Monsters!Sunday, February 27, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
addendum
yes, Tobysaurus did get a lot of hair removed....
no, he still loves to muck about in the snow. weird-Oh
Winter just won't leave me alone!
monster flakes
whosit?
i see you!
...then she opened her mouth, and the mystery vanished like warm breath on the january skies...
We're really looking forward to some spring here in the midwest, but winter in these parts seems to persevere...ack. Toby for one adores the weather, and his five pound fur coat -that's a lot considering he only weighs 24 lbs-gives him an edge over my slight frame in this bitter shtuff.
...when the trees bud, watch the sneakers emerge from brown turf, like crocus and their spiky crowns...
whosit?
i see you!
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Chaos in the Night, ten
Chapter Ten.
When the white garbed technicians arrived at his portal door, Milo begrudgingly let them in. Draybeck and Stephen looked about the spacious room and stowed what little gear they had. Their uniforms went into a recycling chute, so all evidence of their escape from Titan was now erased. The agreement that Milo and Omja Phookan came to allowed no other options; these two Earthlings would be his bunk mates for the next twenty-four point three years. Of course they would be quite asleep for all of that, and quiet as mice, so it wasn't all bad. They all sat around Milo's quarters and looked sheepishly at one another. Draybeck was exhausted from all the rushing about. He relaxed into the absorbing chair and was close to falling asleep.
There came another knock, and Milo stood to unlock the door. He was greeted by a woman of astonishing beauty, one he recognized from widespread paintings and photographs. “Annie,” he whispered. Omja hadn't been forthcoming as to who the third party would be.
“Annie!” Draybeck jumped from his chair and rushed to her. They fell into one another's arms and cried. The tears flowed in a swift torrent of the weeks and months gone by, and together they sank onto knees and fell onto their sides. Then they just lay there and laughed, while Stephen and Milo looked on in wonder.
Even before Newtonius engaged its thrusters, Stephen and Draybeck and Annie shed their robes and climbed into the large deep-sleeper. Annie was relieved when she saw she wouldn't be shoehorned into one of the standard coffins. She didn't even mind that she had to sleep naked with two men she hardly knew for twenty-five years. Once the chamber filled with somavapor the three drifted off, Stephen off to one side while Annie and Dray leaned in close to each other.
Milo stayed up and watched them for awhile, before climbing into his own coffin. This would be the longest interstellar trip of his life.
–
An agent hired by Omja Phookan spirited the two greens and one auraless woman out of the docks and away from the relocation District where all of their troubles had begun. The agent went by 'Weasel' and he had recently been sent back from Saturn's moon with a fortune in Titan ambergris, and the promise of more. As soon as the three fugitives made it safely into New Detroit, Annie paid him off with her polished necklace and scrip made out in the hand of Omja for the decided amount. Weasel kissed her hand and disappeared into the night.
From there they had no plan. Stephen and Draybeck were greens now, cut off from their families; and Annie was a blank slate. She had a new identification, but was a stranger here. They all were.
“We have to find that witch again, and get our blue status back...get our families to take us back,” said Stephen. His experimenting days were over, and he just wanted to live the life of luxury again in his father's house. But going back to blue from green wasn't as easily done. Draybeck was happy enough; he had Annie and together they would be fine. Dray had no qualms about starting a new, less affluent life.
--
She always wore a hat, and her hair was long to cover her eyes. Annie of Titan was almost as well known on Earth as she was in the Outermost; her visage and mysterious story was legendary. It wouldn't do to be recognized, Elena Consuelos was possibly still looking for her, even after twenty-five years.
Annie and Draybeck found a small apartment. He did odd jobs and was slowly finding his way in the green world. Annie worked in the artist's quarter instructing and sometimes posing for the students. She had dyed her skin a shade of aquamarine and wore her hair in chain, fuzz-head braids. Her eyelashes reached to her bangs, but her body was lovely as a spring nymphs. They lived in a Company town, but remained low key, out of the Company's sights.
Stephen was about to make a big noise. His attempts at contacting his family had gone nowhere. He was antagonistic and loathed the greens. After mere weeks Draybeck was forced to kick him out of their apartment, an easy decision for everyone involved. Now Stephen was living off the street, moving from one mellow house to another.
“Weasel,” Stephen shrugged his way to the relocation District bar where Weasel sat flanked by sumptuous blondes. 'The Old Bastard' was now 'Weasels' and still a favorite spot of Penslar dogs, among others. Weasel now did all his wheeling and dealing from this place, surreptitiously acquired from his old, strangely deceased partner.
Weasel didn't recognize Stephen, but once the strung out mellow junkie came to the point, he was all ears. “I wouldn't want to go against Omja Phookan; we had a deal. But I can make some discreet inquiries...I do know some Company men. If it ever gets out that I did you this favor, well; you'll wish you were never born.” Weasel salivated at the thought of the commission for finding the one and only Annie. The portrait of her fending off a mammoth Grokspawler under an Ammonia tree hung behind his bar and Weasel pondered it, trying to work out a scheme to get her into his own clutches, at least for a little while.
–
Draybeck finds himself in the relocation District, at the mellow cafe where he and Stephen had been shanghaied all those months ago. Stephen is at a corner table, the orange waitress in subtle boots pours him another drink then moves away to serve another customer.
“It's just you and me again, friend,” says Draybeck. He pulls up a chair and sits. He is covered in dried blood up to his elbows where he fell inside the slippery ambulance. Their green auras cast shadows on the two men's faces in the shady nook. Draybeck slaps away the glass of mellow and lays his arms on the table. “Are you comfortable, man? Are you so mellow that you can sleep at night?”
Stephen leans back against the wall and seems to look right past his old friend. “I was going home, Dray. Weasel was going to drop off my share, and I was taking my chit to that fucking witch, and going home.”
Draybeck stared at him, stared and wondered how things could go so wrong. He and Annie had just met Stephen at the park, and he said he was leaving; he wanted to say he was sorry; he just wanted to say goodbye.
“That Weasel – he was going to set me up. I heard it by mistake. He was going to take her and keep her for himself.” Stephen shook uncontrollably and searched for the waitress. He was going insane without the mellow.
They were in the park when the Company men showed up. Stephen had somehow come up with a zip pistol, probably stolen, and started firing at the Adjusters. He shrugged off his backpack and tossed it at Annie, then ran, disappearing into a stand of trees. Annie held it loosely, she and Draybeck were confused. Then the concussion charges blew. They were set low, but the charges were meant for the hard pack of Titan and the reverberation tore into Annie, rupturing her organs and splitting open her flesh. He tried to hold her together.
Draybeck stands and walks over to the bar. “Two more mellow, please.”
Stephen watches, and Draybeck returns; he sets his glass down and begins to hand the second to his friend, who is wincing with the anticipation of relief. Suddenly Draybeck smashes the glass onto the table's edge; liquid splashes onto Stephen who gapes and paws at the stain. “You bastard; you killed Annie, and now I'm sending you as far away from home as you'll ever go. Go to hell, Stephen.” He slashes the jagged glass at Stephen's throat and the blood geysers out in a wide semicircle, splattering the walls and table with a deluge of crimson.
“Another one,” Draybeck calls to the waitress, who is ready with her platter. Dead Stephen slumps off his chair into the puddle that is dripping from his compromised gullet.
Dray downs the drink and slams the cup onto the slippery tabletop. “Keep 'em coming; and what about the dessert menu? I feel like celebrating.”
The end.
When the white garbed technicians arrived at his portal door, Milo begrudgingly let them in. Draybeck and Stephen looked about the spacious room and stowed what little gear they had. Their uniforms went into a recycling chute, so all evidence of their escape from Titan was now erased. The agreement that Milo and Omja Phookan came to allowed no other options; these two Earthlings would be his bunk mates for the next twenty-four point three years. Of course they would be quite asleep for all of that, and quiet as mice, so it wasn't all bad. They all sat around Milo's quarters and looked sheepishly at one another. Draybeck was exhausted from all the rushing about. He relaxed into the absorbing chair and was close to falling asleep.
There came another knock, and Milo stood to unlock the door. He was greeted by a woman of astonishing beauty, one he recognized from widespread paintings and photographs. “Annie,” he whispered. Omja hadn't been forthcoming as to who the third party would be.
“Annie!” Draybeck jumped from his chair and rushed to her. They fell into one another's arms and cried. The tears flowed in a swift torrent of the weeks and months gone by, and together they sank onto knees and fell onto their sides. Then they just lay there and laughed, while Stephen and Milo looked on in wonder.
Even before Newtonius engaged its thrusters, Stephen and Draybeck and Annie shed their robes and climbed into the large deep-sleeper. Annie was relieved when she saw she wouldn't be shoehorned into one of the standard coffins. She didn't even mind that she had to sleep naked with two men she hardly knew for twenty-five years. Once the chamber filled with somavapor the three drifted off, Stephen off to one side while Annie and Dray leaned in close to each other.
