angry. He gripped the armrests of his chair so tightly that his spackled finger snapped off again. It rolled under the door and into the outer office, where Jim's assistant screamed. "You can't do this to me, Jim," Franklin said. "There are other roles for me. Look what I did with Jacob Marley - I could be just as good as Hamlet's father. I read the trades; at least three studios have given Shakespeare adaptations the green light this year. That could be my new niche."

Jim shook his head. "You think I haven't thought of that? No one wants to work with zombies these days. No offense, but you're not exactly pleasant to look at, and you smell like a broken sewer line. Producers are tired of hearing the rest of the talent complain about you."

"I need you. Dropping me now is an insult. It's..." Franklin sneered. "Well, it's lifeist. That's what it is. You're prejudiced against dead people."

"Lifeist?" Bits of turkey on rye flew from Jim's mouth. "Oh, that's a fine thing to say, after everything I've done for you."

"Everything you've done?" Franklin stared hard out of his good eye. A wash of red had begun to tint his vision. "Like dumping me without any warning? What am I supposed to do if I can't act? I'm not sure if you've noticed, but there aren't a lot of career paths open to a man like me." He stood up, his rage shoving him toward Jim in a loping stagger.

"Don't you pull that scary shit with me," Jim said, pointing an accusatory finger. "I know you too well."

Franklin's hands clenched and unclenched. He wanted to grip and break and tear. "Give me one more chance. Jim. One more year."

"I'm sorry, Frankie. My mind's made up."

"Oh, I think I can change it." Franklin lurched forward and caught Jim's head between his palms. He squeezed his hands together until he felt a satisfying crack; then he yanked up Jim's scalp like an old carpet, flicked away splinters of shattered skull, and helped himself to a gluttonous chomp of hot, wet brain. If he had to lose his agent and go off his diet on the same day, he reasoned, he might as well make the most of it. He gnawed and bit with relish, and he scooped up the last juicy scraps of cranial matter with his hands and slurped all nine fingers clean. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his mouth, freshening up as best he could.

On his way out, he paused by Jim's assistant's desk and picked up his finger. He wished the assistant a good day; the assistant fainted. Franklin temporarily reattached his finger with some tape and gauze from his briefcase; then he gave his full belly a satisfied pat and went home to find the spackle.

By Clarise Samuels   Wed, Jun 03, 2009

The dragon woke up, and her nostrils flared with annoyance--another dragon slayer was approaching. It was always so. Whenever the beast was rudely awakened from a sound sleep, it was another fortune hunter seeking honor and glory.

The dragon stretched her limbs and shook out her long, scaly body. Her name was Jormungand, known to mythology as the Midgard serpent, and she was a formidable creature. Her father was the Norse god Loki, and her mother, the giantess Angrboda.

Jormungand had originally guarded the World Tree of the Norse creation legend, a job from which she had resigned long ago. For millennia, she lived at the bottom of the sea wrapping herself around the roots of the tree. The pressures of the job were unspeakable, and there was too much hostility from those who adhered to other creation stories. Moreover, there was the nasty episode where the hapless dragon had tangled with Thor, when he nearly snared her by lowering a bull's head into the water as bait. The day Thor threw a fishing line into the sea and nearly reeled Jormungand in had caused deep psychic scars for the underwater behemoth.

Thor's hatred for the dragon was motivated by the prophecy that the god of thunder would someday die at the hands of the Midgard serpent. Jormundgand had never even heard of the prophecy until Thor hunted her down and tried to kill her. The dragon had enough stress in her life as guardian of the roots of the World Tree, whose lower branches encircled the Earth while the upper branches connected the Earth to the heavens. She did not need the added complication of Thor's enmity. But that was long ago. Now Jormungand was retired, and she enjoyed her life in the mountainous countryside, where she spent a good deal of time sleeping.

But today she heard the galloping of the horse's hooves outside the lair, and she sighed. The last adventurer had sought her out just six months earlier and with unfortunate consequences, which Jormungand preferred not to dwell upon. She hoped her assumption about the identity of her caller was mistaken. Jormungand stuck her head out as she squinted in the bright sunlight.

“Who goes there?” the dragon inquired.

Jormungand knew the answer to her question as soon as she set eyes on the unwelcome guest. The combatant was dressed in traditional chain mail, with helmet and face piece, and a long sword inserted neatly into the sheath attached to his belt. His white Arabian charger was an elegant mare of perfect lineage. The horse whinnied and reared upon meeting the creature of the cavern, but the expert rider reined in the frightened animal. “Are you the dragon of lore, who devours anyone who approaches your den?” the armored chevalier rejoined.

“Probably.” Jormungand did not care to elaborate on her illustrious history and her rather intimidating reputation.

“En garde! I must combat you.” The knight's voice rang out loud and clear, for he took himself very seriously indeed.

“I will pay you fifty gold pieces to go away and leave me alone,” Jormungand announced calmly.

“Aha! And did you procure that treasure with innocent blood?” the knight asked suspiciously.

“No, I killed a nasty pirate who disembarked at the coast and was passing through. No one missed him. He had it coming to him.”

“And you expect me to believe that?” the knight pursued.

“Well, if you did, it would be expedient for both of us,” the dragon replied in a resigned tone of voice.

“I happen to know you kill good men who would try to reason with you to give up your faithless ways. But who could reason with you? You have no mind and no intellect. You are merely a reptile.” The knight made no attempt to mask his scorn.

“I am a rational reptile, who would like to see humans resolve their conflicts and build a society where each gives according to their ability and receives according to their need. I would like to see the underprivileged freed from the enslavement of poverty. I would like to see a classless society where all individuals share property and wealth, released from any unreasonable restrictions imposed by marriage, family, religion, or country. I would like to see the full self-realization of every individual in that society, even if it means they have to overthrow the powers that be to create a bohemian, democratic, and egalitarian utopia where no one is homeless, hungry, or in despair.”

The knight blinked in perplexity. “Are you a Communist?” he asked.

“I'm a communist with a small 'c',” the dragon responded.

“What does that mean?” the knight questioned

“It means I don't endorse the distorted form of communism that becomes a poor excuse for a fascist dictatorship. I maintain the pure, idealistic form, which will give humankind a theoretical framework to build a perfect world where all social ills have been abolished. My ideas are not as revolutionary as you may think. I have been around a long time; I have seen enough suffering to last an eternity, and I know that the present system does not work. I guess you could say I'm a humanitarian.”

“Then why are you hated and feared in legend, myth, and lore?” the knight wanted to know.

“The legend of the murderous dragon is what they all want to hear, and I firmly believe in producing the greatest happiness for the greatest number of people,” Jormungand acknowledged sadly. “Now, in exchange for your good will, compliance, and perhaps even a promise that you will abort your ridiculous mission, will you accept my offer of the fifty gold pieces?”

“No, you filthy vermin. I have been in training all my life to kill you. I will become a living legend for having finally rid the world of a hateful creature like yourself. En garde!” The mounted horseman unsheathed his sword.

The dragon swatted her tail, flipping the knight high into the air so that he landed on the treacherous bluffs beyond the clearing. The horse bolted.

Afterwards, Jormungand yawned, snorted a few fireballs, and went back to sleep.

By Matthew Sanborn   Wed, Jun 03, 2009

 [Filth!] 

      Looking back from the first door, Vron cursed. Stupid Zek must have activated the cloaking device without Vron’s knowledge and there beyond the dead end of the road sat their ship in bright orange camouflage among the greens and browns of Earth vegetation. Nothing to be done about it now; it lay nearly ten lengths away.  

      The three Legeks had walked to the first place they saw. No sense in wearing themselves out. The day was invigorating, as mild as many Earth days get, but the damned humans built their nests so far apart! And one per family! Extravagant. Vron stretched up and rang the doorbell, dripping with envy and goo. As soon as the treaties were signed he'd snap up the secrets of Earther knowledge and see the old Legek homeworld covered with doorbells. These fools had no idea of the possibilities of this technology. Why not put them on windows, for instance? Gravy! The ideas just kept coming! 

A male Earther, stringy and stubbly, opened the door. He took a blink to focus on them. 

      "Hey," the Earther said. 

      "Take me to your leader," Vron said in practiced English. 

      "Please," Zek added, from over Vron's shoulder. 

      "Well, that would be me," the Earther said. 

      "You are the leader of the peoples of Earth?" Vron asked, taking a second glance at the gray house. By human standards it was a pretty modest place out in the sticks, which is why they chose it (the cities were overwhelming), and it didn't seem like the sort of place the Earthers would put up their leader. [Besides that,] Krogar added telepathically, [What are the odds that we'd get the leader first shot out of the box?] 

      "No," the Earther said. "I'm the leader of me, Doug Schmidt. See, I'm a sovereign state unto myself, having declared my independence just . . ." he checked his watch. "Well, just about seventeen hours ago. Quit my job too. I'm tired of all the bullshit, you know what I mean?" 

      "I'm afraid I don't," Vron admitted. 

      "Whatever, don't worry about it, little pal. I'm not big on foreign policy, but since you're here, I got a shed out back if you guys wanna set up an embassy or something. Not the whole thing, cause I got like my rake and my paint cans and stuff, but you guys are small anyway. Just clear off part of the bench and set yourselves up. I can't sit down for talks right now, I'm making tacos. Maybe tomorrow we can, like, make a peace agreement or something, okey dokey?" 

      "We will consider your offer, Doug Schmidt, but our business takes us elsewhere at the moment. Farewell." 

      The three little men walked down the stained, cracked driveway. [Don't look at each other till he goes back inside,] Vron mentally told his officers. They all looked back and waved. Doug pointed at them from the screen door. 

      "My point exactly!" Doug yelled. "Bureaucratic bullshit! Can't even make a decision! Your nation is at least three times the size of mine! Simplify!" 

      [What do you make of that?] Zek thought to his two companions. 

      [Deranged lunatic,] thought Vron. 

      [Isn't that redundant?] Krogar asked. 

      [If it is, I'm sticking with it. He's nutty enough to warrant the repetition. C'mon guys, next house.] 

      Their boots kicked through the thick lawn across the street. The land wasn't as neatly manicured out here as it was where the houses were larger. Vron stepped on a soft spot and looked down at hundreds of spastic little creatures zipping back and forth over his bootprint. Oh, man, he thought privately, I hope they're not important. 

This house was much like the last one, only blue. Before they reached the doorbell, an Earther stepped out of a doorway at the end of the house. The doorway was large enough that Vron could pilot a ship through it. 

"Take me to your leader," Vron said. 

"Please," Zek added. 

      "That's cute," the man at the door said. He was wider than the sovereign nation of Doug Schmidt and had longer hair, but just as much stubble. He wore a black shirt with the words "Lord of the DanceRings" written upon it in a shade of yellow that was offensively bright. "You got the line, and the look, the little green men thing going on, very cute." 

      "Thank you," Vron said. "But I do actually want you to take me to your leader." The Earther seemed half occupied with the communication device at his mouth. 

      "You know it was played and played and played so much in the mid to late twentieth century that not only did it become a cliche, it went beyond cliche to the point where we fought like hell to scrub it from our cultural memory." The communicator glowed and gray smoke billowed from the man's mouth. Vron had heard these people still sent smoke signals and he glanced into the distance to see if he could spot the other end of the conversation. 

"If you'll please just take me " Vron started. 

      The Earther said, "But you reached back into the dark place we've all tried to forget and you've revived this." 

      "Sir " 

      "But the thing is, it's been so long that this take on it seems fresh and clever. It's just " 

      "Sir " 

      "It's just cute, is what it is!" 

      "Sir, you need to understand, we are actual extraterrestrials!" 

      "Oh, yeah, I've no doubt about that. That ridge above your eyebrows, that sort of spongy, feathery, hornlike, tentacley thing you've got going on there, there's just no precedent for anything like that in our genetic library. I mean our geneies couldn't even think up something that good. It doesn't resemble anything within the realm of human conception." 

      "Then why " 

      "I mean, I know you guys are new here, but you've got to understand, aliens are a dime a dozen. We've been through the invasions, some initiated by them and some by us, the interbreeding, the people zoo, the whole interdimensional thing, we enslave them, they enslave us, mutants and whatnot, I mean, next place down, you got a Glorfanx from Planet Hemem. Now those guys " 

      "You know what?" Vron said, "We're just gonna go." 

      "Okay sure, you know I really appreciated the homage to midtwenty paranoia, but guys, please, I'm serious, don't do it again. It would just ruin this whole moment."

      # 

      Krogar wanted to bring back at least one of them to the homeworld. Half the planet didn't even believe the Earthers were real. What were the chances that aliens which evolved light years away had a body type so similar to the Legeks? The whole thing, they believed, had to be a hoax. Not just the creatures, but the planet itself. Poor stupid Krogar didn't understand that showing the unbelievers a human wouldn't change a thing. They'd just say that the human was manufactured. Vron never thought there was any point in trying to change their minds. Reality went on just fine whether the civilians bought into it or not. 

      "Take me to your leader, please," Vron said. They'd skipped a house, having no desire to tempt a Glorfanx with their succulent flesh, and had found this man at the next place. He poked only his head out of the door and his loosened tie hung below like the string from a withering balloon.  

      "Okay," he said. "C'mon in." The door opened and the man turned away into the house.    

      The three Legeks followed him across a port colored carpet with a sudden spring. [He must be taking us to his transport gate,] Vron thought. [Now we're getting somewhere.]   

      A woman, presumably the man's mate, reclined in the second room to the left on what looked to be a piece of Earther exercise equipment. She lay half engaged in an infotainment symbiont which sucked on her head. The woman seemed quite put out by their presence. 

      "Honey," the man said to his mate, "These guys wanted to see you." 

      # 

      [I didn't join the Navy to be an infantryman,] Zek griped. Vron's left boot was starting to blister his foot. This road alone required more walking than their fudgey little bodies normally packed on in a year and they stayed on the grass when they could to soften the impact. All around them, members of one of the humans' slave species shouted madly from their shackles in a shrieking, percussive language. Their voices never seemed to tire. Zek wasn't helping Vron's mood. 

      [This is what we get, Vron,] Zek thought. [For two hundred years we poke around the fringes of this society so as not to attract attention, and now that we want to do some serious business, we're trapped in the middle of a freak show! What other results should we expect from the most moronic foreign policy ever conceived by sentients?] 

      [And that's why we're doing this, isn't it?] Vron said. [To fix it! Just shut up and deal, Zek, we're pioneers! We're diplomats, ambassadors of the brightest of futures. They're going to put our faces on a stamp someday, by Junction!]

      [Who uses stamps anymore?] Krogar thought. 

      [Don't you start, too!] Vron thought. 

      [Sorry, that wasn't supposed to come out. It's the damned telepathy. A guy needs some alone time every now and again.] 

      They decided to split up and cover ground faster. Had they anticipated the scope of this ordeal, they would have taken the ship, but it was four blocks back now, and they were about to hit three different places. The leader they sought had to be accessible through one of these three houses. 

      "May I please meet your leader," Vron said, lacking the enthusiasm he'd started out with just twentyeight minutes ago. A pleasant, notinsane looking woman in a fine smelling linen suit stood in the doorway. 

      "I'm sorry. I participate in a nonhierarchical cooperative corporation which frowns on such concepts as leaders and followers." 

      "Of course."  

      Although Vron wasn't sure of her mailbox' function, he felt great when he knocked it over. 

      He met Zek and Krogar down the street, they were already standing in the middle of the road. 

      "Mine was part of a hive mind," Krogar said, before Vron stopped. 

      "A big hive mind?" Vron asked, his tastestalks aquiver. 

      "Five guys and a hyperevolved chicken." 

      "Filth. What about yours, Zek?" 

      "Hive mind." 

      "The same hive mind?" 

      "No. This was one human, five hyperevolved wombats and a customized zombie teletype machine." 

      # 

      "Could we see your leader, please?" 

      "We have no leader," the large lady at the door said. This one wasn't wearing anything at all and bore the scars of a warrior on her abdomen. Vron swallowed hard but kept his composure. 

      "Hive mind?" Vron asked. 

      "Yes." 

      "What have you got, five, six members?" 

      "Ten trillion," she said. 

      "Really?" Vron turned and gave his companions a smug nod. [Jackpot,] he thought to them.  

      "We would like to speak to you about trade and mutual defense. Over what worlds do you hold dominion?" 

      The woman cocked her head to the side for a moment before saying, "Our lands are vast and wide ranging." She swept her hand before her. "Fortyeight feet from east to west and one hundred and twentyfive feet from north to south, all of the lands within those boundaries and unknowable distances below." 

      [Did she say 'feet'?] Vron asked. 
 

      [Their feet are small, aren't they?] Zek thought. 

      [Not as small as ours, of course,] Krogar thought, hiking one foot into the air. [But small, yes they are. See for yourself.] He pointed at the woman's feet. 

      [Stop moving so much!] Vron commanded. [She might interpret your gestures as hostile!] When he decided the woman wouldn't attack, he spoke again. 

      "You said 'feet', right?" 

      "Yes. Enough to shelter all of us and hundreds of trillions more!" 

      The three little men looked at each other dumbfounded. 

      "Uh . . ." Krogar began. He squinted his eyes and turned his face somewhat away, afraid of her reply. "How large are the constituent members of your empire?" 

      The woman pinched her thumb and index finger together tightly and showed her visitors. "Many of us are as large as this, while some of our champions are even larger!" 

      "So this is it then, right? We're looking at your entire empire right here?" Vron asked, pointing from her hair to her feet. 

      "Our empire is greater than the three of yours put together."

      "All right, this whole trip was a waste," Zek said. 

      [Be quiet!] Vron commanded. 

      "What's the point? We're not getting anywhere with this planet. We thought Mongo was bad and there were what, four different factions there vying for control? We've got more than four groups on this road! Mongo was a holiday compared to this! These are not beings with whom we want involvement. You cannot have a coherent culture without a single, unifying leader. Whatever the previous expeditions may have indicated, this is not a civilization. This is anarchy!" 

      This would have been welcomed with a hearty, "Hear, hear!" from Krogar if he hadn't suddenly been devoured whole by the Glorfanx. 

      Vron and Zek bolted for the ship without a thought. 

      "Your empire has grown beyond ours in an instant!" exclaimed the awestruck hive mind in the doorway. 

      [Where the heck did that Glorfanx come from?] Vron asked. 

      [That reddish stucco house down there, or so says the rumor mill. We have a chance, Vron. It is slowed after eating. I can see Krogar kicking from inside.] 

      Even burdened by its first course, however, the gelatinous Glorfanx ran gracefully compared to its prey. It was still catching up. 

      "Kick harder, Krogar!" Zek shouted over his shoulder. "We've almost got you out!" This gained them a few more paces but they were running a losing race. 

      "We're done for!" Vron said. "We're still a hundred lengths from the ship. Damn these stubby legs!" 

      Vron, weighed down with the responsibility for the mission, was slightly behind Zek and therefore, next on the menu. He could hear the slobbering footsploshes of the creature almost on top of him and feel its hot breath on his neck as it opened its dripping maw. 

      Up ahead stood a single shining chance. The sovereign nation of Doug Schmidt leaned on his mailbox, eating tacos from a platter and watching the show they were putting on. He was the only Earther in sight. 

      "Our people beseech the sovereign nation of Doug Schmidt for aid!" Vron shouted. "Anything you want! We'll sign wonderful treaties together!" 

      Doug didn't seem to notice. He waved his taco at them in greeting. Vron wished a black hole would swallow up him and this whole jerkwater planet. It was no use. Not only did they have no chance of reaching the ship, they had no chance of reaching the sovereign nation of Doug.

      

      "I can't run anymore, Zek!" 

      "Neither can I!" 

      "Goodbye, Zek!" Vron felt his little legs give way and even though it wasn't a long way down, he knew he'd never reach the ground before being gobbled up like a little green hors d'oeuvre. 

      But he hit the duraplaz road with a smack anyway. 

      "Ow! Dammit!" Vron felt the enormous bulk of the Glorfanx trample him as momentum carried it past. Thank fate for great wonders. By the time the beast had swallowed Zek, it would be too full to be much of a threat. Vron looked up to find Zek safe in front of him. The Glorfanx sat at Doug's feet, gobbling tacos that Doug dropped into its mouth from the platter. They were safe. 

      Two little green men rolled onto their backs and soaked in the yellow starlight filtered through an oddly tinted sky. 

      "Gravy!" Vron puffed. "I love this planet!" 

      Vron may have been nothing but a third rate shloob, but he could see what lay ahead. They'd discovered a supplier of a viable and better tasting alternative to themselves and Glorfanx pacification was the key to Legek expansion. Of course, Doug being catapulted into galactic powerhood within eighteen hours of his declaration of independence would seriously disrupt the balance of power on this street. But leave that problem to some future diplomat. Vron had paid his life debt (the cost of his creation and rearing) with this coup. His future was brilliant, his nesting and breeding rights would be first rate. He had everything a Legek could ever want. 

      Well . . . that and the doorbell.

By Matt Betts   Wed, Jun 03, 2009

At a recent conference there was a panel on growing your geek. It was basically an examination (or celebration) of everything that’s gone into making some of us the massive nerds we are. It made me look back at of all the elements that made me come to love science fiction, fantasy, horror and humor the way I do. 

You’ll be shocked to know that I enjoyed comics at an early age. Star Wars was my gateway book, followed by the Battlestar Galactica series. Other than that, I was fairly indiscriminant about my comics, occasionally reading the big three: Superman, Spiderman and Batman. Later, there I mixed in The Avengers and the X-Men. 

I remember going to the store with my parents and my friend Mike. He wasn’t really a comic fan, but he browsed the racks with me. In the end, I can’t recall what comic I chose, but I remember the one they bought for Mike: The Unexpected. It wasn’t that I read that book and it changed my life, I’m not really sure I even read it. The reason I remember it so vividly is that Mike kept calling it The Expected. Every time he said it, I was pretty sure something wasn’t right, but he was a little older than I was, so I figured he knew better than I did about matters of language and such.  

The more I thought about it, I wondered exactly what kind of tales The Expected would feature. Not really thrill-a-minute, I guessed.  

What will happen when Jerry foolishly goes to the grocery on a Saturday with a long list of items? He finds everything on his list and waits in a fairly long line – exactly as he anticipated!   

Or… 

Lisa boards a plane for her vacation in Maine and lands at her destination several hours later... as scheduled!  

The Unexpected was one of DC Comics’ versions of The Vault of Horror and the Haunt of Fear that EC Comics published for years. Many writers have cited EC as a source of inspiration in their youth, though none of them were ever treated to Mike’s stories of the mundane. 

To supplement my serious comics, I turned to the Holy Trinity of Satire at the time: Cracked, Crazy and Mad Magazine. All of them made relentless fun of pop culture, occasionally shredding my favorite movies. Crazy made it into the mix mainly because they went ahead and made fun of the X-Men and other comics long before they made it to the big or small screen. 

When my friends got around to introducing me to Monty Python and the Holy Grail in high school, I have to admit I didn’t get all of it. British humor was new to me, and Python was British and beyond. It transcended all attempts at categorization, and was seven or eight kinds of crazy wrapped in a super crunchy crust of nuts. I was heavily into Dungeons and Dragons (A comic book reader AND into D&D? Get out!) right about then, so seeing a knight get all his limbs chopped off yet still coming back for more made me very happy. 

I understood the Holy Hand Grenade, loved the fact that they had coconuts to make horse sounds and quickly memorized the whole witch sequence. What else floats? Small pebbles? But all of the characters turning into cartoons half way through and being chased by an animated dragon, just didn’t make sense. “I fart in your general direction!” almost became a mantra, but “Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelled of Elderberries.” What the hell did that mean? 

I had much to learn, but dozens of repeated viewings helped it all sink in. 

The Twilight Zone was a good source of humor in a speculative vein back then. In the 1980’s you could still occasionally find some of the old episodes on television, there was a brief run of new shows and the magazine was on the newsstand. All three had their fair share of extremely memorable stories that combined science fiction or horror with humor. The writers on the original show, most notably Charles Beaumont, Rod Serling and Richard Matheson had a knack for telling simple stories with that odd little twist that could make it poignant, startling and funny all at the same time. The eighties revival featured great programs written by Stephen King, George R.R. Martin and Harlan Ellison. 

Tales from the Crypt and the Steven Speilberg-produced Amazing Stories were a couple of other anthology-type television series around that time as well; both played up the humor more than Twilight Zone.  I still remember Amazing’s man trapped in a mummy costume episode as one of the funnier installations. 

I don’t think I could make a list of what turned me into the geek that I am without mentioning Mystery Science Theater 3000. This is another show that came along while I was in college and became a staple of my television diet. I preferred the early days of Joel over the later years with Mike, but it was generally a wonderful show no matter who was the frontman. It took everything pop culture had to offer and turned it into a weapon for skewering the worst speculative movies (and some genre flicks) ever. The idea of sitting in a room making fun of bad movies was so simple and struck a chord with me because my friends and I were already doing it (that’s right, I thought up MST3k!), as was everyone else.  

One of my college roommates and I would go to this little video store and take advantage of their rental special which was five movies for five dollars or something crazy like that. And then we’d watch them all in one night. We’d be up until three in the morning, trying to plow through them. We used this special to rent all the movies we could, but ran out of good stuff pretty quickly. So, we started renting films we heard were bad. It was a great set up for our intro to MST3k, especially since we mostly rented science fiction and action movies. 

While Santa Claus Conquers the Martians and Manos: The Hands of Fate are considered two of the classics of MST3k, I preferred Catalina Caper, the Godzilla flicks they took on and Prince of Space. 

Another favorite from about that time was (and still is) Bruce Campbell. Army of Darkness is one of the greatest meldings of fantasy and funny ever. A store clerk travels back in time to fight a legion of the undead? With a chainsaw and a shotgun? Come on. Like Holy Grail, repeated viewings have burned the dialogue into my brain. Would you like to hear some? Sure you do. Come on, say it with me: Give me some sugar baby! 

So there you have it, the highlights of what made one speculative fiction fan the big ‘ole fun-loving geek that he is. As I look at my own son, just two years old and wearing his ‘Zombies are the new bunnies’ shirt, I wonder whether he’ll like the same stuff or just roll his eyes every time I pop in MST3k’s lambasting of Puma Man.  

When you’re growing a plant, you drop a seed in the ground and water it. With geeks, do you just add Waterworld? 

Ugh. No. How about Dark Water, that was an alright flick, right? Open Water! Even better. Yeah. Just add Open Water and watch your geek flourish.

By Ray Tabler   Wed, Jun 03, 2009

 

 The trouble with Dunolians is that they have absolutely no sense of humor. I should have remembered that. I was in a good mood, having just won yet another hand of poker from the captain of a Dunolian tramp freighter in transit from Valot to Peenstop.

      "You know, Captain, you might win a hand before we reach Peenstop, if only you could tell the difference between a straight and a flush." The sudden, icy silence made me glance up from raking the credits into my hat. Most of the crew had been sitting in on this game, and they were all staring at me.

      "Heh, heh," I managed.

       The captain fixed me with all three eye stalks. "Navigator, plot a course to the nearest planet with a starport. The Human has just talked his way off this ship, just like he talked his way on."

      Within twelve hours I found myself standing in a big patch of desert masquerading as a landing field. The Dunolian freighter was a rapidly shrinking speck in the orange sky. When am I ever going to learn to keep my big mouth shut?

      The name of my new home was Gyrfalth, according to the sign on the starport's open-sided terminal building across the empty landing field. Whether that was the name of the planet or the distant city frying in the noonday sun wasn't immediately clear. Either way, it was a dusty place and a thirsty walk brought me to the beckoning shade of the terminal building. Inside, I could see two locals watching me from behind a counter.

      "Hi! Nice place you've got here. Can you tell me when the next ship is due?"

      The locals blinked big, purple eyes at me. The color of their eyes clashed with their pastel green skin and the flaming, red crests growing out of the tops of their heads. They looked at each other for a moment, and then the one on the left answered me in Standard.

      "Uh, there isn't another ship scheduled for twenty-seven months."

      It was my turn to blink. "Twenty-seven months? Wow, you guys are a bit off the beaten track, aren't you?"

      He shrugged. "Sorry."

      "Eh, what can you do?" I set my bag down and stuck out my hand. "My name's Mark Dobrzelewski."

      "Nice to meet you, Sentient Being Dobr . . . Dobr . . . "

      "Don't strain yourself. Just call me Dobie. Everyone else does."

      "I'm Ekim, SB Dobie."

      "And, my name is Nelg."

      "Are you two the only ones here?" I looked around the cavernous terminal building with its three-story tall vaulted roof.

      "Well," Nelg shrugged, "nobody is much interested in this place, except when a scheduled ship lands."

      "Must be a hoppin' place then." The terminal was not much more than a dozen pillars supporting a high roof covering several thousand square meters of open floor space. "So why are you two here now?"

      "It's our job." Ekim didn't sound extremely motivated about that.

      "What do you do here, between landings?"

      "We play Palbaff." Nelg lifted some kind of game board onto the counter from a drawer. It looked like a cross between Go and Monopoly. "I'm ahead, 35,453 to 32,897."

      "32,898." Ekim held out some tetrahedral die with a hopeful look on his face. "Want to play?"

      "Uh, maybe later." I took my hat off and fanned myself. "That was a long walk in from the field. Any place around here I could get a drink?"

      "There's a water dispenser right over there." Ekim pointed.

      "Well thanks, but I was hoping for something with a little more kick, you know?"

      Ekim and Nelg stared at me in puzzlement. "Kick?"

      "Yeah, alcohol. A cold beer would go down real nice in this heat."

      Nelg scratched his head at the base of his crest. "I've never heard of a 'beer.' Alcohol? The refreshment unit can probably give you some of that. Here, we'll show you."

      The pair of them led me across the floor to a boxy structure, maybe four meters tall. Several spigots and small doors were arrayed on its face. Nelg scrolled through a number of menus on a display screen and grabbed a cup from a recess. A clear liquid squirted into the cup when he held it under a spigot. He handed it to me.

      "Whoa! That must be 200 proof." My throat was burning so badly I could barely take another sip.

      "You wanted alcohol, didn't you?" Ekim took the cup, swirled it around and sniffed at it.

      "It's just that I don't usually slam it down like this."

      "What other way is there?" Nelg wriggled his crest in surprise.

      "What other way is there? What other way is there? Why . . . " I stopped, hearing the faint rap of opportunity knocking. "Tell me, what do people use alcohol for, around here?"

      Ekim crossed his arms and looked skyward in thought. "Well, aside from some industrial processes, occasionally if someone has suffered a loss they will take a quantity home and consume it."