Milo stayed up and watched them for awhile, before climbing into his own coffin. This would be the longest interstellar trip of his life.
–
An agent hired by Omja Phookan spirited the two greens and one auraless woman out of the docks and away from the relocation District where all of their troubles had begun. The agent went by 'Weasel' and he had recently been sent back from Saturn's moon with a fortune in Titan ambergris, and the promise of more. As soon as the three fugitives made it safely into New Detroit, Annie paid him off with her polished necklace and scrip made out in the hand of Omja for the decided amount. Weasel kissed her hand and disappeared into the night.
From there they had no plan. Stephen and Draybeck were greens now, cut off from their families; and Annie was a blank slate. She had a new identification, but was a stranger here. They all were.
“We have to find that witch again, and get our blue status back...get our families to take us back,” said Stephen. His experimenting days were over, and he just wanted to live the life of luxury again in his father's house. But going back to blue from green wasn't as easily done. Draybeck was happy enough; he had Annie and together they would be fine. Dray had no qualms about starting a new, less affluent life.
--
She always wore a hat, and her hair was long to cover her eyes. Annie of Titan was almost as well known on Earth as she was in the Outermost; her visage and mysterious story was legendary. It wouldn't do to be recognized, Elena Consuelos was possibly still looking for her, even after twenty-five years.
Annie and Draybeck found a small apartment. He did odd jobs and was slowly finding his way in the green world. Annie worked in the artist's quarter instructing and sometimes posing for the students. She had dyed her skin a shade of aquamarine and wore her hair in chain, fuzz-head braids. Her eyelashes reached to her bangs, but her body was lovely as a spring nymphs. They lived in a Company town, but remained low key, out of the Company's sights.
Stephen was about to make a big noise. His attempts at contacting his family had gone nowhere. He was antagonistic and loathed the greens. After mere weeks Draybeck was forced to kick him out of their apartment, an easy decision for everyone involved. Now Stephen was living off the street, moving from one mellow house to another.
“Weasel,” Stephen shrugged his way to the relocation District bar where Weasel sat flanked by sumptuous blondes. 'The Old Bastard' was now 'Weasels' and still a favorite spot of Penslar dogs, among others. Weasel now did all his wheeling and dealing from this place, surreptitiously acquired from his old, strangely deceased partner.
Weasel didn't recognize Stephen, but once the strung out mellow junkie came to the point, he was all ears. “I wouldn't want to go against Omja Phookan; we had a deal. But I can make some discreet inquiries...I do know some Company men. If it ever gets out that I did you this favor, well; you'll wish you were never born.” Weasel salivated at the thought of the commission for finding the one and only Annie. The portrait of her fending off a mammoth Grokspawler under an Ammonia tree hung behind his bar and Weasel pondered it, trying to work out a scheme to get her into his own clutches, at least for a little while.
–
Draybeck finds himself in the relocation District, at the mellow cafe where he and Stephen had been shanghaied all those months ago. Stephen is at a corner table, the orange waitress in subtle boots pours him another drink then moves away to serve another customer.
“It's just you and me again, friend,” says Draybeck. He pulls up a chair and sits. He is covered in dried blood up to his elbows where he fell inside the slippery ambulance. Their green auras cast shadows on the two men's faces in the shady nook. Draybeck slaps away the glass of mellow and lays his arms on the table. “Are you comfortable, man? Are you so mellow that you can sleep at night?”
Stephen leans back against the wall and seems to look right past his old friend. “I was going home, Dray. Weasel was going to drop off my share, and I was taking my chit to that fucking witch, and going home.”
Draybeck stared at him, stared and wondered how things could go so wrong. He and Annie had just met Stephen at the park, and he said he was leaving; he wanted to say he was sorry; he just wanted to say goodbye.
“That Weasel – he was going to set me up. I heard it by mistake. He was going to take her and keep her for himself.” Stephen shook uncontrollably and searched for the waitress. He was going insane without the mellow.
They were in the park when the Company men showed up. Stephen had somehow come up with a zip pistol, probably stolen, and started firing at the Adjusters. He shrugged off his backpack and tossed it at Annie, then ran, disappearing into a stand of trees. Annie held it loosely, she and Draybeck were confused. Then the concussion charges blew. They were set low, but the charges were meant for the hard pack of Titan and the reverberation tore into Annie, rupturing her organs and splitting open her flesh. He tried to hold her together.
Draybeck stands and walks over to the bar. “Two more mellow, please.”
Stephen watches, and Draybeck returns; he sets his glass down and begins to hand the second to his friend, who is wincing with the anticipation of relief. Suddenly Draybeck smashes the glass onto the table's edge; liquid splashes onto Stephen who gapes and paws at the stain. “You bastard; you killed Annie, and now I'm sending you as far away from home as you'll ever go. Go to hell, Stephen.” He slashes the jagged glass at Stephen's throat and the blood geysers out in a wide semicircle, splattering the walls and table with a deluge of crimson.
“Another one,” Draybeck calls to the waitress, who is ready with her platter. Dead Stephen slumps off his chair into the puddle that is dripping from his compromised gullet.
Dray downs the drink and slams the cup onto the slippery tabletop. “Keep 'em coming; and what about the dessert menu? I feel like celebrating.”
The end.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Chaos in the Night- Nine
Chapter 9
“I think I love her, Stephen.” Draybeck was laying inside the auto-doc, the lid still sealed, but he was fully conscious. “The thought of Annie is the only thing that's kept me alive these few months.”
Stephen stared. He was happy his friend was on his way to recovery, but all this lame talk of love was irritating. They would probably never even see Annie again; to want a reunion was a waste of a wish.
“Bullshit. I'm the only thing that's kept you alive all these months.” Secretly he wondered if Annie had turned them over to the Company for a fee. Secretly he wondered if somehow she had rescued them. Selfishly he thought maybe he loved her, too. “You'd have crawled under a pile of rocks and died days ago without me dragging you around and forcing you to eat and drink.”
“I'm not used to working like that.” Draybeck excused himself and misted the glass, falling almost immediately back to sleep. His last thought was, “when I'm back on Earth, I hope that she'll stay with me.” Maybe even marry me...but he was afraid to even think the words.
Stephen was completely healed, and the auto-doc had sunk into the sub-floor, being replaced by a medi-chair. He sank back into the lining and let the chair enfold him and kneed his muscles. The men who had rescued them pushed them into this self-contained room with such an urgency that everything they had in the tunnels still lay in a heap around the small room. It looked to Stephen like the space had been hastily fit with the equipment that would automatically do its work, and they might be on their own until the next stage of their evacuation. Apparently they would take nothing back with them but the loose white garments that were placed on the small table, and whatever they had brought up from the mines with them. Stephen kicked at the pile of grimy shorts and a filthy satchel. It rattled. He bent down and dug out a handful of concussion charges.
“These might come in handy somewhere down the road.” You never know.
--
She took nothing with her but the clothes on her back and the altered necklace. Annie kissed Elena and left with the excuse of a quick shopping trip. After the ambergris vibrated she knew the game was on. They got back to Elena's apartments and after a quick shower, Annie made ready to rendezvous with Omja Phookan in a specified location.
“Ah, you are late.” Omja was pacing in the tunnel and picked up a carry bag which he pushed into her arms. “Everything you need is in here. Clothes, and of course new identification for yourself. The men have everything they need and you will be reunited with them in the Newtonius. Arrangements for your transit have been made.”
Annie shuddered. “The thought of going back into a casket for twenty-five years...” She turned a little whiter.
“I think you'll be pleasantly surprised at your accommodations.” Omja leaned in to hug her and kissed her cheek, as he would a daughter. “Now, in to see the witch, and may all your wishes come true, Annie.” Omja Phookan stepped into a zip tunnel and disappeared.
She waited a moment, then knocked at the portal door. It opened and a solemn woman wearing a colorful robe welcomed Annie into the dug out room. The walls were unadorned, and most of the floor was of unfinished Titan bedrock, covered in a fine dust that swirled as their feet moved over the surface.
The witch took the bag and set it aside, then methodically undressed Annie until she stood naked in the center of the room. The air was chill and she shivered.
“Sit, my dear.” The witch and Annie lowered themselves to the hard ground. In the dim light Annie's blue aura cast weird shadows to the air, and the witch wavered her arms over their heads as if to dispel the apparitions. She took a vial from her robe and uncorked it, poured a strong mixture over Annie's head and rubbed the fluid into her scalp. Then she shrugged off her robe and crawled onto Annie, pushing her to the rock floor where they tumbled and lay together for a time.
'That's the last time I ever do that,' thought Annie, and then she arose devoid of an aura, free of the Company, free of Elena Consuelos, and very soon free of Titan.
--
The door flew open and two short men wearing white clothing and hoods came inside. Stephen jumped up ready to do battle, but the lead man put up a hand in peace, while the second tossed a satchel each at Stephen and Draybeck.
“Put these clothes on, discard what you're wearing and bring the bags with you.”
“We're moving out?” asked Draybeck. He stood and tore the gown over his head. “We have a ship?”
“Just hurry, and follow us.” The men turned and moved into the tunnel to wait.
They pulled on the white uniforms quickly and shouldered the bags. Stephen stowed a few articles from the floor into his, and then pushed Draybeck ahead of him from the room. All four men where dressed alike.
“Put these on.” Identification tags were swung over their necks. Draybeck found himself panting as they walked briskly down the tunnel. Neither he or Stephen had any idea where they were; but he resisted the urge to gawk and stayed in step with Stephen breathing down his neck. Shortly they came to a zip tunnel and then a series of lifts until they found themselves in a bright hanger atrium. Saturn loomed over their heads. It was the first time they'd seen anything of Titan or the outermost, and the view was stunning.
“The cage right ahead. We're in number one.” They walked through the checkpoint and boarded a cylinder and each took a seat. Their two guides stared straight ahead; Draybeck and Stephen felt it best to do the same. A group of marines and then two inspectors came in after them and took seats around the cylinder walls. They secured their bags and latched in; no one spoke.
Outside they could hear the rush of the accelerators, and the doors flished close. Shortly the cylinder rumbled and aided by the tri-photon cage shuttles they flew up and out of the hanger into the Titan atmosphere and then into orbit to meet with Newtonius.
“I think I love her, Stephen.” Draybeck was laying inside the auto-doc, the lid still sealed, but he was fully conscious. “The thought of Annie is the only thing that's kept me alive these few months.”
Stephen stared. He was happy his friend was on his way to recovery, but all this lame talk of love was irritating. They would probably never even see Annie again; to want a reunion was a waste of a wish.
“Bullshit. I'm the only thing that's kept you alive all these months.” Secretly he wondered if Annie had turned them over to the Company for a fee. Secretly he wondered if somehow she had rescued them. Selfishly he thought maybe he loved her, too. “You'd have crawled under a pile of rocks and died days ago without me dragging you around and forcing you to eat and drink.”
“I'm not used to working like that.” Draybeck excused himself and misted the glass, falling almost immediately back to sleep. His last thought was, “when I'm back on Earth, I hope that she'll stay with me.” Maybe even marry me...but he was afraid to even think the words.
Stephen was completely healed, and the auto-doc had sunk into the sub-floor, being replaced by a medi-chair. He sank back into the lining and let the chair enfold him and kneed his muscles. The men who had rescued them pushed them into this self-contained room with such an urgency that everything they had in the tunnels still lay in a heap around the small room. It looked to Stephen like the space had been hastily fit with the equipment that would automatically do its work, and they might be on their own until the next stage of their evacuation. Apparently they would take nothing back with them but the loose white garments that were placed on the small table, and whatever they had brought up from the mines with them. Stephen kicked at the pile of grimy shorts and a filthy satchel. It rattled. He bent down and dug out a handful of concussion charges.
“These might come in handy somewhere down the road.” You never know.
--
She took nothing with her but the clothes on her back and the altered necklace. Annie kissed Elena and left with the excuse of a quick shopping trip. After the ambergris vibrated she knew the game was on. They got back to Elena's apartments and after a quick shower, Annie made ready to rendezvous with Omja Phookan in a specified location.
“Ah, you are late.” Omja was pacing in the tunnel and picked up a carry bag which he pushed into her arms. “Everything you need is in here. Clothes, and of course new identification for yourself. The men have everything they need and you will be reunited with them in the Newtonius. Arrangements for your transit have been made.”
Annie shuddered. “The thought of going back into a casket for twenty-five years...” She turned a little whiter.
“I think you'll be pleasantly surprised at your accommodations.” Omja leaned in to hug her and kissed her cheek, as he would a daughter. “Now, in to see the witch, and may all your wishes come true, Annie.” Omja Phookan stepped into a zip tunnel and disappeared.
She waited a moment, then knocked at the portal door. It opened and a solemn woman wearing a colorful robe welcomed Annie into the dug out room. The walls were unadorned, and most of the floor was of unfinished Titan bedrock, covered in a fine dust that swirled as their feet moved over the surface.
The witch took the bag and set it aside, then methodically undressed Annie until she stood naked in the center of the room. The air was chill and she shivered.
“Sit, my dear.” The witch and Annie lowered themselves to the hard ground. In the dim light Annie's blue aura cast weird shadows to the air, and the witch wavered her arms over their heads as if to dispel the apparitions. She took a vial from her robe and uncorked it, poured a strong mixture over Annie's head and rubbed the fluid into her scalp. Then she shrugged off her robe and crawled onto Annie, pushing her to the rock floor where they tumbled and lay together for a time.
'That's the last time I ever do that,' thought Annie, and then she arose devoid of an aura, free of the Company, free of Elena Consuelos, and very soon free of Titan.
--
The door flew open and two short men wearing white clothing and hoods came inside. Stephen jumped up ready to do battle, but the lead man put up a hand in peace, while the second tossed a satchel each at Stephen and Draybeck.
“Put these clothes on, discard what you're wearing and bring the bags with you.”
“We're moving out?” asked Draybeck. He stood and tore the gown over his head. “We have a ship?”
“Just hurry, and follow us.” The men turned and moved into the tunnel to wait.
They pulled on the white uniforms quickly and shouldered the bags. Stephen stowed a few articles from the floor into his, and then pushed Draybeck ahead of him from the room. All four men where dressed alike.
“Put these on.” Identification tags were swung over their necks. Draybeck found himself panting as they walked briskly down the tunnel. Neither he or Stephen had any idea where they were; but he resisted the urge to gawk and stayed in step with Stephen breathing down his neck. Shortly they came to a zip tunnel and then a series of lifts until they found themselves in a bright hanger atrium. Saturn loomed over their heads. It was the first time they'd seen anything of Titan or the outermost, and the view was stunning.
“The cage right ahead. We're in number one.” They walked through the checkpoint and boarded a cylinder and each took a seat. Their two guides stared straight ahead; Draybeck and Stephen felt it best to do the same. A group of marines and then two inspectors came in after them and took seats around the cylinder walls. They secured their bags and latched in; no one spoke.
Outside they could hear the rush of the accelerators, and the doors flished close. Shortly the cylinder rumbled and aided by the tri-photon cage shuttles they flew up and out of the hanger into the Titan atmosphere and then into orbit to meet with Newtonius.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Chaos in the Night 8
Chapter 8
When Newtonius set its orbit and the first tri-photon cage shuttles arrived, Omja Phookan boarded with the Inspectors. As they were checking the log books and tagging the cargo, Omja was seeking out the starship's seer, who was slow in waking up. Actually, Milo had set his waking coordinates for a week past arrival time, hoping to avoid some crew members who might be getting up on the wrong side of their coffins. Omja entered the seer's quarters with the help of a sleep master (another expense to forward on to the escapees bill) and with an override code Milo was groggily awoken.
As a seer, Milo was granted some of the nicest accommodations on the vessel. He had a regular sleep coffin and an oversized coffin, big enough for a party, and the room itself was nicely fitted with chairs, a couch and an entertainment center. Seers were a well paid necessity and for the most part treated like dignitaries. Milo liked to stay outside of deep sleep for extended periods of time, so as part of his contract he had the quarters specially designed. The oversized deep sleeper was a must for those times when he took a midshipman or galley cook in for a long nap.
He was used to waking up at the finish of a trip alone, though. “Hello, who are you, and what the hell do you want?” Milo slicked his mussed hair back and stepped naked from the coffin. Omja handed him a towel, but Milo ignored the gesture and stepped into a corner upright cleansing tank.
“I am Omja Phookan. I have a deal for you, sir.”
Milo stepped from the cleanser after a moment and accepted the towel. “I'm under contract for the return trip.” Secretly he was hoping this strange man might have a better option however; Milo wasn't sure he'd make it through the return trip alive, not if he couldn't pay off his gambling debts.
“You have many obligations. I have a client willing to absorb these for you, for a favor.”
Milo threw done the towel and began rummaging through a pile of wear suitable for the tunnels. He was anxious to get off this boat and to see something new, even if it was just an elaborate system of tunnels and the occasional sun dome. “I don't know who you've been talking to. I have a few minor debts, but they're nothing I can't resolve myself. I can make it all up in one night on Titan – I know plenty of suckers just waiting to gift their shiny pennies into my coffers.”