      Nelg sighed. "I did that when my female left me last year." His crest deflated slightly.

      "I've done it a few times myself." Ekim shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders.

      "Do you always do it in private?" I took back the cup and sipped again. They both nodded. "And you always just slug it down straight?"

      "Straight?"

      "With nothing else mixed in." They nodded again. "Boys, we need to have a little talk."

      I played around with the menu and soon had a number of fruit juices and other local beverages lined up. The boys dragged a table and three chairs over from one of the waiting areas. Starting with fruit juices, I gave my new partners a crash course in mixology. They were skeptical at first, but became more and more enthusiastic with each drink.

      "You're tellin' me that your culture has never come up with the concept of the . . . drinkin' establishment?" It was hard, but I concentrated to make myself clear. This was a critical point.

      Nelg shook his head forcefully--a little too forcefully, as it turned out. His chair tipped over sideways, and he ended up sprawled on the floor, snoring.

      Ekim contemplated his friend beneath the table for a moment before concurring with him. "No, I've never heard of anything remotely like what you've described." His pronunciation was so good that it surprised me when Ekim's eyes suddenly closed and he passed out, falling face-forward onto the table top.

      I smiled. Opportunity was pounding on the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

      The next morning, Nelg and Ekim woke up slowly, blinking bloodshot, purple eyes in the bright, late morning glare from the landing field.

      "Here you go boys, a little hair of the dog. Drink these down fast and they'll fix you right up." I set a pair of cups in front of them.

      "What time is it?" Ekim winced at the taste of his drink.

      "Close to noon, I think."

      "Noon!" Nelg cast a worried eye toward their workstation.

      "Don't fret. I've been minding the store and you haven't had a single customer."

      Nelg put his head in his hands and moaned.

      Ekim took another sip of his breakfast and then noticed what was hanging above us. "What is that?"

      "You like it? It's just temporary. We'll get something nicer up, once we're in business for real." Actually, I'd made the sign from office supplies under their counter, but they didn't need to know that at the moment.

      "The Departure Lounge." Nelg read aloud.

      "Only bar in twelve light years . . . partners."

      "Partners?" Ekim's crest quivered in shock.

      "Yeah, we went over all of this last night. Equal shares, remember?"

      "Dobie, we already have jobs, jobs that we are shirking." Ekim took another slug.

      "Exactly what is it that you boys are supposed to do here, anyway?"

      Nelg couldn't take his eyes off the sign. "We help people who come to the terminal."

      I leaned left and right, pointedly scanning the empty terminal building. "And when is the last time someone came to the terminal, before I did yesterday?"

      That took most of the wind out of Ekim's sails. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

      "Look here. You play that game--what was it, Palbaff?-- to pass the time while you're waiting, don't you? The Departure Lounge will just be another way to pass the time. And, it'll make us some money too."

      Nelg had turned the corner. He looked about the vast, echoing emptiness of the terminal as if he'd just then noticed the distinct absence of travelers.

      "Right. What we need is customers and product. Nelg, how do you get out here to the starport? Or, do you live here?"

      "No, I have an aircar over there." He pointed. "Ekim and I ride together."

      "Good.  I've taken the liberty of downloading a list of what I think we'll need to your pocket comps." They both pulled out their comps and studied the list, Nelg eagerly, Ekim warily. "Can you two run into town a pick up some of this stuff?"

      "One of us has to be here at all times . . . during business hours," Ekim objected.

      "That's okay. I can get most of these items myself." Nelg stood and moved off towards the parking lot.

      Nelg was gone most of the day. Ekim and I dragged more tables and chairs over to the makeshift bar. I could tell he was warming up to the whole idea--he only objected to using Terminal property for unauthorized purposes every five minutes.

      As we worked, I judiciously probed Ekim. The closest thing to advertising Gyrfalth had was a sort of computer bulletin board and community chat room. It turned out that Ekim was a well-known user. With a bit of coaxing, I was able to convince him to spread the word about the Lounge.

      Nelg returned late in the afternoon and we unloaded the aircar. By sundown we were more or less ready, and then spent a long, anxious hour waiting. Nelg's enthusiasm was starting to suffer, and whatever tepid confidence Ekim harbored had long since vanished, replaced by a quiet embarrassment. Then, shining in the dusk, an aircar approached from the city.

      "Heads up, boys. Customers ho!"

      Three male Gyrfalthians--Gyrfalthites?--piled out of the aircar and approached hesitantly.

      "Welcome to the Departure Lounge, gentlemen. As our first customers of the evening, your first five drinks are on the house."

      Four hours later our inaugural patrons staggered back to their transport and flew it somewhat erratically toward town. No one else showed up by midnight, so I let Ekim and Nelg fly home to get some sleep.

      Another night on a couple of chairs pushed together didn't ease my mind over how this latest venture was doing. The truth was, the location, several kilometers from town, was pretty bad. Also, the Terminal had all the charm of a bus stop. Still, we'd had three customers-- and that had to count for something.

      When the boys showed up the next morning, they found me stirring a twenty-liter cook pot on a heating unit.

      "What are you doing now, Dobie?" Ekim wrinkled his nose at the vapors rising from the pot.

      "I wondered if you were going to cook something when I saw this thing on the list, yesterday." Nelg peered over Ekim's shoulder at the simmering contents of the pot.

      "Oh, I'm cooking all right. I'm cooking up profits. This, my partners, is beer."

      "Beer?"

      "Well . . . okay, it's not exactly beer. There wasn't that much about how to make beer in my pocket comp. And the ingredients are a little . . . different. But how hard can it be? I've only boiled this over twice since I started."

      My pocket comp said that beer is supposed to ferment for several weeks before it's ready. I ran out of patience before noon.

      "Here Ekim, pour this alcohol into the pot. Yeah, pour all of it in. Nelg, grab that CO₂ fire extinguisher off the wall. That ought to give it some fizz."

      One sip and I thought I was going to retch.

      "Hmm, tasty." Ekim smacked his lips.

      "I like the bubbles." Nelg held his cup out. "I think I'll have another. How do you make this stuff, again?"

      I set Nelg to brewing another batch before I forgot the recipe.

      It looked like Lady Luck was smiling down on The Departure Lounge. She encouraged our hopeful suspicions by diverting a dozen or so aircars to the Terminal late that afternoon. It seemed our first customers from the night before had had such a good time, they told all of their friends.

      Our "beer" was a big hit as well, now dubbed Departure Lounge Stout. We sold out of both batches before the night was out. Things were definitely looking up.

      Within a week the Lounge was serving a couple of hundred customers per night, maybe five hundred on the local equivalent of Friday and Saturday. This brought another set of problems. They were good problems to have, but problems all the same.

      There were more customers than chairs. Fortunately, the ones without just stood around or sat on the floor, but something had to be done. Also, we were straining the capacity of the refreshment center. Some nights it just couldn't keep up with the demand for alcohol and mixers. We had to turn people away and their money with them. To top it off, Ekim, Nelg and I were being run ragged. We were brewing DL Stout all day, and pouring it into thirsty customers most of the night.

      Nelg solved our furniture problem by leasing a wholesale lot of old tables and chairs.

      "Gee, that's great, Nelg, but how are you going to get them all out here?"

      "Oh, I hadn't thought about that." Nelg scratched his chin, and then folded his crest down and up, the local equivalent of snapping his fingers. "I've got it. All I need is some rope."

      It took twelve trips, but we hauled the lot tied in bundles, hanging from the bottom of Nelg's aircar. 
 

      A couple of days after that, an enormous hover truck pulled up with some kind of machinery on board and whined to a stop in front of the Terminal. The driver--a female, judging the russet color of her crest--climbed down from the cab and shoved her comp at me. "You wanna sign for this thing?"

      I shrugged. "Sure. What is it?"

      "It's an industrial food generator, Dobie!" Ekim called from on top of the load. He'd climbed up there from the cab. "It's just what we need, and we bought it real cheap."

      "Boys, maybe we should've talked about this first." Ekim and Nelg were too busy unstrapping the load to listen. "What did they do, cash in their life savings?"

      "Yeah, that's pretty much what they did." The truck driver pocketed her comp. "Ekim rode in the cab with me on the way out from town. He told me all about it."

      "Jeepers Jersey, this is getting out of hand!"

      "It's okay. They did get a good deal. The junk dealer thought this thing needed a new fusion power unit, so he marked it way down. I checked the diagnostic scans when I loaded it. All you need to do is replace a leaky superconductor coil."

      "Why, thanks, uh. . ."

      "Jalla."

      "Thanks, Jalla. Sounds like you know your way around a toolbox."

      She shrugged. "I like to make myself useful."

      "Are you available to do a little freelance repair work?"

      Ekim was tugging at a load strap. Jalla glanced at him with what appeared to be more than casual interest. "Could be. Could be."

      Jalla and Ekim worked nights, replacing the superconductor coil and reprogramming the food generator to make alcohol. They had it humming within a few days. The result was plenty of booze and happy, paying customers.

      Finally, Nelg hired a couple of people to help with brewing the beer. They seemed like a hardworking pair, and it came as a shock when they up and quit after a few days. At the time we chalked it up to a personality clash and hired another two people.

      A week later one of our regulars made a stray comment that caught my attention.

      "I said that I still like this place better than the other bar. That's why I fly all the way out here to the starport."

      "What other bar?" I stopped pouring and put the pitcher down.

      "The new one downtown. It just opened."

      Ekim hotfooted it over there and was back in an hour with the lowdown.

      "Dobie, that pair Nelg hired have opened up their own place, the Downtown Lounge."

      Nelg was fit to be tied. "Those backstabbers, I taught them everything they know!"

      "Simmer down boys. I've got to admit that's one slick scam they pulled on us. Stuck around just long enough to learn the ropes and then off they went. Truth be told, I sort of admire their gumption. But business is business, and now they're the competition. First thing we do is up the ante."

      "Yeah!" Nelg pounded the counter top. "What's that mean?"

      "It's a poker term. Remind me to start teaching you the game tomorrow. It's a very useful skill to have."

      "OK, but what are we going to do?"

      "I've got tricks up my sleeve those backstabbers have never dreamed of. Trust me. They won't know what hit them."

      Ekim's connections came in handy yet again. One of his cousins ran a dance school. She agreed to let us recruit some of her students as barmaids. Those gals turned out to be hard bargainers. I had to double their pay when they got a look at the skimpy outfits that came with the job. It was worth it. There is a definite inverse correlation between the extent of a barmaid's clothing and the amount of money spent by the average patron.

      Nelg threw himself into improving our product. Pretty soon he had refined the process of "brewing" to a point where it took two or three sips before I wanted to retch. Fortunately, everyone else on the planet seemed to be in love with DL Stout. Nelg leased space in town to expand production and worked a deal to bottle it and start distributing to stores.

      "Boys, we've got the Downtown Lounge on the ropes.  Now it's time for the knockout punch."

      Ekim and Nelg looked at each other. Ekim leaned forward. "You want us to punch them?"

      I paused, considering that for a moment. "As much visceral appeal as that might have, it's not quite what I meant. No, I want to show our target market, once and for all, that the Departure Lounge is the place to be." A conspiratorial glance about caused the boys to lean even closer. "Music."

      "Music?"

      "Music."

      "But we have music."

      "That noise coming out of the speakers is not music."

      "It isn't?" Nelg glanced up at the roof.

      "Trust me, it's not. That stuff makes this place sound like one, big open-air elevator. We need something that you can dance to. We need to bring a live band in here."

      "Jalla has a band." Ekim drummed his talons all too casually.

      "Your trucker friend Jalla?"

      "Yes, she and a few of her friends play in their spare time. Is that the type of thing you're looking for?"

      "They're pretty good," Nelg supplied. "I've heard them."

      I spread my hands. "Well, that settles it then. Let's give her a call. Anybody have her number?"

      "I think I might happen to have it." Ekim hurriedly stood up and started walking away. "I'll take care of it."

      Nelg and I just grinned at each other.

      Jalla and her band turned out to sound very much like what you might expect to hear if you put a dozen cats and a half ton of rusty scrap iron in a cement mixer and cranked it up to full speed. However, they had a driving backbeat that pulled you onto the dance floor like a fish on a line. We set up a bandstand over by baggage claim where there was plenty of open floor space. The band really packed them in. We'd never seen crowds like that before. We had to hire some bouncers to keep order.

      One night I was discussing the finer points of the job with one of the big bruisers we'd hired.

      "Now look, Tehlo, just because you're a called a bouncer doesn't mean you have to try and make people bounce when you throw them out."

      "But, that's the fun part."

      "Yes, I'm sure it is. But, if you break the customers, they won't come back."

      "Dobie, some of these guys you don't want coming back."

      He had a point. I took a deep breath to try another tack, when someone interrupted.

      "Dobie, there're some people here to see you." The way Nelg said it made little alarm bells ring way down in my gut.

      I turned to confront two older Gyrfalthians, one plump and short, the other tall and thin. They didn't appear to be having a good time.

      "Are you the owner of this . . . place?" Shorty had the look of somebody whose underwear was binding him in all the wrong places.

      "I'm part owner." I stuck out my hand. "Call me Dobie."

      Shorty looked at my hand as if it were coated with excrement. "I am the Holy Guardian Polgam of the Metropolitan District Temple. This is Assistant Guardian Hugarf."

      "Pleased to meet you, Guardians. What'll you have? On the house."

      "We did not come here to guzzle alcohol. We came to investigate the reports of some of our flock. I am sorry to see that those reports were correct." A barmaid sashayed by with a full tray of drinks. "I have never witnessed such licentious behavior. Just look at that female, Hugarf. She's practically naked."

      "Yes, she is." Hugarf was looking at her. His crest was almost fully erect. He was probably thinking about saving her soul.

      This was not going well, and it was about to get worse.

      "Gee, I'm sorry to hear that, Guardian. How about we discuss a generous contribution to the Temple?"

      Too late! I'd messed up. If I had offered the bribe in private, everything would have been okay. But no, I had to open my big mouth in front of witnesses.

      "Do not try to corrupt me, you miscreant! This place is a den of iniquity!"

      Guardian Polgam stormed out after a few minutes of fire and brimstone, with a reluctant Hugarf in tow.

      Ekim hurried up. "What was that about? I heard him from all the way behind the bandstand."

      "That was trouble on the hoof." I looked around. "Are there any lawyers in the place tonight? That pair is coming back sooner or later, and we need to know where we stand, legal-wise."

      There were actually seven or eight lawyers around that night, and they all said the same thing. Most of them even stood by their original assessment once they sobered up. There's one thing I've learned: never believe a lawyer when he tells you everything's okay. But, you can bet your bottom credit he's giving you the straight scoop when he tells you you're deep in the brown stuff.

      Well, it's always good to know what you're dealing with. Nelg, Ekim and I made what plans we could and waited. Sure enough, the very next night the Holy Guardians counterattacked and they brought reinforcements. I could see them plowing through the crowd, heading straight for us.

      "Chin up and steady boys, the savage minions of propriety draw nigh." Ekim and Nelg put on their best poker faces. They were learning fast.

      The Guardians hove to and opened with a broadside. "This is Proctor Kaslub. He has a Magistrate's order for you sinners."

      No matter what species, cops are cops the galaxy 'round. Proctor Kaslub activated his pocket comp and told us we were occupying government property without permission. We were ordered to vacate the Terminal immediately.