“I know more than you think; I know how many threepenny bets you've actually lost and how deep in the red you are. And I know how many of those 'suckers' are on the lookout for your shenanigans, sir. In fact, I've had help spreading the word on Titan that you, Milo, are en orbit and on your way in.”
Milo deflated and sunk onto his couch. “Alright, Omja whoever the hell you are; I know when I'm out of chips. What's the deal?”
–
Stephen shuddered in the auto-doc compartment. For a couple of days he slept like a baby while the machine hydrated and repaired his stress points. He wasn't terribly beat up, but the R and R did him a world of good. Draybeck, on the other hand, was just a heartbeat away from death. The rescue couldn't have happened at a later time, or the broken slave would have surely died that day.
Stephen climbed from the auto-doc, bored, and dangled his feet over the side. His friend's machine was humming along, repairing and replenishing Draybeck's ravaged body. When he came out his organs would be healthy, and his skin would be scrubbed, regrown, and smooth as a newborn's.
“Heal up, Dray, buddy; we're on our way home.” Stephen didn't know how, or who, had rescued them. He only knew what he was told: 'Do not leave this room. Within weeks you will transported back to Earth. If they find you, you will undoubtedly be tortured and sent back down to die.'
There was no way in hell he was going to leave this room. “Damn,but I'm hungry,” Stephen said to himself. He laid back down in the auto-doc and dialed up some nourishment. Not steak, and for sure it wasn't a mellow, but how else was one to pass his time in a crummy Titan meat locker?
–
Elena Consuelos and Annie were tethered to a boom and jumping around like acrobats in the Copernicus dome. The ground was deep with specially grown Titan loam and when they fell down from dizzying heights their feet, or arms, would sink into and spring forth from the vegetation. The biggest hazard was falling into each other, but when they came close they would gently collide and fold themselves together to brace against the fall. The boom was placed far enough from the dome sun that they didn't risk overexposure, but whenever they flew too close to the dome's edge a definite chill from the outside environ crept into their bones, just like a cold current would sweep the legs of a swimmer treading water in the warm gulf sea of Earth.
Elena happily noticed the ambergris necklace swinging off of Annie's neck, bouncing away from her floating breast. She said it was her most precious gift and never took it off.
Annie felt the jewel vibrate as it touched against her skin, and she clutched it and held it into her milk white cleft. “I'm feeling a little space sick; I think.”
When Newtonius set its orbit and the first tri-photon cage shuttles arrived, Omja Phookan boarded with the Inspectors. As they were checking the log books and tagging the cargo, Omja was seeking out the starship's seer, who was slow in waking up. Actually, Milo had set his waking coordinates for a week past arrival time, hoping to avoid some crew members who might be getting up on the wrong side of their coffins. Omja entered the seer's quarters with the help of a sleep master (another expense to forward on to the escapees bill) and with an override code Milo was groggily awoken.
As a seer, Milo was granted some of the nicest accommodations on the vessel. He had a regular sleep coffin and an oversized coffin, big enough for a party, and the room itself was nicely fitted with chairs, a couch and an entertainment center. Seers were a well paid necessity and for the most part treated like dignitaries. Milo liked to stay outside of deep sleep for extended periods of time, so as part of his contract he had the quarters specially designed. The oversized deep sleeper was a must for those times when he took a midshipman or galley cook in for a long nap.
He was used to waking up at the finish of a trip alone, though. “Hello, who are you, and what the hell do you want?” Milo slicked his mussed hair back and stepped naked from the coffin. Omja handed him a towel, but Milo ignored the gesture and stepped into a corner upright cleansing tank.
“I am Omja Phookan. I have a deal for you, sir.”
Milo stepped from the cleanser after a moment and accepted the towel. “I'm under contract for the return trip.” Secretly he was hoping this strange man might have a better option however; Milo wasn't sure he'd make it through the return trip alive, not if he couldn't pay off his gambling debts.
“You have many obligations. I have a client willing to absorb these for you, for a favor.”
Milo threw done the towel and began rummaging through a pile of wear suitable for the tunnels. He was anxious to get off this boat and to see something new, even if it was just an elaborate system of tunnels and the occasional sun dome. “I don't know who you've been talking to. I have a few minor debts, but they're nothing I can't resolve myself. I can make it all up in one night on Titan – I know plenty of suckers just waiting to gift their shiny pennies into my coffers.”
“I know more than you think; I know how many threepenny bets you've actually lost and how deep in the red you are. And I know how many of those 'suckers' are on the lookout for your shenanigans, sir. In fact, I've had help spreading the word on Titan that you, Milo, are en orbit and on your way in.”
Milo deflated and sunk onto his couch. “Alright, Omja whoever the hell you are; I know when I'm out of chips. What's the deal?”
–
Stephen shuddered in the auto-doc compartment. For a couple of days he slept like a baby while the machine hydrated and repaired his stress points. He wasn't terribly beat up, but the R and R did him a world of good. Draybeck, on the other hand, was just a heartbeat away from death. The rescue couldn't have happened at a later time, or the broken slave would have surely died that day.
Stephen climbed from the auto-doc, bored, and dangled his feet over the side. His friend's machine was humming along, repairing and replenishing Draybeck's ravaged body. When he came out his organs would be healthy, and his skin would be scrubbed, regrown, and smooth as a newborn's.
“Heal up, Dray, buddy; we're on our way home.” Stephen didn't know how, or who, had rescued them. He only knew what he was told: 'Do not leave this room. Within weeks you will transported back to Earth. If they find you, you will undoubtedly be tortured and sent back down to die.'
There was no way in hell he was going to leave this room. “Damn,but I'm hungry,” Stephen said to himself. He laid back down in the auto-doc and dialed up some nourishment. Not steak, and for sure it wasn't a mellow, but how else was one to pass his time in a crummy Titan meat locker?
–
Elena Consuelos and Annie were tethered to a boom and jumping around like acrobats in the Copernicus dome. The ground was deep with specially grown Titan loam and when they fell down from dizzying heights their feet, or arms, would sink into and spring forth from the vegetation. The biggest hazard was falling into each other, but when they came close they would gently collide and fold themselves together to brace against the fall. The boom was placed far enough from the dome sun that they didn't risk overexposure, but whenever they flew too close to the dome's edge a definite chill from the outside environ crept into their bones, just like a cold current would sweep the legs of a swimmer treading water in the warm gulf sea of Earth.
Elena happily noticed the ambergris necklace swinging off of Annie's neck, bouncing away from her floating breast. She said it was her most precious gift and never took it off.
Annie felt the jewel vibrate as it touched against her skin, and she clutched it and held it into her milk white cleft. “I'm feeling a little space sick; I think.”
Chaos in the Night 7
Chapter 7
Milo had a health problem. He was as unlucky as one could get, and up to his eyeballs in IOU's. The only thing that stopped Newtonius' thugs from dropping him in a chute and throwing the switch was his uncanny ability to stopgap in deep sleep. A star cruiser was pretty good at functioning on its own, and there was always a half crew awake throughout the whole voyage. Each ship had 6 crews which included four pilots, two technicians, one physician, and a custodial staff. Averaging a voyage to 24.3 years, that meant each member of crew was out of deep sleep for approximately 2 years of every one way trip. A shift generally lasted one year, unless something malfunctioned and more crew had to be awoken. A rogue micrometeorite storm swept into the path of an early starship and peppered the entire aft life support corridor. Only five years into the trip, that half crew had to complete the entire journey out of deep sleep. Stopping and turning back would have saved only two years, so it was the Company's decision to push on to Titan. Too bad, the remaining crew went mad and even the investigators couldn't piece together the puzzle of the missing Delivery's crew.
Milo wasn't actually a crew member, he was contracted, sort of a seer. Under a deep deep sleep, a seer would project his dreams light years ahead of the ship, and if something dire crossed their path, in a dream, then the computer would record the moment and shake the seer awake. Once awake, the seer would make his report, and calamity could be avoided. Generally this system worked pretty well. Most disasters were spotted by the ship's computers, but a few squirrely ones would pop up during the course of a voyage. A seer could be woken up as many as ten to fifty times in a trip, and once awake it was unsafe to go back into a deep sleep too quickly. In Milo's case, he preferred to stay alert for a week or two. And in that space of time, Milo loved to play games. You'd think being a seer would give a gambler the advantage; not so much for Milo. He had some fairly large amounts owed him from good luck bets, but most went the other direction. The dice just didn't roll the way he saw them do, and the cards changed their dots every time they laid down on the table.
Everyone knew he was a vital component in getting to Titan in one piece, so his debts got to ride along for free. Until the ride ended, then who knew how things would end up for Milo. He didn't, and that was worrisome.
–
Stephen moved ahead of the team, almost naked but for the filthy shorts and concussion charges he had on a cord around his neck. The other men lay in shambles on the tunnel floor, propped up by loose scrabble. Draybeck was sipping on the last of his rations, and they still had several hours left in the shift. Stephen saw the light going out in his friend's eyes. This might be the last day for him, thought Stephen. He dug a hole into the tunnel head and plucked a charge from the cord. The bombs were small, and their job wasn't to blow huge holes in rock, rather to agitate it gently, forming fissures and rifts, so that the drills could do their work easier. The mine foremen had no intention of giving anything more powerful into the mine slave's hands. Stephen moved back fifty yards and sat with the others while the concussion charge did its work. It didn't make a lot of noise when it exploded, but they all felt a wave move down the walls and then the trickle of a fore mini avalanche.
“Up you sluggards,” came the call from behind. The foreman was behind a plexiglass wall shield sitting on a cooler. His stun-laz was holstered, but not fastened.
Stephen pulled Draybeck up and they shuffled to the front, dragging the screws in the loose shale, ducking around crags that haphazardly poked out of walls, ceiling and floor. A finishing crew was following these men, chipping and grinding at the tunnel work, and more were drilling offshoots that would eventually become offices and apartments for the growing Titan population.
Draybeck dropped his hose nozzle and rolled onto the curved wall, settling into the dust. “Get up, Dray, come on, bud.” Stephen tried to gather the equipment and Draybeck, but his waning strength didn't allow the extra load. The foreman unclasped his weapon and unhinged the glass partition.
“Maggots. Move it along, your work ain't done today.” Then above the foreman's head a trickle of pebbles came loose and turned into a rain of rock and dust which pelted him into the floor before he had the chance to dive away. A screw point descended, then retreated, leaving a wide borehole behind.
The tunnel crew watched dumbfounded as a lightly armored man dropped onto the tunnel floor, He rolled with a flash laz held out, then seeing the guard was down, he secured his laser and stood. A harness fell down the hole when he looked into the recess and gave a thumbs up.
“Which one of you is Draybeck?”
–
“Has anyone ever seen one,” Annie asked. She had taken the simple polished broach into the jeweler under the pretext that the clasp was broken. Elena Consuelos had no reason to be suspicious.
The jeweler swept a cloth over the necklace and Annie spun and lifted her hair for him to attach the piece. “The submersibles they send down can't pick up a good image; the ocean is too murky.”
“Oh?”
“But, they do have pictures of their insides.” It seems that the creatures are big enough to swallow the unmanned drones. Scientists named the undersea creatures 'whales', but nobody really knew what they were, or even if they produced the Titan ambergris. The necklace Annie wore contained a good sized, refined and polished piece of the ambergris. It lent a jaunty air to the vicinity, and kept her in high spirits whenever she wore it. Now it contained a tiny beacon that would warn Annie when the time came to fly. “Years ago a poet, born in the Outermost – I think an old junker moon in the Jupiter system – wrote an epic poem. Maybe you've heard of it; Space Iliad?”
“I think I've seen murals...” She would have, now that she traveled in the upper echelon of Titan society. As a tunnel rat in her youth she would not have been privy to anything so literary.
“The crew of this galactic long boat jumps from rock to rock, running up against fantastic creatures and weird civilizations. They eventually claim what they set out for, but the return journey is 'fraught with peril', yada yada, and all that. Generations pass, fortunes came and went, and finally the great hero and a crew member or two make it back home, and nobody remembers them or even cares about their diamond space needle.”
“Did you like it?”
“The jeweler laughed. “Ha. Not really; you know, just something they make everybody read. It's just general knowledge.”
Annie fingered the polished ambergris and a faint scent traveled to her nose. She could see it was affecting the jeweler too, and he eyed her. Annie left for her residence, wondering when the bauble would speak to her, and when her Iliad would begin anew.
Milo had a health problem. He was as unlucky as one could get, and up to his eyeballs in IOU's. The only thing that stopped Newtonius' thugs from dropping him in a chute and throwing the switch was his uncanny ability to stopgap in deep sleep. A star cruiser was pretty good at functioning on its own, and there was always a half crew awake throughout the whole voyage. Each ship had 6 crews which included four pilots, two technicians, one physician, and a custodial staff. Averaging a voyage to 24.3 years, that meant each member of crew was out of deep sleep for approximately 2 years of every one way trip. A shift generally lasted one year, unless something malfunctioned and more crew had to be awoken. A rogue micrometeorite storm swept into the path of an early starship and peppered the entire aft life support corridor. Only five years into the trip, that half crew had to complete the entire journey out of deep sleep. Stopping and turning back would have saved only two years, so it was the Company's decision to push on to Titan. Too bad, the remaining crew went mad and even the investigators couldn't piece together the puzzle of the missing Delivery's crew.
Milo wasn't actually a crew member, he was contracted, sort of a seer. Under a deep deep sleep, a seer would project his dreams light years ahead of the ship, and if something dire crossed their path, in a dream, then the computer would record the moment and shake the seer awake. Once awake, the seer would make his report, and calamity could be avoided. Generally this system worked pretty well. Most disasters were spotted by the ship's computers, but a few squirrely ones would pop up during the course of a voyage. A seer could be woken up as many as ten to fifty times in a trip, and once awake it was unsafe to go back into a deep sleep too quickly. In Milo's case, he preferred to stay alert for a week or two. And in that space of time, Milo loved to play games. You'd think being a seer would give a gambler the advantage; not so much for Milo. He had some fairly large amounts owed him from good luck bets, but most went the other direction. The dice just didn't roll the way he saw them do, and the cards changed their dots every time they laid down on the table.
Everyone knew he was a vital component in getting to Titan in one piece, so his debts got to ride along for free. Until the ride ended, then who knew how things would end up for Milo. He didn't, and that was worrisome.
–
Stephen moved ahead of the team, almost naked but for the filthy shorts and concussion charges he had on a cord around his neck. The other men lay in shambles on the tunnel floor, propped up by loose scrabble. Draybeck was sipping on the last of his rations, and they still had several hours left in the shift. Stephen saw the light going out in his friend's eyes. This might be the last day for him, thought Stephen. He dug a hole into the tunnel head and plucked a charge from the cord. The bombs were small, and their job wasn't to blow huge holes in rock, rather to agitate it gently, forming fissures and rifts, so that the drills could do their work easier. The mine foremen had no intention of giving anything more powerful into the mine slave's hands. Stephen moved back fifty yards and sat with the others while the concussion charge did its work. It didn't make a lot of noise when it exploded, but they all felt a wave move down the walls and then the trickle of a fore mini avalanche.
“Up you sluggards,” came the call from behind. The foreman was behind a plexiglass wall shield sitting on a cooler. His stun-laz was holstered, but not fastened.
Stephen pulled Draybeck up and they shuffled to the front, dragging the screws in the loose shale, ducking around crags that haphazardly poked out of walls, ceiling and floor. A finishing crew was following these men, chipping and grinding at the tunnel work, and more were drilling offshoots that would eventually become offices and apartments for the growing Titan population.
Draybeck dropped his hose nozzle and rolled onto the curved wall, settling into the dust. “Get up, Dray, come on, bud.” Stephen tried to gather the equipment and Draybeck, but his waning strength didn't allow the extra load. The foreman unclasped his weapon and unhinged the glass partition.
“Maggots. Move it along, your work ain't done today.” Then above the foreman's head a trickle of pebbles came loose and turned into a rain of rock and dust which pelted him into the floor before he had the chance to dive away. A screw point descended, then retreated, leaving a wide borehole behind.
The tunnel crew watched dumbfounded as a lightly armored man dropped onto the tunnel floor, He rolled with a flash laz held out, then seeing the guard was down, he secured his laser and stood. A harness fell down the hole when he looked into the recess and gave a thumbs up.
“Which one of you is Draybeck?”
–
“Has anyone ever seen one,” Annie asked. She had taken the simple polished broach into the jeweler under the pretext that the clasp was broken. Elena Consuelos had no reason to be suspicious.
The jeweler swept a cloth over the necklace and Annie spun and lifted her hair for him to attach the piece. “The submersibles they send down can't pick up a good image; the ocean is too murky.”
“Oh?”
“But, they do have pictures of their insides.” It seems that the creatures are big enough to swallow the unmanned drones. Scientists named the undersea creatures 'whales', but nobody really knew what they were, or even if they produced the Titan ambergris. The necklace Annie wore contained a good sized, refined and polished piece of the ambergris. It lent a jaunty air to the vicinity, and kept her in high spirits whenever she wore it. Now it contained a tiny beacon that would warn Annie when the time came to fly. “Years ago a poet, born in the Outermost – I think an old junker moon in the Jupiter system – wrote an epic poem. Maybe you've heard of it; Space Iliad?”