      Polgam had a triumphant smirk on his face. It was the cherry on top of what happened next.

      "Pardon me, gentlemen. I believe I have an announcement to make." The Guardians followed me over to the bandstand. There must have been close to a thousand people in the Lounge that night. When I stopped the band, they all slowly quieted down.

      "May I have your attention please? Thank you all for coming by tonight. We appreciate it. Unfortunately, we've just been informed that the Departure Lounge can no longer operate here."

      A moan went up from the crowd. People were shouting. The mood was turning ugly. Polgam's eyes were darting about, probably searching for an escape route.

      My voice thundered over the sound system. "So, we have decided on a change of venue! The Departure Lounge is moving out!" I pointed imperiously. "Under the stars!"

      Jalla's band struck up something with a distinctly Latin rhythm.  The crowd howled a cheer. "Grab a table, a chair, your drink, your neighbor. Grab something and drag it along. Hang on and follow me!"

      I led the band and the band led a huge snaky, tush-shaking conga line in a loop around the Guardians.  It ran on for three hundred meters just over the property line into several hectares of scrubby desert we had purchased for a very reasonable price just that morning. Nelg supervised a volunteer crew of a hundred who dragged the industrial size food generator along, riding a few centimeters above the ground on antigravity slides. He looked like a Pharaoh standing atop that big boy, driving slaves to build his pyramid.

      God, it was beautiful. We'd planned the whole thing in advance of course, but it was still beautiful.

      "Polgam, Hugarf come on over," I shouted. "I still owe you a drink."

      The Guardians left in a huff.

      The party rocked until dawn. Ekim proposed to Jalla that night. She said yes. Nelg wandered off into the darkness with each arm around a barmaid. The Guardians would be back. We'd only won a battle, not the war. But, oh, what a night.

      There is nothing more tempting than forbidden fruit. People heard about how the Guardians had tried to shut us down, and how we outfoxed them. Double the usual number of customers showed up the next few nights, wanting to see what all the fuss was about. That must have made Guardian Polgam mad enough to chew titanium. He decided to come after us again.

      One day he showed up with a flock of lawyers before there was much of a crowd around. They were shouting and waving documents. Ekim was trying to hold the bouncers back. Nelg looked like he wouldn't need much of an excuse to turn them loose. Things were about to get out of hand, and somebody might get hurt--like me.

      "Folks!" I stepped in between the groups and held my hands out. "Let's all just calm down. Can we do that?" Fortunately, everybody did step back and catch their breath. "Guardian Polgam, let's step aside and talk, just you and me."

      We walked out into the desert a few dozen paces.

      "It was those backstabbers at the Downtown Lounge that put you on to us in the first place, wasn't it?"

      "They were doing their duty."

      "I knew it! How much are those lawyers costing you anyway?"

      "No expense is too high when it serves a holy cause."

      "That much, eh?"

      Polgam eyed me warily, and then answered through gritted teeth. "They're eating me alive."

      "My lawyer friends tell me we could keep this thing tied up in the courts for years, if we wanted to."

      "My pack of parasites said the same thing."

      "So, why are you doing this?"

      Polgam looked distinctly uncomfortable. "The Temple Elders will have my crest if I don't close this place down--especially after that stunt you pulled the other night." He snorted. "Nicely done, by the way."

      "Thanks. So, let's make a deal."

      "What kind of deal?"

      "Buy us out. Then you can do what you want."

      "Buy you out? Buy the Departure Lounge?"

      "Well, you can change the name if you want, after you buy it."

      Polgam studied me. "Are you serious?"

      "Make me an offer."

      He named a price.

      "Are you serious? That won't even cover the cost of the food generator. Which I might just point out will come in mighty handy for temple picnics and spaghetti suppers."

      We dickered for most of an hour, but at the end we had a deal. That only left the chore of breaking the news to the boys.

      "What? You sold the bar to that blowhard?" Nelg unconsciously brought his talons into a menacing position. At least I hoped it was unconsciously.

      "Now, simmer down boys."

      Ekim looked pale--or, I should say, paler than normal. "Dobie, I just can't go back to sitting behind that counter in the Terminal, day after empty day, year after empty year. Without the Lounge, what will I do?"

      "What will you do? Why, you'll do whatever you want to do." I threw up my hands. "Haven't you two learned anything? Look around you. What have we got here, when you get right down to it? Some tables and chairs and a second-hand food generator with a leaky superconducting coil. There's not even a roof over it, anymore. This stuff isn't what keeps people trekking out here night after night."

      Nelg glanced around at the hot desert sun beating on the empty bar.

      I stepped forward and pointed at their heads and their hearts, or where I thought their hearts were. "What makes this place is here and here. You made this place what it is. You dealt with all the problems. You started a side business selling DL Stout. You found and hired the right people. That fool of a Guardian only bought himself some furniture, equipment and worthless desert land. He doesn't even realize that he let the most valuable assets slip right through his talons."

      That rocked them back on their heels.

      "Now, this gives you two a grubstake, some funds to build on. You'll figure out what to do with it. Start another bar. Keep selling DL Stout. Hell, run for office . . . no, strike that. Politics is too dirty a game, even for a scheming snake like me. But, when you decide what you'll do next, you'll already have a pool of good people, hard workers, to help you succeed."

      The boys chewed that over and started nodding.

      Then Ekim reached out and grabbed me by the shoulder. "Wait a minute. There's something you're not telling us."

      "Can't fool you, can I Ekim?" My smile didn't change his hard look. "Well, I bargained hard. But there was one thing I couldn't get the Holy Guardian to budge on. He wants me gone."

      "Gone? What do you mean, gone?"

      "I have to leave the planet. He's pulling some major strings to have a government ship take me at least fifty light years away."

      They looked more worried about not having me around than selling the Lounge.

      "Boys, you knew right from the start that I'm only passing through. No matter where I go, I'm only passing through. I'd be leaving sooner or later anyway."

      Ekim sat down on a nearby chair. "It's not going to be the same without you, Dobie."

      "Maybe, but all I ever did was open your eyes to the possibilities. You two did the rest on your own. You don't need me anymore. You'll do fine. You'll do better than fine. You'll knock their socks off."

      Nelg turned his head to hide a tear. "So, how much are we getting for this den of iniquity?"

      When I told them they both whipped their heads around, purple eyes wide.

      Ekim whooped. "That's more money than I ever dreamed of!"

      "I told you I drove a hard bargain." I shrugged. "Must have been cheaper than what he thought he'd spend on lawyers."

      After the deed and the funds were transferred, Polgam informed me that a ship was waiting for me at the starport. We rode out there in Nelg's aircar. The Temple's long, black official vehicle escorted us, just in case we tried any funny business.

      My ship turned out to be a fast, little courier. It was going to be a cramped and uncomfortable trip, but a quick one. The pilot met us at the bottom of the ramp. Guardian Polgam cautioned him to remain vigilant. I was a dangerous miscreant, not to be trusted.

      The pilot was distracted by the noisy glow of the Departure Lounge at the edge of the starport. The Mother of All Parties was well underway there. The Guardians had let us know that any remaining alcohol would be irrigating the desert shortly after they took possession in the morning. We'd left instructions that the remaining booze was 'on the house'--to spare it from that ignominious fate.

      It was time for me to leave. I clapped Ekim and Nelg on their shoulders. "Boys, I've had more fun than a barrel full of loose women. I'll miss you both. There are so many things I never had time to teach you about: the fine art of billiards, happy hour, wet tee shirt contests."

      Assistant Guardian Hugarf was nearby, and perked up at the mention of wet tee shirts.

      I said a few more maudlin things, then I hefted my bag and started up the ramp.

      Polgam eyed the distant glow of the doomed Departure Lounge. "I think we're getting shed of you just in time. Now things can get back to normal around here."

      "Really?" I winked at the boys and took a last look at the heartwarming sight of hundreds of people having a really good time. Polgam actually thought he was going to be able to put the cork back in that bottle. Picturing the fun he had in store made me chuckle for the next fifty light years.

By Bonnie Stone   Wed, Jun 03, 2009

I grew up on "hardcore" genre fiction, and as a result, was quite the snob when it came to anything else.  I was the only first-grader reading The Lord of the Rings, and only I, amongst all my friends, owned a boxed set of the Trilogy as well as a boxed set of The Chronicles of Narnia.  I was, also, the only one reading Tad Williams, Michael Moorcock, Anne McCaffrey, Anne Rice, Mercedes Lackey, Janny Wurts...the list goes on.  And on.  And on some more. 

 

It was not until high school that I was introduced to that master of all speculative satire fiction, Terry Pratchett.  Once I finished Pyramids, I was hooked for life, and could not wait to read the rest of his Discworld novels and then some.  I looked everywhere for authors like him, and, as can be expected from a pitiful high school library (and rather pitiful selection in that sub-genre at the local Carnegie library, the college library AND the Southern Peaks Public Library,) was beyond disappointed.  Thus, when it came time for college, I continued to read from the Discworld series, bought online and/or borrowed from my friends, and emulate what I saw in my own writing.

 

After I had my daughter, and my boyfriend and I moved out into a cabin in the middle of nowhere, I had no life.  I was a college student, yes, but the fact remained that I was still the one in the corner who's humor no one understood-and my best friend had gone off to Denver once she got her GED.  So there I was, stuck in the middle of nowhere, taking care of a baby and watching my boyfriend play video games, absolutely aching for something new.  At the time I was addicted to writing in coffee shops.  Hey!  The literary clique had done it for generations, why not me?  When I tired of sitting there in the noisy lobby of the coffee house, I walked across the street to tempt myself in the bookstore.  Well, as fate would have it, one day I was looking at the literary magazines and there, behind some Renaissance magazine, was Blood, Blade and Thruster Magazine of Speculative Fiction and Satire, Issue One.

 

I picked it up with excitement filling every cell in my body, and read the editor's letter.  I was hooked instantly, and bought that magazine, took it home and read it cover to cover.  It was a life-changing experience (and I did not know then just HOW life changing it would be) and I was so excited the little two room cabin was vibrating with my energy.  I scoured the cover for a website and found, to my great relief, bbtmagazine.com.  The next day at the coffee shop I bummed the free internet and logged on.  The then staff were eager to meet a new person, albeit a weird, teenage college student, and we were soon bantering back and forth about the magazine, genre fiction, satire and other "geeky" stuff.  We didn't stop, much anyway.

 

And here I am today, wondering what the heck was I writing about in the first place?  Oh yes, that which is funny.  Well, the fact that I'm here is rather funny, isn't it?  In a great, cosmic sort of "funny" way, I, the weird kid wearing too much black who no one understands and finds out, when they try to do so, that I'm really much weirder than first expected.  I, who am now the senior editor of BBT Magzine.  I, who's every other story turns into a spiritual metamorphosis story (dang you Franz Kafka!) rather than a snarky, futuristic soap opera in which the ships quiver and the men go do-er.  Sorry.  Mixed up my genres there. :P 

 

It is all, really, rather funny.  We all met here in hopes of finding others who understand us-and we have, in spades.  And the fact that our fiction is rather funny makes the situation even funnier.

Now...I think I shall go polish my mandibles and sharpen my claws for the next victi-er...nevermind.

 

;)

 

~Bonnie Stone, Senior Editor

By Simon Petrie   Wed, Jun 03, 2009

Pity stayed his hand.

    Pity, plus his inability to remember whether this was Kennett's blaster he held, the faulty one with the lethal high-voltage recoil.

    “Get up,” he ordered gruffly, breath still ragged.  “Get up, and get off my ship!”

    “Your ship, Earth-Captain Brightling?” the squat, scaly alien answered.  Its shape was roughly that of a crouching human sporting an ill-fitting rubber costume bearing too many appendages, and it spoke with the stilted, slightly accented English which was the native tongue of virtually all alien races.  “I think the Federation would have something to say about your proprietary attitude.”

    Brightling sheathed his gun with a frisson of static.  The space-crab was right.  Whatever one might think of the Federation, there was no escaping the Fed's Regulation 137.  No Captain of any species had authority over the representatives of another crew-species: attempting to contravene the Reg was, in principle, punishable by slow disintegration in a manner of the aggrieved species' choosing.  Reg. 137 sought, thus, to maintain balance.  For the most part, it worked.

    For the most part.

    But now … from a human crew that had recently numbered 570, Brightling was down to a dozen remaining, with no useful word from the teeming space-crabs on the others' fate.  Only a dozen: four with the viridian shoulder-patches of Engineering & Artificial Climate, three whose tunics bore the vermillion of Security, three more in the carnelian of Health, Science and Continuing Education, and two others who, like Brightling, sported the heliotrope fabric signifying Command and whose names, Willessee and Li Peng, he actually recollected through, at some point in the preceding years of their voyage, verbal usage.  The others he knew simply as 'Engineer' or 'Nurse' or 'Ensign', remarkably common names on a starship of over five hundred human crew, all of whom needed some ostensibly purposeful function, some vaguely useful on-ship training, some reason to ignore their true onboard role, which was both to balance, in weight terms, the large complement of space-crabs who worked in the ship's galley, kitchen, plumbing, and food-recycling areas, and to act as cannon fodder.  It was well known that the tunics, save the heliotrope-badged Command garments, drew blaster fire, apparently inciting lethal rage in all violently-inclined alien races that possessed colour vision (and yes, he'd early placed a request for monochrome uniforms, not this twee colour-coded bullshit, but would the addled desk-humpers of FedCentral heed the wishes of a mere starship Earth-Captain, boldly going where none before had gone?  He'd known the answer to that one, even before he'd made the request.  It had been the same with his suggestion that the Saturday 19:30 to 20:30 timeslot, specified in regulations as the only period during which planetary exploration or indeed any vaguely interesting activity could occur, was a ridiculously rigid and arbitrary restriction, and one which appeared to coincide with a weekly peak in the hostility index of most alien races.).  In any event, they'd begun the voyage, five years back, with a human crew of over 630, a number that had dwindled rapidly in the subsequent months, then stabilised as shipboard liaisons began to bear fruit, and had stayed steady since, hovering at around the 570 mark (and so what if several of the Engineers, the Doctors, the Security Officers, were only four, or younger?  They were still crew …).

    Steady at 570, until about five months back, when according to the emails he'd gotten around to checking only this morning, they'd begun to drop again, precipitously.  Should he have noticed earlier?  It did seem negligent on his part not to have perceived anything, excepting a general, grateful sense that the place wasn't so infernally crowded these days, but he'd put that down to improved social conditioning as the many ship's counsellors, psychologists and human-resources experts finally did something vaguely useful -- but no, apparently the counsellors et al. had been the first to go.  And yes, he should have noticed earlier, at least around the two-twenty mark, say, when five junior Command cadets had vanished from a room he himself had been in at the time, but he'd never been much on detail.  More a big-picture kind of captain. In his defence, he could only suggest the space-crabs had chosen their victims with particular care, for the crimes to have gone unnoticed for so long …

    Hence this morning's firefight, when he'd confronted the Crab-Captain over the depletion in crew numbers.  The crustaceans obviously had vast superiority in numbers, but his men had the weapons, and thereby held the edge in lethality; but the crabs had infiltrated the ship's command core, and cut all power.  Engines, lighting, computers, life support, all severed.  In the resulting confusion the crabs had herded him and his men here, to the bridge, and had reinstated power while a settlement was negotiated.  (But how was it, Brightling wondered, that when you cut the ship's power, the shipboard gravity remained?  The impossibly convenient directional gravity, which persisted when all other functions, including door control, air circulation, weapons and shielding, could be extinguished at the flick of a switch?  He'd have to ask his science officer, Palfrey, about that -- if he ever saw Palfrey again.  But the gravity -- it was as if someone, somewhere, was messing with the laws of physics, merely for the sake of convenience.  And if there was one thing Palfrey had taught him (or had it been MacWhirtle, the engineer?), it was that you couldn't change the laws of physics -- couldn't change them, nor could you circumvent them, except in certain well-defined ways like, it appeared, the ship's internal gravity; also the speed of motion (and the ability to decelerate quickly and without fatality, from any arbitrarily high velocity one cared to envisage); the teleportation of people and objects; and, come to that, also the probabilistically implausible disparity in projectile-weapon marksmanship evinced by humans over that of all alien races, even the ones which spoke flawless English.  When you pondered all this in detail as he did now, keen to escape the tension of the present standoff -- for Brightling, as you may by now have perceived, was prone to self-distraction -- it did all seem to be the slightest bit inconsistent and arbitrary.  Such, it seemed, was life.)