“I think I've seen murals...” She would have, now that she traveled in the upper echelon of Titan society. As a tunnel rat in her youth she would not have been privy to anything so literary.
“The crew of this galactic long boat jumps from rock to rock, running up against fantastic creatures and weird civilizations. They eventually claim what they set out for, but the return journey is 'fraught with peril', yada yada, and all that. Generations pass, fortunes came and went, and finally the great hero and a crew member or two make it back home, and nobody remembers them or even cares about their diamond space needle.”
“Did you like it?”
“The jeweler laughed. “Ha. Not really; you know, just something they make everybody read. It's just general knowledge.”
Annie fingered the polished ambergris and a faint scent traveled to her nose. She could see it was affecting the jeweler too, and he eyed her. Annie left for her residence, wondering when the bauble would speak to her, and when her Iliad would begin anew.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Chaos in the Night 6
Chapter 6
The Y. Penslar was a star tonight in Earth's orbit. Around the docks, the interstellar ship was known as Big Dog, so called because of its captain's habit of parking his ship in the jaws of Canis Major at its instance of heliacal rising. The moment was fleeting, but the name stuck, and Penslar's mongrel crew climbed down from space barking mad.
They fell over each other in a drunken mass entering Bastard Jarlon's crappy bar. Years ago, Jarlon came out from the Kuiper Belt a wealthy oreholder, but it didn't take long for him to blow his asteroid scrip on frivolous chit. Virtual chicks, infrared mellow. You name it; everything that could be had in the Belt was amplified on Earth. The drugs and women, they were cheaper here – but they were everywhere, and Jarlon fell into a trap all too familiar to Company inspectors. The collectors came knocking and shredded his iridium flix. He was given three choices. Go on Company payroll – the unofficial one – or go into hibernation for transport to Titan's deep mines. Oh, the third choice; run. Jarlon tried that. He lost every stub of hair on his body and half the skin on his left side was crispy fried bacon. The hack Company docs replaced his charred epidermis with synthskin, cheaper stuff than even the Model T%'s wore, and it itched all the time. Jarlon still threw punches for the Company, but he was well entrenched and his own holdings grew. Tonight he conducted a rowdy game of Face Eaters in the center ring. The activated crowd was ensiesta with pitchers of blonde octane, held in check by electric spheres, and Jarlon slid down a ramp for the interim, smearing a blue cream onto his left bicep.
“Bastard!” A scant crewman slid into the bar, seemingly passing through the negative spaces, creating a deficit of friction. Weasel maneuvered to Jarlon's focal point occupying the minimum amount defined by physical law. “Aha; Bastard, my friend; oh have I got the goods for you. Will you deal?” Weasel lived loosely in the Company universe, flitting in and out, wheeling and dealing goods from the Outermost to the inner and back out again, as he pleased. Technically he was a supply clerk on Y. Penslar, but really he had his wiggly paws in everyone's pie, and the fruit he pilfered was for sale.
Jarlon slapped his back or slapped at it, but Weasel shifted, “'Eh, Weasel boy. I got a big payin' thrall on here, my man. Why don't ya get on up to the bar there and have Elwi pour out some of the good stuff; on me.”
After, beyond the thrall, Jarlon had some of the bodies removed to the quickfix tubes out back, while others were lucky enough to find a padded booth and dial into intravenous recovery consciously. He ushered Weasel from the bar into his office. Weasel pulled a delineated satchel onto the desk and toggled the pixelation tag, and the bag revealed itself as hardshell luggage, easily twice the size as its cloak suggested. “Inside here, my good friend, are goodies from Titan, the likes you've never seen before, or smelled.”
“Ha, Stick the friend shit, Weasel; let's see it. I got a raid planned for later.”
Weasel lifted out capped pipettes of Jupiter juice and some bars of Sola' ice. These were items Jarlon had seen before, but there was always a demand, so he began to select a few things to trade for. “S'good, but no big deal. You got any stressed diamond, or purple flakes?”
“Ah, yes, my...Bastard, I do. But I have this, too.” Weasel undid an inner side compartment and pulled from it two wrapped packages. He gingerly pulled off the paper from one and then unzipped the seal. Immediately the room filled with an unmistakeable pungency. Both of the man grinned and laughed aloud.
“Okay, okay, seal that bugger up.” This was a cake of pure Titan ambergris. Unrefined it had a sickly sweet odor, bordering on an all out reek. Its direct effect on the nervous system was of debilitating humor. But once processed into a resin or perfume, the scent of Titan ambergris became a most sought after potion. Small, even tiny amounts could turn fortunes on end. So the price for these two cakes was immeasurable. “You weasel! And how did you come by this? And what makes you think I can afford the price?”
“Oh, I don't imagine you can. But we can work something out I'm sure. I have enough of this to keep you supplied for a long time; and in the meantime you're a good fence for me – I trust you. And you can keep the Company off my back. Capeesh?” Weasel replaced one cake into the case, but handed the unwrapped piece over to Jarlon. “Now, shall we deal?”
“Indeed, let's,” Jarlon reached for the package, but swung his left hand up and sliced through the weasel's neck with an uncharged foil. Certainly, Weasel's honed senses would have recognized a heated weapon, but nobody used archaic arms anymore, they were too slow and blunt. The body slumped crookedly behind the desk, out of sight. Jarlon dropped the blade off to the side, and picked through the case, pulling out three more cakes of the ambergris. “Jackpot!” These alone should buy him a way out of this Company shithole forever. Maybe he could even outfit a miner and get a new crew together; get off of this crummy planet for good.
Then he felt the nozzle of a flash laz on the back of his head. “Oh, my friend. You didn't think I'd walk into your little deathtrap with a fortune in my pocket, just ripe for the taking, did you? You see, Bastard, maybe you're not up on the new pixelates; this one I have has got some major substance, you know. Not up to par with a Squidge remote, but you'd of seen right through that, wouldn't you?'
Jarlon nearly had a quippy reply worked out, but the front of his face disintegrated as the full force of Weasel's laser beam lit up his skull.
–
They walked by a photograph of Omja Phookan standing amidst vapor wearing a fetus tie. A brown pair of endorsed Catalan cats swung like infinity marbles from a hook underneath a holo atrium.
“Do you see this cabinet hinge?” he asked Annie. They held hands as they strolled. “It's a metronomic anomaly filter. Yeah, really. And this house plant, have you ever seen a Green Nepthytis; Syngonium podophyllum? No, of course you haven't.” Omja pulled a chair back from the cafe table; it scraped over the locally mined chert. “Pull on this leaf, and 'phoom', quick release escape valve. Why, back in the 60's I retrofitted my earthbound kitchen with a kit lunar lander, so I think I can get you and your friends off of this fetid rock easily enough.”
She had made some discreet inquiries and found Draybeck and Stephen's general whereabouts in the mazes under Titan. What she couldn't know was exactly where they were, or minute by minute information. Like how their health was, or even whether or not they still lived. Anything could be bought on Titan, and the cost of two malnourished, half-dead miners who probably wouldn't make it through next week came pretty cheap. Still, there were a lot of hands to be greased. Annie had talked Elena Consuelos into backing the escape, what she didn't know was that Annie planned to fly as well.
Omja Phookan was a middleman, and he had the meter running. He was a man of integrity, but he didn't come cheap. Happily, he employed a vast harem of quality, and taste. So, although he eyed Annie appreciatively, he respected her above many, for her beauty and accomplishment. He bobbed his head many times at her inquiries.
“You know,” and he bobbed; Annie bobbed in return, “she will come after you; she has uncounted resources. She may even employ me. Might be just to bring you back. Consuelos will be grief stricken. But if she can't have your love, then....”
Annie hadn't thought that far ahead.
“You have not attained the right to discard your aura, you are lowly indeed. There are ones who, for a price, can erase it however; that and your identity-code.”
“Can you arrange it. I mean, without Elena finding out?” There was much to work out.
He led her out of his spacious cave to a zip tunnel. “Wait for the signal, lovely Annie. Namaste.”
The Y. Penslar was a star tonight in Earth's orbit. Around the docks, the interstellar ship was known as Big Dog, so called because of its captain's habit of parking his ship in the jaws of Canis Major at its instance of heliacal rising. The moment was fleeting, but the name stuck, and Penslar's mongrel crew climbed down from space barking mad.
They fell over each other in a drunken mass entering Bastard Jarlon's crappy bar. Years ago, Jarlon came out from the Kuiper Belt a wealthy oreholder, but it didn't take long for him to blow his asteroid scrip on frivolous chit. Virtual chicks, infrared mellow. You name it; everything that could be had in the Belt was amplified on Earth. The drugs and women, they were cheaper here – but they were everywhere, and Jarlon fell into a trap all too familiar to Company inspectors. The collectors came knocking and shredded his iridium flix. He was given three choices. Go on Company payroll – the unofficial one – or go into hibernation for transport to Titan's deep mines. Oh, the third choice; run. Jarlon tried that. He lost every stub of hair on his body and half the skin on his left side was crispy fried bacon. The hack Company docs replaced his charred epidermis with synthskin, cheaper stuff than even the Model T%'s wore, and it itched all the time. Jarlon still threw punches for the Company, but he was well entrenched and his own holdings grew. Tonight he conducted a rowdy game of Face Eaters in the center ring. The activated crowd was ensiesta with pitchers of blonde octane, held in check by electric spheres, and Jarlon slid down a ramp for the interim, smearing a blue cream onto his left bicep.
“Bastard!” A scant crewman slid into the bar, seemingly passing through the negative spaces, creating a deficit of friction. Weasel maneuvered to Jarlon's focal point occupying the minimum amount defined by physical law. “Aha; Bastard, my friend; oh have I got the goods for you. Will you deal?” Weasel lived loosely in the Company universe, flitting in and out, wheeling and dealing goods from the Outermost to the inner and back out again, as he pleased. Technically he was a supply clerk on Y. Penslar, but really he had his wiggly paws in everyone's pie, and the fruit he pilfered was for sale.
Jarlon slapped his back or slapped at it, but Weasel shifted, “'Eh, Weasel boy. I got a big payin' thrall on here, my man. Why don't ya get on up to the bar there and have Elwi pour out some of the good stuff; on me.”
After, beyond the thrall, Jarlon had some of the bodies removed to the quickfix tubes out back, while others were lucky enough to find a padded booth and dial into intravenous recovery consciously. He ushered Weasel from the bar into his office. Weasel pulled a delineated satchel onto the desk and toggled the pixelation tag, and the bag revealed itself as hardshell luggage, easily twice the size as its cloak suggested. “Inside here, my good friend, are goodies from Titan, the likes you've never seen before, or smelled.”
“Ha, Stick the friend shit, Weasel; let's see it. I got a raid planned for later.”
Weasel lifted out capped pipettes of Jupiter juice and some bars of Sola' ice. These were items Jarlon had seen before, but there was always a demand, so he began to select a few things to trade for. “S'good, but no big deal. You got any stressed diamond, or purple flakes?”
“Ah, yes, my...Bastard, I do. But I have this, too.” Weasel undid an inner side compartment and pulled from it two wrapped packages. He gingerly pulled off the paper from one and then unzipped the seal. Immediately the room filled with an unmistakeable pungency. Both of the man grinned and laughed aloud.
“Okay, okay, seal that bugger up.” This was a cake of pure Titan ambergris. Unrefined it had a sickly sweet odor, bordering on an all out reek. Its direct effect on the nervous system was of debilitating humor. But once processed into a resin or perfume, the scent of Titan ambergris became a most sought after potion. Small, even tiny amounts could turn fortunes on end. So the price for these two cakes was immeasurable. “You weasel! And how did you come by this? And what makes you think I can afford the price?”
“Oh, I don't imagine you can. But we can work something out I'm sure. I have enough of this to keep you supplied for a long time; and in the meantime you're a good fence for me – I trust you. And you can keep the Company off my back. Capeesh?” Weasel replaced one cake into the case, but handed the unwrapped piece over to Jarlon. “Now, shall we deal?”
“Indeed, let's,” Jarlon reached for the package, but swung his left hand up and sliced through the weasel's neck with an uncharged foil. Certainly, Weasel's honed senses would have recognized a heated weapon, but nobody used archaic arms anymore, they were too slow and blunt. The body slumped crookedly behind the desk, out of sight. Jarlon dropped the blade off to the side, and picked through the case, pulling out three more cakes of the ambergris. “Jackpot!” These alone should buy him a way out of this Company shithole forever. Maybe he could even outfit a miner and get a new crew together; get off of this crummy planet for good.
Then he felt the nozzle of a flash laz on the back of his head. “Oh, my friend. You didn't think I'd walk into your little deathtrap with a fortune in my pocket, just ripe for the taking, did you? You see, Bastard, maybe you're not up on the new pixelates; this one I have has got some major substance, you know. Not up to par with a Squidge remote, but you'd of seen right through that, wouldn't you?'
Jarlon nearly had a quippy reply worked out, but the front of his face disintegrated as the full force of Weasel's laser beam lit up his skull.
–
They walked by a photograph of Omja Phookan standing amidst vapor wearing a fetus tie. A brown pair of endorsed Catalan cats swung like infinity marbles from a hook underneath a holo atrium.
“Do you see this cabinet hinge?” he asked Annie. They held hands as they strolled. “It's a metronomic anomaly filter. Yeah, really. And this house plant, have you ever seen a Green Nepthytis; Syngonium podophyllum? No, of course you haven't.” Omja pulled a chair back from the cafe table; it scraped over the locally mined chert. “Pull on this leaf, and 'phoom', quick release escape valve. Why, back in the 60's I retrofitted my earthbound kitchen with a kit lunar lander, so I think I can get you and your friends off of this fetid rock easily enough.”
She had made some discreet inquiries and found Draybeck and Stephen's general whereabouts in the mazes under Titan. What she couldn't know was exactly where they were, or minute by minute information. Like how their health was, or even whether or not they still lived. Anything could be bought on Titan, and the cost of two malnourished, half-dead miners who probably wouldn't make it through next week came pretty cheap. Still, there were a lot of hands to be greased. Annie had talked Elena Consuelos into backing the escape, what she didn't know was that Annie planned to fly as well.
Omja Phookan was a middleman, and he had the meter running. He was a man of integrity, but he didn't come cheap. Happily, he employed a vast harem of quality, and taste. So, although he eyed Annie appreciatively, he respected her above many, for her beauty and accomplishment. He bobbed his head many times at her inquiries.
“You know,” and he bobbed; Annie bobbed in return, “she will come after you; she has uncounted resources. She may even employ me. Might be just to bring you back. Consuelos will be grief stricken. But if she can't have your love, then....”
Annie hadn't thought that far ahead.
“You have not attained the right to discard your aura, you are lowly indeed. There are ones who, for a price, can erase it however; that and your identity-code.”
“Can you arrange it. I mean, without Elena finding out?” There was much to work out.
He led her out of his spacious cave to a zip tunnel. “Wait for the signal, lovely Annie. Namaste.”
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
salad ease
i guess i am not alone, in feeling this winter might never end. of course, here in the Midwest, we are used to what feels like a long February - thank goodness it isn't a normal sized month. it will be cold this month, right up to the end; then it will be damp and cold and miserable. then it will be wet. yes, we've got a ways to go. until then I've constructed something a little less decrepit than the view from my window.
Odious legroom
my fellow inexorable philanthropists,
gorge on thy holiday wieners and strike
strike
strike up the band.
The hog roast while palatable
and the iced mounds, plural indeed
luscious of course
beg for discourse,
they obfuscate under a dexterous tongue
whilst you recline deep in salad ease
to slaver perhaps to vacillate
under an umbrella tree
then rise from a stupor
with coffee and cherry Clafoutis
for a pleasant peasant toss.
Middling wares confuse the masses,
the bucolic umpteen that line
on banks of La mer,
the horse play ends
with a hyperbolic flourish,
a windswept waif,
absconded with by a various churl
slow motion coifs
and gaping maws
convey an awe shucks moment
of pshaw and golly gee.
Loose your shoes and thump your seat,
spear it, the delectables,
and drown in a wealth of red wine
as your mustache bleeds
in spectacular light
of thine better days.
Daisy chain deeds and red letter fetes
cataloged, digested,
memorably forlorn in the chafe
of a gray age.
A gala will ensue
at the demise
of your literal reign,
easy as cake
and sweet it is
as sweet will be.
this be dedicated to Reya, who is celebrating the month, and hopefully the decline of winter, with poetry every day.
my fellow inexorable philanthropists,
gorge on thy holiday wieners and strike
strike
strike up the band.
The hog roast while palatable
and the iced mounds, plural indeed
luscious of course
beg for discourse,
they obfuscate under a dexterous tongue
whilst you recline deep in salad ease
to slaver perhaps to vacillate
under an umbrella tree
then rise from a stupor
with coffee and cherry Clafoutis
for a pleasant peasant toss.
Middling wares confuse the masses,
the bucolic umpteen that line
on banks of La mer,
the horse play ends
with a hyperbolic flourish,
a windswept waif,
absconded with by a various churl
slow motion coifs
and gaping maws
convey an awe shucks moment
of pshaw and golly gee.