    Brightling sheathed his blaster -- no, wait, he'd already done that.  He levelled his gaze at the Crab-Captain's eight beady, blackshiny eyes.  Was it playing with his mind?  He forced himself to meet its unblinking stare -- necessarily unblinking, the creatures hadn't evolved eyelids, which really, you'd think, wouldn't have been too much to ask.  They'd evolved just about everything else.  Palps, mandibles, tentacles, pincers, nameless stalks, antennae, pseudopodia -- just about any prehensile appendage you could envisage, the space-crabs possessed them.  (Not, of course thumbs, which were a particularly terrestrial adaptation.)  A segmented exoskeleton both scaly and whiskery; a carapace whose colour values toned from shit-brown to mahogany.  Not the kind of creature in which you'd expect to discern a planet-ruling intelligence -- but then, to be fair, hairless apes, who would have thought?

    He pulled the blaster out once more, examined it, and turned to the remnants of his human crew, gathered behind him here on the bridge as they faced off the patient, implacable stares of the massed space-crabs.  "You.  Security," he barked.  "No, not you, you, beside that one.  Red hair.  Trade blasters."

    "Sir - but why?"

    "I like that one better."  They made the exchange, he felt the heft of the weapon in his hands.  Was this one Kennett's blaster?  How would he know, unless he ordered the others to all fire before him?  This one looked new, undamaged - but then Kennett's would, wouldn't it?  It had only been fired once … perhaps he should have stayed with the first one: bashed, well-worn …

    He couldn't wait much longer.  The space-crabs were scuttling forward -- well, tacking left and right, crab-fashion, but still making forward progress, however ungainly.  They'd overrun his position very soon.

    Was this Kennett's blaster?

    No time.  One space-crab, first of all its race perhaps, made an audacious mental leap: by turning sideways, I can scuttle directly towards my prey … Brightling yelled, surprised by this bold move, and opened fire, heedless of the blaster's potentially deadly recoil.  The air crackled with the sharp tang of ozone, a blue flash and the sudden aroma of well-cooked crabmeat.  (A slight fingers-to-forearm tingle, but nothing worse; so, apparently, not Kennett's …)  Behind him, his few remaining crew-members drew their own blasters, scalpels, spanners, and slide rules, while the massed space-crabs waited, unarmed.  Battle was about to be joined.

    And then time slowed, and he felt the tendrils of the crab-captain's telepathic sense enter his mind.  There is no need for bloodshed.

    "There is no need for bloodshed," Brightling intoned obediently.

    None of you need die.

    "None of you need die," Brightling monotoned.

    No, I meant you … Foolish and ironically-named creature, can you not grasp even the rudiments of telepathic syntax?  No matter, instruct your crew to -- look, simplest if you just repeat after me, 'We will assemble in the transporter room …'

    "We will assemble …"

    #

    Ten minutes later, the Earth-Captain stood with his fellow human crew-members on the plastimetal baseplate of the ship's main teleporter.  The space-crabs had telepathically ordered Brightling and his colleagues to disrobe and to lay down weapons and personal effects; which, under mental compulsion, they did.  Brightling retained enough presence of mind to note, idly, an already very large pile of such articles, stacked like a snowdrift against the chamber wall; but, faced with a sea of pincer-wielding, mind-controlling exoskeletoned horrors, and conscious of his naked vulnerability, he forebore to raise the subject.  As the scene around him began to pixellate and shimmer, signaling commencement of the teleportation process, the alien's slimy thought-patterns intruded yet more firmly, more deeply into his consciousness.  Listen very carefully; few seconds remain.  We are sending you back to Local Federation Headquarters on Earth, but your crew-members have over the past few months been harmlessly diverted to another planet, whose coordinates follow.  Listen very carefully:

    A string of numbers and vectors followed.  A long string, like three ship's registration codes jammed together in sequence.

    He'd never been any good with figures.

    And what registered uppermost in his mind, while the digits and characters scrolled across his mind's eye, was that he was about to materialize amongst his pay-masters, sans ship, sans crew, and sans any stitch of clothing.

    Sans, therefore, the merest skerrick of dignity.

    Then the space-crab's voice was gone from his head, and he was explaining his identity to a stern young female FedHQ technician who, it seemed, couldn't decide where to look.

    #

    Blanket-draped, Brightling stood in front of FedHQ's giant vidscreen, watching in stunned fascination as the footage repeated.  One minute, the FSS Bulwer-Lytton filled the screen, its running lights shining in a comforting display of normality -- the ship, his ship, he reminded himself, bracing for the image's change -- and then, with the actinic glare characteristic of a containment breach or at least a high-end special effects budget, there was a massive explosion which, in an impossibly short flash, shredded the ship to shrapnel, to dust and vapour.  The noise of the explosion thundered sonorously across the vacuum of space.

    "Why have they done this?" he asked, as much to himself as to the assembled brass of Earth's Federation hierarchy.  None responded; they were probably thinking either of the insurmountable dent that the loss of the ship would mean to their departmental budgets, or of the best mind-invading tools with which to attempt to extract from Brightling's subconscious the location of more than five hundred of the Fed's best field operatives.

    The footage began again, with the Bulwer-Lytton reassembled on the giant screen.  The brass began to file out.  He yearned to follow -- he did not know how many times he could watch the destruction of his ship, and still retain sanity -- but they had told him, in no uncertain terms, to wait in this theatre until they had decided on a course of action, a set of consequences.  Back on the screen, the ship again exploded, and he felt again the loss of all that he had had.  Why?  Why had they done this?

    A voice in his mind responded.  The crab-captain?  Still in telepathic contact, across all those light-years?  Or perhaps just a residue of the alien's personality, or its memories, which had not receded when the teleport occurred.  Whatever, at least it offered a sense of explanation.  Merchandise, it declared to him.  Your Federation outfits, you witless fool; and to a lesser extent the clumsy, gimmicky weaponry.  Very valuable, unique among all of the Galaxy's races.  Did it never occur to you that, as the only species in the Galaxy to adopt clothing, there was a near-inexhaustible market amongst the other sentient races for Earth-costumes as souvenirs, curios, collectibles? Against the loss of the ship -- your ship, our ship -- the profits from your cast-off clothing and gauche retro tech gadgets will more than compensate.  We would, I think, have passed on some small proportion of the remuneration to you, but I grew tired of your cheap anthropomorphizing, your delusions of superiority, and your boundless capacity for dull internal monologue and fruitless, petty, parenthetical introspection.  I trust that you will enjoy explaining this outcome to your superior officers …

    The communication (if communication it was, rather than simply some cheap and improbable plot device) faded out, and Brightling was left alone with his thoughts.  He thought of the ship's explosion; he thought, longingly, of the blankets in his now-atomised stateroom, the blankets which had been chafe-resistant, as opposed to this sandpapery Fed Central standard-issue crap; he thought of his former crewmates, marooned somewhere on a world for which he couldn't, for the moment, remember the details; he thought of the space-crabs, scurrying sideways through the ship, hateful little things, he'd done little to hide his disgust for their form; he thought of the crabs, too, in the Galactic bazaars, seeking to sell off their stolen wares -- Earth uniforms and weapons -- to the passers-by, demonstrating their usage when a curious onlooker paused to ask, What's that?  What's it do?  And, somehow, thinking all these things, he smiled despite himself.  It was small consolation, but it brought some comfort nonetheless.

    Kennett's blaster was still out there somewhere.

By Patience Wieland   Wed, Jun 03, 2009

I'm glad you had a good trip and all, kid, but hear me out. If I had it to do all over again, I would've swallowed the barium and started law school.

     Oh sure. Who cares if you glow in the dark, you're alive, right? Law's a smart career choice. Consider it when you finish the internship.

       So, I gotta give you the speech, okay? I say this to all the fresh meat. It's not too late to back out right now and take the next transport home. Law school'd have open arms for someone like you. Great purchasing power you'd have with a dual professional degree, you'd get to eat at the best restaurants, and still have teeth to chew your food, too.

      Out here, people don't like me, they *fear* me. That's not supposition. That's fact. Everyone hates me. I think I know how the village hangman must've felt.

      Of course... If I come to your door, you must have done something to deserve it... been bad, been lazy, made poor choices.

      OK. You insist you're tough enough - I believe you.

      Course. 

      Welcome to the team.

      When you get back, you can tell them you met the only professional tax professional in the Greater Diaspora, the only full-timer in the history of outer colonized space. And you can say you, tough guy, just call me Jim.

      In fact, I'd prefer if you did just call me Jim. Have you picked out the name you'll be using up here?

     It's mandatory for a reason.

     Course, a librarian will find it out eventually - why else you think they get paid the big bucks? - but it'll save you some headaches in the short term.

     Now. I hate most of what's associated with this job and you will too… Death's the biggie of course. You try to avoid that. Weapons drills help.

     Yes, thermal burns are an occupational hazard for any Wharton grad - glad that Career Services is finally warning you newts. Rehab's a bitch.

     Wellp, I have to go over the instructions anyway. Sorry. Outside temporary quarters, carry a second oxygen pack and wear your headgear at all times... that's if you “accidentally” dive out an airlock. Headgear gets kind of smelly, you know, so here's a little gift. The Febreze won't save your life - the blaster's for that - but it might save your lunch.

     Hmm... No, I don't think they'll bother a student actuary. If you tell them that before you mention Halibarker, it should be fine.

     Bitter? Me? let me tell you, it's not a cliché, I can't go home.  Now, I've been out so long, I'm not even sure how my bones would handle Earth's grav... 

     No, no - the cutoff's about two years, that's when...Listen, kid! -- You'll be fine if you rotate back by next August.

     Fact is, you're coming along in a proud tradition. I train every new kid as they cycle the stellarfi internship. Collection has had some bright stars pass through. Marie Schwab... Misa Gates. Donnie Trump the Third. Trained 'em all.

     Sure! Go ahead, ask me. I like friendly conversation, rare enough! If you don't mind my suggesting, you might want to go ahead and think about some magazine subscriptions, book club deals for your console. It can get hard to meet nice folks with this job --

     Places to meet girls? Don't know about that. I like girls who are smart, and if they are, they know better than to hitch up with a guy with a bullseye on his back.

     Uh huh.  No, I don't have much cause to talk to home. Occasionally I get some care packages. Customs has this phalanx of AKC Bionic Shepherds - DNA descended from Rin Tin Tin, isn't that a toot? So they sniff everything shipped to me. Even then the post mandates a 6 month waiting period. Christmas in July's a pooper.  

     That's a pretty stupid rumor to believe, kid. No, I didn't pick this way of life. Read my lips: law school. 

     You sure? You really want to know?

     It's all my Mama's fault.

     So it's thirty years ago. I got my little B.B.A., and was assigned the regular tour of duty.  Back then, everyone who wanted to work, run or own stock in a business, from the micros to the conglomerates, had to do their turn collecting taxes in the Outer Diaspora. There isn't a soul over sixty, in business today, who isn't an alumn of dear old BP Halibarker and their tax office. You're in good company, though these days they don't make anyone stick with it longer than a solar year.

     Oh, well, they changed the rules a lil' after Misty Buffett got her scalp burned off, and Conrad Ford got thrown out an airlock. Nice kids, too, and all they were doing was auditing a subsidiary of Space Disney. Miralux, I think was the name. It didn't sit too well with their folks, or NASDAQ, and since the provisional government's been in bed with the Ford family since before peak oil, you can just imagine the firefight when the law showed up.

      Real pitched battle on the stock exchange after that, between the entertainment hacks and Ford's stockholders. And a couple of Miralux transports went, ah… missing. Good ol' Orange Tuesday, “it was a tart day for the Mouse”, you remember that song? ORANGE TUESDAY… They never taught you that one? I thought at least Lunar Idol would have the twerps sing it ONCE.

      Orange Tuesday, they call it that because there were a lot of hot blasters that day. I mean, my old boss at Halibarker always had 'em warmed up onsite. You never know when someone'll show up, pissed off about an audit. But that was the day they started letting folks carry at Space Disney. Nasty thing they found in Cinderella's castle Wednesday morning.

      Did I mention that law firms usually get the first shot at the good blaster designs?

      Actually, I've been in long enough to know the real reason why they started cycling fresh grads in the first place. Scrambled eggs. Not the breakfast kind.

     Oh, don't let the episodes of “Fashion Comet” fool you  - actually, don't believe anything you see on E! - Stacy Murdoch was *born* with that third eye, because Mommy used to collect dough for Halibarker.

      Helluva christening, I bet. This was before they started their “optional” Icicle program for future parents, but our shielding's a lot better these days.

      Anyway. I was young, and Halibarker's the best at filling your head with lots of nonsense about patriotic duty and helping society...

     No, kid, I told you, if you return around August you'll be fine, no major radiation. Just watch out for solar flares on the elevator back.

     They did tell you that radiation adds up too?

     Well, I thought it was basic stuff, but if they didn't tell you about Orange Tuesday...

      So. Excise taxes were the worst, and we usually did those in teams of two or three, even before Misty and Conrad got capped. Not that it mattered much if a whole quiverfull of greenhousers came at you with servos. My old supe was Brad Tobias, the last head of Jaffe Gore Pernoud Finkelstein Deloit and Touche. You've probably seen him on the vids, now that he's the new czar for the Mars conflict. Ever wonder how the president got him to take the job, why he wasn't scared? Or why he wears that goofy breathing apparatus? Greenhousers, kid.

     Hey, I just email them the bill now. Let the Comptroller handle it. Most of them have fines as long as your arm and pay when they want - usually when they want to build another compound further out, helps them get the proper permits on time. Not so different from Miralux! Comptroller doesn't like it, I tell him he can audit them personally. Long as I've been here, they can't afford to lose me over a grudge with some fecund tree-huggers.

      So I finished the year. Hated it pretty much. Had my doubts about taking the slot they'd saved at KBR-Astra. But I was proud to head home.  It may have made me wet behind the ears, but I was eager to tell everyone what it's like to do an audit at blasterpoint, I mean, I had some good stories.

      I would have understood if my mother had balked at me an' Gertie, with our big dreams of going into private space, just like Daddy - who came back here when the shielding was really bad, rest his soul.

      But instead Mama told us to follow our dreams, like all the other great Altarbustos before us.

      So you have heard of her? Wow.

      Uh-huh… uh.

      Hmm...Really. God, they've really got to improve those textbooks. I guess they have to kind of, sweeten what they tell you in school, or else you wouldn't be out here. First, trade restrictions on gorgonzola had nothing to do with the Mortar Fromage…

      No, that was the Mozzarella Squagliaste. You're thinking about the one where the sailors got into a gun battle with organized crime, right? That was kiddie stuff. The garbage guys were on strike in Napoli. This was scary crap, kid. The Canadian military got involved. Ay yaaaah. Those guys - stone cold! You know what I'm saying?

     So let me go back to it. I want to say, I'm not proud of what Mama did... But you know, she worried when Gertie and I took off Earth, and decided not to stand still.  She took a nice Veep spot at the Interplanetary Project of Oversight. Lots of perks. Prague was full of blossoms.

     Heard nothing about her job, I had some old vid messages that I'd forgotten to return. I was too busy rassling Alternative Maximum Tax out of some blowhard. Before I knew it, bing, I was cooked, I mean - I was done. Could go home.

     No, my stuff was fine, kid. I used the icicle program.

     Well, make an appointment tomorrow, okay? I'm trying to tell a story here!

      My return day, I was so restless, waiting in the travel chamber on Rattler.  Rat's the oldest and longest of the first string elevators on Mars - doubt it's even running anymore. I'd been terrified of those rides, metal scraping in these long groans. You've got no attendant there to pat you and tell you it's “space turbulence”. You guys have it made now. Not only did we not have a nightclub, we had to use seat belts back then.

      I was in plain clothes, so the other passengers weren't hostile.  My scanner showed no heat signatures, so no one was packing a hot blaster.  I had a few thermal burns from my last audit. Nothing some nanofiber and bed rest wouldn't fix. You'll find out.

      Then Rat stopped, went all quiet - and then back again, the wrong way, towards Mars.  When we got to Station Anne, all us passengers had agreed that we would complain together - hopefully getting some food and cube vouchers until we could go home. Or just get to sit in a lounge with HBO till they fixed service. The Lincolns? I loved that show, man.

      We got out, saw everyone crowded together, watching the news monitors.  Lots of overlap in the feeds this time. Big news - glacier had been flash-burned off the map in the Northern hemisphere, one of the last Greenland had, too.

     Cargo traffic had been held up - all elevators, even those in the Outer Diaspora, were temporarily shut down.

      I don't know how long I sat watching the monitors in Station Anne. Cos it hit me - at three different gatherings, around the globe - my mama's face appeared on the picket screens.  I never did get a cube, either - too afraid someone would notice my last name.

      They didn't call it the Mortar Fromage yet, but just said cargo traffic for the Polaris colony was on hold, since a faction of these cranks had just blown up a key elevator entrance near Bangor. 

     And this pissed off another group, angry 'bout the “desecration of Nuevo Angland”, some bunch calling themselves the “Montana Verde”.

     

     These guys, Montana Verde, targeted a control burn laser at northern Quebec, rather than at a forest fire, and -- zeeeep.

      Got worse the next morning. Cheese factory on the other coast, in Tillamook, Pacifica, had been taken over by friends of Polaris. Montana Verde warned that they'd use the laser again, that they'd make the Boston Molasses Disaster of 1919 look like a lollipop. 

     So Mama was no hero. I don't care what your assigned texts said. She had done something very foolish, pissing all these people off.

      My grandfather was a registered dietitian. And it came out later, cos of Mama, how he was one of the charter members of the Food Police. You know.

     Oh, okay… Food Police… terrorist group, established in 2015, went off big about a decade later, started chasing heavy people in the streets, taking over workplaces and forcin' em to do aerobics. Big Pharma unlocked the obesity gene in a hurry, let me tell you.

     So, maybe that's why Mama said what she did. Her brain sprung a leak, or something.  In an open meeting, one week before the fighting broke out, she tagged the Polaris colony, saying they were importing far too much cheese.

      Mama was always tactless. “It's time for us to stop calling it a 'milk run' and start thinking about a fruit and veggie run,” she says.  She said the cheese imported by Polaris burdened the regional elevator and subsequent cargo runs with unnecessary weight.

      Oh yes, weight… that's my granddaddy talking. He was a born ectomorph, long before they had gen-therapy to keep everyone about average size. I remember when I was a little one, how he'd grouse about the “chubsters”. He didn't have much tolerance. And, neither did Mama.

      And Mama had never heard of poutine - heck, outside of Lower Canada, I doubt you could pay someone to eat that muck back then. But oh ho, Polaris colonists - mostly from the old Eastern provinces - loved to pour melted cheese and gravy over string-sliced potatoes.

      It became kind of a cause celebre, popular like.  Teenagers chugged poutine in public, rebellion on the street corner!

     Most folks probably tried it at least once… in the privacy of their own homes.  To be different, you see. I guess the fad wore off, huh?

     Fondue again?! Well, that's no surprise. Goes great with board games, and I just love board games.

 Polaris Colony broke rules in the Food And Transport act, turns out.  Cheese failed the NDB equation that all colonist imports had to pass - balancing nutrition value with appropriate density. But it wasn't worth losing sleep over - or worth losing the ore that Polaris was shipping back to Earth. 

      Worse yet, Mama started doing personal interviews! She says, she has a personal interest, wants to make sure the outer diaspora did not develop the same “reliance” on cheese.  And then she says, “My son Danny has lactose intolerance,” starts telling people what it does to me, in detail… Talk about humiliating. Worse than her emailing my old baby pictures with the beer bottle. She says then, “I've done a lot of research over the years. Many educated people know that milk is bad for you.”

      Mama was no hero, kid. Especially not to me. I was single, you know… I had girls to chase. Girls who want a guy to buy 'em an ice cream cone, all romantic like. Mama killed any chance I had of doing that again.

      And the Polaris folks were cheesed off, all right. Argued it was central to their sense of identity, their regional pride. The Battle of Gettysburg was started because one side needed shoes for their soldiers, right? Well, the Mortar Fromage was started because Polaris needed their poutine. Mama was not some efficiency expert, even if your old professor did think she was the second coming of Jack Welch. Ha.

      Thanks to Mama, the pissing match kept spiraling out of control, so that it was no longer about poutine, but all the fatty foods and niceties colonists had left behind. All the tensions between the Near Colonies, the Diaspora and Earth… caught fire.

      It was one of the biggest threats to planetary and colonial - hell -- human unity since World War II.  Fortunately, nobody died, but as you can imagine, a lotta folks hated Mama. Pacifica's government didn't much like the cleanup, all the oozed, molten cheddar along the old Oregonian coast. I mean, with the big burn o' Tillamook, it took 'em years to get rid of the crusty stuff. What were they going to do with /this/ goo, hand out crackers? Herd some cats to chomp it all up?

     They were pissy all right. And their bad mood extended to her “whacked out son Danny with his dairy issues.” The news feeds got shut off after three days - we started seeing a little of the revolt start right there - Montana Verde had made the Mars Libbers feel very bold. Thought they'd blast the ice caps, free slurpees for everyone!

     I returned back to my beat out here, and learned what I could from our local feed, and from Gertie's few messages. Then the government came back online. And I started getting the death threats - time-shifted, of course, but… still, not my favorite kind of email.

      Tonight, you send your first message home, and ask your parents not to do anything weird while you're on this mission, okay? Cause let me tell you, my bio got spread out over all the news feeds. KBR-Astra told me they were reconsidering my position. Who wouldn't, with a headline like “Party Pooper's Poo Problems Prompted Polaris Problem”? It'll be on my epitaph.

      When it all died down, she was asked to speak before a public tribunal.  Can't be sure whether she said it or not - they say some jokers from Pacifica mushed some goat chevre over the news feed cams, early on.

 “Let them eat brioche,” she was supposed to have said, “They'll have no problem making maple sugar pie.”

      I don't know about that. It sounds like a myth, but you never know with someone like Mama. Feisty.

      So...

      The IPO offered her witness protection for life. Gertie changed her name, and then signed up for a fifty year semi-sleeper run to the Outer Rim.

      Oh sure. I get messages from Gertie every year or so.  She always asks if they have forgotten yet. Too bad we can't hide from history, even if your professors tried to put a good spin on it.

     I understand in old Hull, and even parts of Toe, there are still wanted posters with my DNA code on it.

     It's ironic, because, I really like a nice brie now and again - and I'm willing to pay black market prices to import it.

     Oh, don't give me that look. Just wait until you see what chocolate costs around here.

     So that's why, kid, I'll spend the rest of my life out here. The further away, the better. The far colonists don't talk much “old days” spew, and just concentrate on surviving. 

     Good attitude for you, too.

     Hey. It'll be okay. Cheer up. Listen to old Dann… I mean, Jim. Listen to Jim.

     It's not too late to pick law school.

     Next shuttle run to the Inner Colonies is Friday. And I always buy an extra ticket when Halibarker sends the latest newbie.

By Peter White   Wed, Jun 03, 2009

At the moment that the gnarled, calloused fingers started gently tugging on the leg of his faded jeans, the young man standing in the corridor outside the Walker lecture theatre was already having difficulty concentrating on the task in hand. Having managed to track down his girlfriend of almost two months coming out of her tutor's office, he had spent the last half an hour trailing her all over campus and had finally persuaded her to give him five minutes to try and explain exactly why it was she should give him another chance, after showing up late and drunk for yet another date the previous evening. Somehow, he had found the power of will to get this far without belching a cloud of stale beer fumes all over his beloved - his hangover had been in full swing when he rolled out of bed at half past ten that morning, it was past lunchtime and it was showing no signs of abating- but this uncalled for interruption was in danger of ruining everything. Attempting to persevere with his apology, he found he was no longer able to maintain the illusion of composure, as the tugging causing his brain to stutter and the woman he already thought of as his future wife to make a point of checking her watch in the most demonstrative way possible.

'WHAT!?' he screamed, whirling around to face his tormentor with an efficiency and grace that caught his girlfriend's eye, reminding her of the night she had first him they had gone dancing. There was nobody there.

'Ohhhhhh, I've been bad! Please don't punish me!' Looking down, he saw a squat, hunched figure hopping from foot to foot, it's unnaturally long arms raised to cover it's head in a defensive posture. Disarmed, the young man looked to his girlfriend who in turn looked appalled at her erstwhile beau.

'Stop being so mean to that poor little man' she squealed, at an irritatingly high pitch which did nothing to help the pounding in the young man's head.

'I'm not being mean.' he offered, trying a calmer tone of voice, more for his own benefit than anybody else's.

'You are, you shouted at him'. The young man let out a long sigh.  As much as he loved his girlfriend, and as sure as he was that all he wanted to do was to spend the rest of his life with her, right at this moment those special qualities of hers that made him weak at the knees seemed somewhat elusive.

'Look, I'm sorry' he offered to the strange figure dancing about in front of him, 'I didn't mean to shout'.

'Nooooooooo young sir, Issssss my fault. I've been baaaaad.' Now that he looked closer, he could see that it wasn't just the man's physique that was strange, his clothing looked like it belonged to another era, medieval even. On his short, stumpy legs he was wearing a pair of dung-green tights, with a matching pair of suede boots on his feet. His torso was covered by some sort of tan, sleeveless, leather garment (the word jerkin popped into the young man's head but he had no idea where from) and this was cinched tight around his little pot belly by a thick, leather belt. Underneath that was a grey woolen shirt that looked unbearably scratchy and which had an integral hood fitting snugly around the man's head like a balaclava, so that only the oval of his face was visible. This drew more attention than was strictly necessary to his eyes, which were bulbous and wild and which seemed to be staring in half a dozen different directions at once.

'Look, can I help you? I haven't got any money if that's what you're after' the young man had by now decided that he was being accosted by some sort of performance artist, and that he should just try and get rid of him as quickly as possible.

'Pleeeassse' the little man thrust a piece of paper upwards into the young man's face, 'Can you tell me where I can find?' The young man furrowed his brow as he read it.

'The Morris Hall? You're going to Professor Philo's lecture?'

'Yesss, yessss! I'm going to see the brain doctor.' The little man's mouth broke into a grin that was so wide it made his head look like it was in danger of splitting open.

'Sure, yeah. Whatever. Just go right to the end of this corridor, then take the stairs up to the first floor, and it's on your right'

'Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnk yooouuuuuu!' the strange figure called back over his hunch.  He had already set off, and was limping down the corridor as fast as his good right leg would take him, the left was lame and dragged behind him. The young man watched, bemused, as the strange figure disappeared down the corridor, and then turned back to his girlfriend. She was gone.

In the crowded lecture hall, the master, who had arrived early, had staked out two good seats in the second row.  He sat in one, rested his stovepipe hat in the other, and narrowed his eyes and knotted his large brow at anyone who approached and looked as if they might ask to sit down. One brave soul, with pink hair and studs in her face, got as far as actually asking if she could sit down, to which he replied, 'Endshuldigen sie mich, Ich habe keine Englisch.' He then leant forward and snapped his teeth together loudly at her, as if taking an imaginary bite from her soft, young flesh and then followed it up with a lecherous wink. Her courage failed her, and she scurried away. As she did, the little man burst through the doors at the top of the lecture hall, and they slammed against the walls with a loud clap behind him, causing the assembled throng to turn as one to see the source of the commotion. The master did not turn, but raised one arm straight into the air to indicate his position, in it he held a lace handkerchief which he waved from side to side. The little man saw it, and made his awkward way down the steps of the central aisle towards the professor's seat.

'You're late, Igor' said the master, removing his hat from the seat beside his own, and placing it on the fold down desktop that was attached to the single arm of the chair. Igor had to face the chair and use his hands to help haul himself up into his seat, and then struggled to try and find a comfortable position on the moulded plastic which singularly failed to accommodate his hunch. 'Please don't fidget, there's a good fellow.' Igor regarded the professor. He was dressed impeccably as usual in a black, velvet frock coat under which he wore a  matching black waistcoat and a white shirt, which sprouted into ruffles at his wrists and throat. Looking up into his long, noble face though, he could see that his master looked tired, the lines on his forehead were deeper and his cheeks were sunken, making the bones in his face even more prominent than usual. His thick white hair, usually so wild and bushy, now looked lank and dull. Igor made a mental note to flagellate himself later for not taking better care of his master.

'I'm sorry professor' he said and stilled his body immediately, even though he was far from comfortable.

'How's our boy doing?' the professor did not look toward Igor when he spoke, his red rimmed eyes stared straight ahead toward the lectern on the small stage, conscious of missing the entrance of the man who he convinced himself was his last hope. Igor hesitated before replying, he was wary of adding to the master's burden but he also knew that any attempt at embroidering the truth was a risky proposition. He was a poor liar, and tired as they were, the master's eyes could lay his soul bare, if he decided to turn them from the stage and fix them on him. Igor cradled his hands in his lap and bowed his head, just in case the master did turn his way.

'He was restless before I left, but I managed to calm him down with some television. I fed him his sedative and he dropped off watching The Cartoon Network.' This was true enough in itself, but the lie was by omission.  “Restless” was something of an understatement, Junior had pretty much destroyed the hotel room. And, though he had indeed taken his sedative, it been fed to him in the uncooked flesh of a salesman who had been staying in the room next door, and who had made the mistake of coming to complain about the noise in person, rather than phoning down to reception. Junior had crushed his skull with one blow, and Igor, ever practical, had seized the opportunity when it presented itself. 'I'd like to get back soon master, he'll be scared if he wakes up and he's alone.'

'Quite so Igor, Junior is very lucky to have you looking after him' The professor laid a hand on Igor's hump and gave it a gentle squeeze. Just then the lights dimmed and Igor was glad they did, as he felt himself blush with a mixture of pride and embarrassment at the compliment. There was a whirring noise as a screen began to descend on stage behind the lectern, and when it was fully unrolled a projector somewhere toward the back of the hall flicked on, and a giant image of a human brain in profile appeared in front of them. 'Here we go Igor, Professor Philo is the foremost brain expert in the world, I'm sure he can help us.'

Igor said nothing, but was less than convinced as he watched a short, balding, rotund  man in a badly fitting suit waddle on to the stage, with a cardboard folder full of notes clasped in one meaty paw whilst the other wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead. The rest of the audience, however, seemed to share the master's enthusiasm and burst into energetic applause. Professor Philo paused to survey the room when he reached the lectern, and stood for a moment savouring the adulation, before making a flapping gesture to quiet the noise as he pretended to peruse his notes.  A carefully orchestrated routine, designed to convey his modesty even as it displayed his tedium. Igor was curious as to how such an onerous and inadequate looking little man could behave with such apparent confidence, and looked toward the master to see his reaction.  He was dismayed to see that he actually seemed impressed. The master had a temper to rival even Frank's when his hopes were dashed, and looking at Professor Philo, Igor could see nothing but disappointment ahead.

Philo had agreed to appear at his alma mater at the special request of the Dean, who had arranged a series of guest lectures from the more distinguished ex-alumni. As such, he had not come to engage in an in-depth examination of  Batten Disease or Charcot-Marie-Tooth-disorder, but was here to deliver a crowd pleasing turn to the assembled laymen and women, retelling the more humorous and 'quirky' case histories that had helped to build a famous career.

He started with the tale of the young man with Cotard Syndrome, who believed that he had never recovered after being hospitalised with meningitis, and was in fact a putrefying corpse, living in hell and interacting with a horde of demons on a daily basis. He continued with the husband suffering from Capgras, who had fallen in the shower and hit his head whilst on a business trip, and had returned home to find that his wife and children had been replaced by imposters.  Then, there was the college student with Stendahl Syndrome, who fainted every time she saw a truly exceptional piece of art - the professor joking on this occasion that he suspected that this patient might be faking, as she claimed to have felt dizzy whilst looking at a piece by Tracey Emin. Finally, he finished up with an established favourite, the tale of a group of six Japanese tourists, who had suffered simultaneous nervous breakdowns whilst on vacation in Paris.

Igor was thoroughly bored - he played cat's cradle throughout with a knotted length of vein that he found in his pocket - it saddened him to think that the master was at such a low ebb that he actually felt he could learn something from this quack. Honestly, what sort of barbaric, backwards-thinking charlatan would advocate behavioural modification through psychotropic drugs and 'therapy' rather than beatings, isolation and high-voltage massage? Junior was a wayward child, there was no doubt about that, but surely they owed him better than this?

If  Igor was less than impressed by the Professor, the master appeared to be mesmerised, hanging on his every word and scribbling notes furiously, without ever tearing his eyes away from his new hero, occasionally muttering to himself under his breath an 'Of course' or an 'I see'.

After two hours, Philo drew his lecture to a close, and the audience burst into a round of rapturous applause, the master insisting on standing to deliver his own ovation, dragging Igor to his feet to join him, who cursed under his breath realising that he would have to struggle back into his seat all over again.

'Now I'll take some questions?' Philo had originally refused the Dean's request to include a question and answer session, but he was feeling invigorated by the energy in the room.  He knew an impressed audience when he saw one, and he wanted to feed from them a while longer.

'Professor, I wonder if you have any thoughts on the best way to neutralise the Evil cortex?' The master had not sat down again after the applause had finished, and was standing tall and erect. Philo squinted through his spectacles regarding the master with a degree of suspicion, with those clothes and that wild hair, the stranger looked all the world like a textbook example of a mad scientist.

'I'm sorry, could I ask you to repeat that?  I don't think I could have heard you correctly' Philo had already decided that the man was some kind of plant, somebody's idea of adding a little more fun to the proceedings, the Dean's perhaps, and as he was feeling somewhat playful himself, he decided to be a good sport and go along with the gag. It occurred to him as well, that the majority of the audience would no doubt think that this little piece of theatre was his idea, and that would do no harm to the sales of his new book 'Don't Strain Your Brain'.

'I was asking, Professor Philo, what your thoughts were on the best way to neutralise, or if necessary excise, the Evil cortex.' As the master repeated his question, Igor sensed a change in the room, and glanced around. The audience were no longer looking toward Philo, their attention was now on the master, and on Igor as well, they were sniggering, and whispering, and nudging one another. Igor sank down in his seat as far as his hump would allow, he already knew this was going to end badly.

'Ah yes, the Evil Cortex' Philo enunciated the words with relish, whilst giving a knowing nod to the throng. 'That is an interesting question. It's obvious to me from your demeanor, that you are yourself a man of science, much accomplished if I am not mistaken. May I know to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?' Igor watched with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, as the master hooked his thumbs behind the lapels of his jacket, tilted his head at an angle he thought of as rakish and announced.

'I am Dr Victor Frankenstein of Geneva'. The ensuing laughter, though remarkably restrained, was distinctly audible. Dr Frankenstein looked around quizzically, one eyebrow raised, before deciding that something humorous must have befallen one of the audience members standing behind him. On stage, Philo was hamming it up for all he was worth, his mouth fell open and he held his hands to his jowly cheeks, in a move intended to convey his sense of excitement and astonishment.

'Good Lord, the famous Dr Frankenstein. This is such an honour for all of us. Your achievements in the field of human reanimation are….well, they're legendary' Igor squirmed in his seat, the master was beaming with pride, and holding up one hand to stay the eulogy, he hadn't the faintest idea he was being mocked.

'Please, Professor Philo, you are flattering me.' Dr Frankenstein's voice was confident and resonant but still flowed like warm honey, his soft Germanic accent reinforcing the nobleness of his appearance. 'It is true, I have created life from nothing, and in that regard my only rival is God himself' he paused for an exquisitely timed beat, 'But when it comes to the true beauty of creation, both the Lord and I fall some way short of the miracle that is childbirth.' Before continuing, he swept his head around the auditorium in a slow arc, making eye contact with several of the female members of the audience, who suddenly found that they were uncomfortably warm. Philo bristled. It was one thing to try and add a bit of fun to the proceedings, but this tired old player was in danger of stealing all of the limelight for himself. He cleared his throat as audibly as he could.

'Yes, quite so, my dear doctor. Now, the Evil Cortex' he hooked his hands into claws and bared his teeth as he said it, forming what he felt was a suitably comical face.  But the audience either failed to see the joke, or else they did not find it particularly funny responding not with laughter, but only a few weak smiles. 'Ahem, yes. But Dr Frankenstein, before I share my thoughts with you, may I ask why you are asking? Do you have a particularly 'boisterous' patient in mind?' and then, winking at the audience, 'A bit of a monster, perhaps'.

'My dear Professor, Junior is certainly boisterous but I hardly think it is appropriate for a man of science, such as yourself, to refer to a patient as a monster' Frankenstein looked genuinely appalled, and despite himself Philo could not help but look abashed. He saw that the wide smiles and the laughter were back, but now the audience was laughing with Frankenstein, at his expense. He felt his cheeks burning, and regretted ever entering into this charade, typical that the Dean should pick some old has-been just because he was cheap, and not consider that he might ruin a nice little idea, because he was suffering the delusion that he was an undiscovered Olivier.

'You are, of course, perfectly correct, Herr Doctor, please accept my apologies. Perhaps you would like to join me on stage, nearer the microphone.  You project well sir, but I fear even a voice as strong as yours is being lost to some of those at the rear of the hall.' In fact, the acoustics of the hall carried Frankenstein's tones admirably, but Philo wanted him close by, so he could keep a tighter reign on him, and stop him stealing any more of the show.

Frankenstein nodded his assent and began to make his way to the stage.  As he squeezed past Igor's chair, the little man reached out a hand and grabbed the tail of the master's coat. 'Pleeeeeeeeeasse master, don't go'

'Oh for heaven's sake, Igor' Frankenstein whispered to his assistant, 'How many times do I have to tell you not to effect that ridiculous voice?  I know you can speak perfectly well'

Igor let go of the coat, 'Sorry master, you're right. But please, this man cannot help you. You are Victor Frankenstein, what can he teach you of the mind? I fear he is only jealous, and means to humiliate you' Igor managed, through a huge force of will, to stop his eyes rolling just long enough to look sincere.

'Is there a problem?' Philo had been watching this exchange from the stage, but had been unable to hear any of it. He had only now noticed that the Doctor was not alone, but had brought a dwarf dressed up as his assistant, and he feared that both of them would be joining him. Frankenstein he might be able to control, but he would have no chance with a freakish, comical sidekick.

'No problem, Professor' replied the Doctor, 'Just consulting with my assistant'.  Then whispering again to Igor, 'I forget how protective you are. Your father was just the same. Don't fret, the Professor is one of our kind, he only wants to help'.  And with that he proceeded to walk to the stage, which he mounted by the steps at the side. On stage, he stood with Philo at the lectern, and towered over him.  Philo took a sidestep to the left, to try and lessen the disparity.

'Right, now, the Evil cortex, is this area here' he said winking at Frankenstein, and proceeded to produce a laser pointer from inside his blazer and waved it in the direction of the projected image on the screen, the red dot swirling in tight little circles around the rear of the brain.

'No, it isn't' said Frankenstein, his brow was deeply furrowed.  'That's the occipital lobe'.  A ripple of laughter rose up from the auditorium.

Philo took a step back toward the doctor, and placed his hand on his arm so he could turn him to face the screen and away from the audience. 'Listen to me, 'Herr Doktorrrr'' he hissed under his breath.  'I'm happy to play along with this for the sake of the Dean, and to give the audience a bit of a giggle, but be a good chap and remember that this isn't a rehearsal for the bloody Bristol rep!' Frankenstein shook himself loose from Philo's grip, and stared down at the professor with bewilderment. Turning back towards the crowd, Philo found a smile.

'Sorry, was I pointing at the occipital lobe? Silly me being a bit vague with the pointer, difficult to be precise with a photo, as opposed to a differentiated diagram. Now, the Evil Cortex'  And he moved the pointer down, and slightly to the left. Frankenstein cleared his throat loudly.

'WHAT!' squealed Philo, finally losing his cool.

'That's the cerebellum.' Frankenstein said calmly.

'Fine,' Philo snapped, and thrust the pointer into Frankenstein's hand, 'Perhaps you'd like to show us all on the screen.' Frankenstein held the pointer between his thumb and forefinger, and directed the beam, so that a red dot flared on the end of the Professor's nose.

'Your diagram is out of date, Professor Philo. The Cortex is a sponge like protrusion, about an inch and a half long, which starts above the pituitary gland and extends into the nasal cavity. I would have expected a scientist of your standing to know that.'

Philo balled his hands into fists at his sides and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. He could feel himself shaking with rage, but he felt he was composed enough to wrap this up without a tremor in his voice.

'Well, I'm very sorry, Doctor.  However, I'm afraid I am only an expert on the reality of the human brain.  The strange biology of your monstrous experiment is, I'm afraid, a little beyond me. Now, if you'll excuse me we appear to have overrun, and I have another appointment to get to, so we'll have to end the questions there'. Philo picked up his folder from the lectern, and began to make his way offstage to a mixture of half-hearted applause and disappointed murmurings. Now it was Frankenstein's turn to feel anger.

'FRAUD!' he bellowed, arm outstretched and finger pointing at Philo, 'CHARLATAN!' His eyes blazed with fury, his voice boomed and echoed off the walls. The audience whooped and Philo froze in his tracks, realising for the first time that something was very wrong. 'I have told you once already that Junior is not a monster, I will not tell you again. Do not denigrate my creation to try and cover up your own shortcomings.'

Philo was suddenly very scared but he was fiercely proud too, and had not realised by this point that the audience still regarded this as part of the show, and that he could have simply left with his reputation relatively unscathed. Instead, he turned back to face Frankenstein, and responded with a single word, 'Lunatic!'

It was enough.  Igor leapt from his chair and bounded towards Philo like a baboon, moving far more swiftly on all fours than he could upright, intent on defending his master's honour. He was up onto the Professor's shoulders and  raining blows down on his shiny bald head in a matter of seconds. The audience howled their approval and bayed for more, but Frankenstein hauled Igor off one-handed, and dragged his assistant snarling and snapping from the hall. It was only after the 'actors' had vacated the hall, and the professor was left shaking and whimpering on the stage, that some in the crowd began to realise that this might not be the fantastically choreographed piece of entertainment that they had first thought.

Back in the hotel room, Frankenstein was disconsolate when he saw the pile of bones around the bed, upon which Junior was still, thankfully, snoring loudly. 'Oh Igor, again?' Igor shrugged, as much as his hunch would allow.

'If it's any consolation, master, he was a bit of a dick.'

Frankenstein let out a long sigh, and sat down on the bed next to his slumbering creation. He ruffled Junior's coarse hair fondly, feeling the scars that covered the massive cranium brushing against the skin of his palm. 'That's not the point and you know it, sooner or later he's going to end up eating somebody who will actually be missed. I know your father told you about the unpleasantness we had with the villagers when he was my assistant.' Igor nodded, his father had indeed told him about it. His father had also told him what terrific fun it had been, what with the pitchforks and the torches and the limbs being flung far and wide, into the cold dark night.  Igor decided to keep this to himself.

'Come on,' said the doctor, 'let's start packing.  It will be easier while he's asleep. Remember what it was like on the way here, when he insisted on helping?'

Igor let out a little chuckle.  Junior's idea of helping with the packing had been dangerously chaotic, and Igor himself had almost been crushed to death under a steamer trunk, which had for some reason been filled with concrete gargoyles from the castle ramparts, but it had been hard not to get caught up with his boyish enthusiasm.

'Cheer up master.  I know he's a little rambunctious from time to time, but boys will be boys, I was much the same at his age and I didn't turn out too bad, did I?'

Frankenstein was folding a pair of Junior's pyjamas, and turned to look at Igor, who chose that moment to boggle his eyes at him for all he was worth, and the doctor smiled, despite himself.

'There you go. I know something else that will cheer you up as well.'

'What's that, Igor' the doctor asked, as he pushed a femur under the bed with his foot.

'We'll be driving past Professor Philo's house on the way to the airport.'

By Zach Owen   Wed, Jun 03, 2009

 

They were all there. The Cheshire Cat, the White Rabbit, Mad Hatter, Queen of Hearts and the rest. Alice had been found guilty of stealing the tarts, and now she faced the penalty: death by way of guillotine. The onlookers were a plethora of different emotions, whether it be delight or disgust or anything in between, it was all represented within the crowd that surrounded the platform which held the guillotine. Alice, her hands tied and her neck firmly in place, looked at the crowd with tears on her face. Surely somebody she’d met along her journey through Wonderland would speak up and try to stop this. Surely they would, wouldn’t they?

      But for the time being the onlookers were silent. The Queen of Hearts looked upon Alice and loudly announced “The Child is hereby sentenced to death. It is of her own doing. The trial has proven her guilty and I see it as fitting punishment for her to lose her head. This is the precise reason all those in Wonderland should obey my rule. If you don’t, you’ll all be running around with nothing above your neck!” she snorted loudly. She threw her cruel gaze upon poor Alice, who responded in a fear stricken and desperate voice:

      “Oh but your majesty, I won’t be running around at all after this. I am not like the people of Wonderland, if I have no head I shall not be doing any running or walking of any sort. I wish that you would reconsider this. I swear it that I did not touch your tarts and if I had I have now surely learned my lesson!”

      But the Queen would have none of this. She wiped a glob sweat from her forehead and broke her cruel look only to replace it with a deviant smile. “Why Alice, what should I care whether you run around after this or not? It is of no matter of importance to me. I only am here to see that you get your just desserts, I…”

      With this the Mad Hatter cut off the Queen. “What? Desserts? When are we having dessert! My my, I could use a good dessert just now! Why I think we should all stop with this nonsense and have some nice tea and dessert. Wouldn’t you agree my friend?”

      “Yes! Yes! Why of course, dessert would be just lovely right now, indeed! A spot of tea and some cake would do just fine.” Said the March Hare.

      “Silence!” Shouted the Queen, her face red with anger. “Do you not see that I am trying to convey a lesson here? Do you not understand that this is a matter not to be ignored? Besides, it is far too late for desserts of any kind!” She wiped some spittle from her lips and gave a threatening look to the daydreaming executioner- a card guard whose design was seemingly rubbed off of his body.

      She was right. It was pitch dark outside. Lit candles held by certain onlookers, this including the White Rabbit, The Hatter, a few card guards, and the Duchess, provided the only light. The sun had set long ago and now a strange moon hung in the sky and was so faint that it lit only it’s close perimeter. The darkness had frightened Alice, but now, even with some light, she was still frightened. Her head was her own property, and she didn’t want the Queen to take it from her.

      Alice stared at the Mad Hatter, hoping that some look of compassion would enter his face as he saw the clear concern she was trying to communicate to him. But in his eyes she saw nothing but madness. Pure and unending madness. He adjusted his huge top hat and licked his lips, probably still thinking of the dessert and tea. Beside him the March Hare did the same, his long ears twitched with delight as he stood in a blank stare on his face.

      So Alice turned instead to the White Rabbit, but even he was concerned instead with the time, looking at his watch over and over again. Alice wondered what exactly it was that he was waiting for; after all, he was with the Queen now wasn’t he? What obligation might he have next? Tears began to well up in her eyes and she called out to the crowd. “Isn’t anybody going to help me? Oh please! Please! You cannot take off my head! What will happen when I don’t return home? My Mom and Dinah are going to miss me so much, and maybe they’ll come looking for me! That’s right! They’ll come looking for me and they’ll find you all and see what you’ve done, and they’ll take your heads off too! Each and every one of you!”

      “Oh don’t cry dear, don’t cry! Why, maybe it won’t be so bad without a head. As I say…. I’m not all there myself!” The Cheshire Cat said calmly, his body disappearing as he did so, leaving only his malicious smile to float in the air.

      “You don’t understand! I’m not like any of you! I can’t have my head taken off! I won’t live through this! Please! Somebody!”

      “Enough, Child!” the Queen of Hearts cried aloud, her eyes widening as her rage grew. “No bargains will be had!” The Queen made a grin that nearly rivaled the Cheshire Cat and then nudged the executioner who turned to do his duty.

      Alice cried louder than she had ever before. Why didn’t they understand? Why couldn’t they just let her be? It was unfair. She glanced at the bucket that was meant to catch her head and saw her tears dropping off of her face into it, forming a salty pool. Again she called out to those about her: The March Hare, The Mock Turtle, The King, to anybody who may be in the surrounding forest that they had come to, to place her at the guillotine. But none of them understood. And if any creature beyond the crowd and in the dense forest understood, they didn’t care enough to come to her aid.

      She waited for the blade to cut through her, but it didn’t fall- not yet. The Queen who stood just to her side lowered her head and looked her straight in the eyes. She spoke in such a faint whisper that the whole crowd had to be silent and lean in to catch her words. “Any last words before you die child? Since, as you say, you won’t be surviving this punishment.”

      Alice thought for a moment. “Yes! Hatter, please listen! If you do something about this, if you stop it, I’ll give you a nice big dessert and make you the best tea you’ve ever tasted! Why, I’ll make you an entire meal fit for a king!”

      As she said this, the Queen understood the threat. She signaled subtly to the executioner to do the deed. So subtle, in fact, that nobody noticed. They were surprised when the blade began its rapid descent downward, it was only then that the Queen shouted “Off with her Head!”. Alice knew her impending death could be delayed no longer.

      The blade was so swift when it severed her head from her body she felt no pain, and her vision remained as her head went toppling into the bucket, splashing in her own tears. The force of her head was fierce and caused the bucket to topple over, spilling out blood, tears, head and all.

      Alice could still see, perhaps because of the strange effect Wonderland had upon her, but could feel her vision beginning to fade. She bore a disappointed look on her face, knowing that she would never get even with the Queen of Hearts.

      But this was not true, the Hatter, in all his madness, did not yet register or understand that Alice was about to meet death. All he cared about the dessert and tea that he’d been promised. A grin grew on his face as an idea planted itself in his head. He lunged forward and the Queen turned to meet him- all of this within Alice’s view. The Hatter had a dreadful gleam in his eye as he said to the Queen “Madam, I don’t think your services are so useful, for they’ve never once brought me the pleasures of tea and desserts!” With this he threw the lit candle from his hand and its flame touched the Queen’s garb before the candle landed and rolled from view. She threw her arms up in the air and bellowed a cry of horror as she went up in flames and her flesh began to darken and transform under the deconstructive surgery of fire.

      In her agony she began to move about in attempt to put out the fire, finally falling down and rolling back and forth. Eventually she accidentally fell off the platform and into the crowd, which caught fire. Screams of terror rose from the throats of the wonderland denizens, who apparently weren’t entirely impervious to pain at all, and perhaps did have some kind of mortality. They fled in every direction, catching fire to the trees of the forest, which consequently led to birds flying from the treetops in mortal terror. Some of them fell dead to the ground after their feathers had become too far engulfed with fire to allow them the gift of flight. The Queen lay dead upon the ground, in the center of a circle of dead card guards, along with The White Rabbit, King, and a mouse. The Cheshire Cat was nowhere in sight.

      In her last moments Alice saw the Hatter stooping to pick her up, and smiled as she realized she’d been avenged. Then the lights went out. The Hatter cradled Alice’s severed head in his arms as he carefully leapt from the platform and found his way through the burning embers of the Wonderland forest. The March Hare, who had somehow escaped the hellfire that claimed all of those attending the execution, joined him quickly. The two of them safely escaped the burning forest.

      “What now dear Hatter?” The March Hare asked the Hatter.

      “Why, we’re going to have a feast fit for a king, along with the finest tea we’ve ever tasted and a nice big cake!” The Hatter responded, the madness still lurking so deviously behind his eyes.

By Edward Rodosek   Wed, Jun 03, 2009

 

I'm gazing spellbound at the holographic scene.

     A broad white staircase goes up somewhere into a translucent blueness. A slender, frail woman's figure is on the front landing. Her sad, pale face touches me; I notice a dumb appeal for help from her large green eyes. The scene dissolves slowly and the commander's voice puts me back into reality.  

     “You know Lady Grace is one of our most loyal allies on the Attar II; and what you see is the last holo record of before the video connection went off. Yet, we know she's still alive for we get occasional audio signals with her voice. And now, Lieutenant Peck, let me hear again, what the purpose of your mission is.”

     “The unknown monsters on the planet Attar II besieged the castle of Lady Grace for several weeks and many of her faithful subjects have fallen. Because the situation became critical you sent Lieutenant Crawford on the rescue mission three days ago. He'd reported he succeeded in arriving at the castle, but then we lost any connection with him. My primary task is to land on the planet, drive my armored car to the castle and free Lady Grace by force if necessary.”

     I tried to hide my excitement--what a glorious task! A helpless beauty and a fearless knight who'll rescue her...

     “Very good, lieutenant. And your second task? ”

     “To find out what had happened to my comrade-in-arms and fetch him or his dead body.”

     “Excellent.  I wish you good luck, Lieutenant Peck.”

     #

     The first thing I feel is the salty taste of blood in my mouth and then a blunt pain at the nape of my neck.

     Now I recall the sequence of dramatic events exactly at the moment when I noticed the plateau on which the castle of Lady Grace stands. A huge explosion that meant an instantaneous breakdown of my spacecraft module engine--my spasmodic efforts to slow down my too fast approaching to the uneven surface of Attar II--the angry thundering of emergency jet drive--the violent thrust of the module parachute--and, finally, the brutal impact a split second before I lost my senses.

     I'm hanging downwards and when I try to untangle my seat belts I groan with pain; most likely a couple of my ribs are broken. Awkwardly I slip onto the floor, shaking my head. All around me there are smashed electronic apparatus, a heap of spare equipment changed into a useless junk.

     And the worst of all--the passage to my armored car is hopelessly blocked.  I have no arms on me except the paralyzer hanging on my belt.

     Suddenly, a strong smell of smoke fills my nostrils--oh my God, something is on fire! I try to climb over the ruins to the exit and now I see the flames are blazing in one corner of my module.

     My equipment is swiftly transforming into a glowing furnace. 

     I try to get out through the exit trapdoor, which is now nearly above my head. The knob for automatic opening is right in front of me! But it's useless now so I try to pull the lever--it sticks. I pull it again with all my strength; the trapdoor opens abruptly and I fall over the heap of equipment. A sharp, violent stabbing pain rips through my thigh--but there is no time to look at my wound.

     The fire is approaching fast, the suffocating smoke makes me cough and my eyes are brimming with tears. I must find something useful--oh, here it is, my laser, the most powerful personal weapon I know of. I swing it out through the trapdoor and then, with the utmost effort, I manage to lift my sore body, twisting my way through it and, finally, I fall on the stony ground. 

     I gasp for breath; I'm dizzy, my pulse quickening. A blue-white sun glows from the violet sky, its sharp rays dazzle my eyes and prick sting every part of my uncovered skin. All around me is an endless, glittery white plain. Only in one direction, on my left, a silhouette juts out the flat surface of the plain. Is it possible that's the Lady Grace's castle? If so, then--

     My musing stops for I catch sight of a monster.

     A freak, an unbelievable mis-creation from a nightmare--it's a beast fifteen feet tall and equally wide, a real Gorgon with undulating margins within which a sort of jell-o is flashing with interchanging colors. I'm staring in horror at its changing contours, at its form which is a negation of all possible forms. The monster is growing bigger--and only now I realize it's approaching me, slowly but inexorably.

     Reflectively I aim my laser at the center of that horrifying bulk and convulsively squeeze the trigger. I watch with a wicked satisfaction as the ruby-red laser beam penetrates deep into the monster's body.

     But, how in Space is it possible that nothing is happening? Why doesn't the enormous heat of the laser beam--several thousand degrees--burn a hole in that disgusting bulk? Why I can't smell the offensive stink of burning flesh? The monster pays no heed to my lethal weapon; the waving jell avoids the beam in a strange way and in the next instant comes back, undamaged. There is no any wound in its tissue, no scorching scratch at all. Instantaneously, the ruby-red beam pulses two, three times, then stops.

     My laser is empty now and the Gorgon is still coming nearer to me, in no hurry, self-confidently, as if it knows I can't escape it.

     My useless laser slips out of my hand. Now, nothing remains but run for my life. I try to sprint but my left leg refuses to obey me; I stumble and fall on the dusty ground. What's the matter with me? At the moment my brains are useless but my ancient survival instinct doesn't let me down. With utmost effort I manage somehow to stand up, but my left leg fails again. For the first time, I look down. The left trouser leg of my flying suit is thoroughly soaked with my blood and at every step a tiny trickle of crimson blood pours out of the wound.

     For heaven's sake--I must have nicked an artery! I know how lethal that wound is; if I don't stop or at least reduce that bleeding at once, I'll be soon too weak to run away. I press hard on the wound with my thumb. I try to hop on my right foot, but that doesn't work, I must to lean on my left leg and every time some more blood trickles under my thumb. 

     I realize I'm running away at random, just away from the beast, and that's foolish. I have to run more to the west where the plain with Lady Grace's castle is. Only there do I have a slight hope to find some help or at least to conceal myself.

     I'm trying to turn to the left, but my wounded leg won't allow me; I fall on my knees and hands, then I stand up again, pressing my thumb on the wound and staggering like a dead drunk boozer. Oh God, let me reach the castle! Now I'm just a stone's throw from it--but the Gorgon is even closer to me. I'm breathless, dripping with sweat, my mad pulse trying to blow up my chest; my strength reduces for the life is still fleeing out of my wound. 

     The Gorgon is so close to my beck I can smell its disgusting stench. I'm only a dozen steps from the huge gate of the castle--only eight, five, two... But all my effort is in vain for the gate is closed and an enormous bolt hinders my way. Everything is over.

     The Gorgon is next to me, nearly over me. I turn around, wrathfully, for I've nothing more to lose. In these last seconds of my life, I'll look directly at my executioner; it mustn't show I'm frightened to death. I stand upright and my hand feels my paralyzer hanging on my belt. Wait a second, you damned freak! I'll show you what I'm capable of--I'll burn your bloody guts before you finish me!

     I grab my paralyzer and stretch both my arms out into the Gorgon's varying bulk and squeeze the trigger.

     I hear the frightful high voltage buzz and see the dark emptiness emerging around the crackling sparks--but just for a few seconds and then the mass returns in its earlier intact form.  The Gorgon is invulnerable, indestructible...

     The paralyzer slips out of my powerless hands; my knees are weak so I have to lean against the gate. I close my eyes, waiting for death to come--for the fatal strike, for the bite of sharp fangs, for the ripping of giant claws or for something even more fearful... 

     Suddenly, the gate behind my back opens, I lose my balance, falling backwards, and an unbelievable scene appears before my astonished eyes.

     A broad white staircase goes up somewhere into a translucent blueness. On the front landing, a slender woman with a pale face and large green eyes is sitting in the armchair. Yet there isn't any trace of helplessness in her self-confident poise and her gaze shows a cold, steely determination. A few steps from her is something--something so odd that I can't, at first, recognize what it is.

     When I see its nature, the discovery freezes me on the spot.

     A uniform with lieutenant epaulets is lying on the ground; a few steps further there is a huge rotisserie over the extinct embers. And on the skewer is impaled... 

     I feel nauseous, so I have to sit down on the ground. 

     Lady Grace looks me over from head to toe.

     “Well, two delicacies in three days--that's not bad at all.” A broad smile appears on her face as she turns to Gorgon. 

     “Good job, lad. Take tomorrow off.”

By Matt Betts   Wed, Jun 03, 2009

The switch was less than smooth 
from human instructors to machines. 
Parents who had known nothing  
but flesh and blood teachers 
howled at the lack of warmth - 
the impersonal nature of a robot. 

Maybe they didn't glance close enough 
at the newest models to appreciate 
the sculpted curves, 
the latest facial moldings. 
They couldn't accept the strides 
science made in personality imprinting 

But if you ask any teen deep in denial 
about the future need for calculus and integers 
they'll say a mechanical professor  
has an appeal all its own. 
Something about the gleam in hot-soldered eyes 
the bounce of flowing synthetic hair.