Loose your shoes and thump your seat,
spear it, the delectables,
and drown in a wealth of red wine
as your mustache bleeds
in spectacular light
of thine better days.
Daisy chain deeds and red letter fetes
cataloged, digested,
memorably forlorn in the chafe
of a gray age.
A gala will ensue
at the demise
of your literal reign,
easy as cake
and sweet it is
as sweet will be.
this be dedicated to Reya, who is celebrating the month, and hopefully the decline of winter, with poetry every day.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Chaos in the Night 5
Chapter 5
The gray sloth moved easily in the branches of a mottled Ammonia tree. High above, the ever present dome sun flickered and she felt a sudden chill. If the powerful spotlight ever went out, even for a minute, every living thing within the Titan Dome would instantly freeze and topple over dead. Even the towering Ammonia trees, which were shallow rooted and extremely fragile. They grew only yards away from the big water/ammonia third Ring Lake and Annie lounged beneath their thick leafy branches while Simon Arturo wielded his brushes. The oils he used were genuine Titan pigments, gathered from phosphane lakes and rivers.
“Your chin is dipping, my dear.” She could see only the top of his head, where a dark pair of goggles rested. Annie looked up while Arturo dabbed a brown semi-circle onto the canvas. He peeked about the easel and tongued his upper right lip. “Are you cold?”
“Only for a moment,” she said, and eyed her frock. Suddenly she felt goose pimples and her pert nipples hardened noticeably. Annie shivered.
Simon rose from his bench and gathered up Annie's shear dress, draping it over her shoulders and covering her naked form. He packed his brushes and canvas and they started their light walk back to the Lakeside building, this domes main tunnel hub. Much earlier, Annie found that she couldn't bear the thought of going back to permanent tunnel life, not after experiencing the open air of Earth. This life went against everything she was taught, but after mere weeks she gave in and let the madames recruit her as a mistress. In a bizarre twist of fate, she was bought by a collector and farmed out to artists - men and women who were recruited to artistically document life within and on the surface of this amazing new world.
Within hailing distance of the tunnel doors, the sun brightened and brushed away the Titan winter. Annie shrugged the frock off one shoulder and breathed heavily. Normally the artists gave her free reign between posings, but this day Arturo took Annie's hand and led her to a fallen tree, where he sat her down and lifted the gown off her torso to drape it over a limb. Arturo knelt before her, fondling her modest breasts and he kissed her neck, working lips and tongue down to her cleavage. Then he thrust his way between her legs and together they gently rose into the low gravity, tumbling in the lush airs of the dome until they gently rolled as one onto the soft loam of Titan's earth.
–
Sweat dripped down Draybeck's back and stomach; it soaked the baggy shorts that he just kept up barely by use of some discarded wire twine from the tunneling bore. He was holding a pump over his head, clamping down the handle with a hand that was rapidly cramping up, and his arms were heavy as lead while an acidic wash frothed from the nozzle to cool the screws. His eyes were very nearly squinched shut and burned endlessly. He wanted to get a hold of a sharp splinter and dig them from his skull; the ammonia water had nearly destroyed his vision, so they were of little use anyways.
Down the tunnel Stephen was howling raunchy phrases and beating on the screws with a wire whip to loosen caked phosphorus. On the surface it may have been -170 C, but this far below the surface of Titan the temperatures swelled to between 45 and 50 degrees C. Together Draybeck and Stephen had come down to the mines with 10 men, most of them draftees from Earth, only to see half of them replaced with fresh bodies. Draybeck knew he wouldn't last much longer. His arms sagged as he staggered onto a craggy rock wall and fell over. The acid wash sprayed onto a neighbor who screamed and whipped at Draybeck with his tool. Stephen staggered forward and flailed at the man, pushing him aside.
“Get up, damnit, Dray. Get up and spray that hose, hose those screws you horny fucker.”
“Fuck yeah, fuck it,” cheered the crew, and they gathered their strength to attack the rock and drive forward, toward the end of their shift. Minutes remained, mere minutes, and if only they could live through the long seconds, a hard stone bed in a dry heat waited for them a mile up. They would drink the diluted water and gnaw on marrow and scraps from a stale larder, and so they would live, for another day, one more or maybe two.
–
Her portraits caught the eye of Elena Consuelos, and soon Annie moved to the apartments of the wealthy Spaniard who wore a tiara instead of an aura. Elena set her upon diamond pillars etched and vividly streaked by the torrents of roiling surface flows, and the best artists on Titan lined up to immortalize her. The cavern walls of Mademoiselle Consuelos showcased the artful posturing of Annie, as she stretched and arced and reclined in still life and landscapes.
Elena loved Annie so. She caressed and bathed her. They lay together every day and night, oftentimes to an audience or with many men who moved as instructed by their mistresses. Elena lived for Annie; she was so precious to her; hers was a sickness. Annie vomited every morning, but she decided eventually that she could live with the shame; better this. Even this - better this than to dwell like a rat in the tunnels running errands and sweating ammonia from gasping pores.
Sitting erect, high with a straight back, her green hue exchanged for blue, soon Annie found she was wearing the crown, while Consuelos bowed in her moist lap, prostrating herself to the glory of her mistress, eager to do homage and pay any price for Annie's attention.
Finally Annie recalled the reason she was here, on Titan; she remembered the sere men that crawled as insects and lay curling like parchment in yellow embers.
The gray sloth moved easily in the branches of a mottled Ammonia tree. High above, the ever present dome sun flickered and she felt a sudden chill. If the powerful spotlight ever went out, even for a minute, every living thing within the Titan Dome would instantly freeze and topple over dead. Even the towering Ammonia trees, which were shallow rooted and extremely fragile. They grew only yards away from the big water/ammonia third Ring Lake and Annie lounged beneath their thick leafy branches while Simon Arturo wielded his brushes. The oils he used were genuine Titan pigments, gathered from phosphane lakes and rivers.
“Your chin is dipping, my dear.” She could see only the top of his head, where a dark pair of goggles rested. Annie looked up while Arturo dabbed a brown semi-circle onto the canvas. He peeked about the easel and tongued his upper right lip. “Are you cold?”
“Only for a moment,” she said, and eyed her frock. Suddenly she felt goose pimples and her pert nipples hardened noticeably. Annie shivered.
Simon rose from his bench and gathered up Annie's shear dress, draping it over her shoulders and covering her naked form. He packed his brushes and canvas and they started their light walk back to the Lakeside building, this domes main tunnel hub. Much earlier, Annie found that she couldn't bear the thought of going back to permanent tunnel life, not after experiencing the open air of Earth. This life went against everything she was taught, but after mere weeks she gave in and let the madames recruit her as a mistress. In a bizarre twist of fate, she was bought by a collector and farmed out to artists - men and women who were recruited to artistically document life within and on the surface of this amazing new world.
Within hailing distance of the tunnel doors, the sun brightened and brushed away the Titan winter. Annie shrugged the frock off one shoulder and breathed heavily. Normally the artists gave her free reign between posings, but this day Arturo took Annie's hand and led her to a fallen tree, where he sat her down and lifted the gown off her torso to drape it over a limb. Arturo knelt before her, fondling her modest breasts and he kissed her neck, working lips and tongue down to her cleavage. Then he thrust his way between her legs and together they gently rose into the low gravity, tumbling in the lush airs of the dome until they gently rolled as one onto the soft loam of Titan's earth.
–
Sweat dripped down Draybeck's back and stomach; it soaked the baggy shorts that he just kept up barely by use of some discarded wire twine from the tunneling bore. He was holding a pump over his head, clamping down the handle with a hand that was rapidly cramping up, and his arms were heavy as lead while an acidic wash frothed from the nozzle to cool the screws. His eyes were very nearly squinched shut and burned endlessly. He wanted to get a hold of a sharp splinter and dig them from his skull; the ammonia water had nearly destroyed his vision, so they were of little use anyways.
Down the tunnel Stephen was howling raunchy phrases and beating on the screws with a wire whip to loosen caked phosphorus. On the surface it may have been -170 C, but this far below the surface of Titan the temperatures swelled to between 45 and 50 degrees C. Together Draybeck and Stephen had come down to the mines with 10 men, most of them draftees from Earth, only to see half of them replaced with fresh bodies. Draybeck knew he wouldn't last much longer. His arms sagged as he staggered onto a craggy rock wall and fell over. The acid wash sprayed onto a neighbor who screamed and whipped at Draybeck with his tool. Stephen staggered forward and flailed at the man, pushing him aside.
“Get up, damnit, Dray. Get up and spray that hose, hose those screws you horny fucker.”
“Fuck yeah, fuck it,” cheered the crew, and they gathered their strength to attack the rock and drive forward, toward the end of their shift. Minutes remained, mere minutes, and if only they could live through the long seconds, a hard stone bed in a dry heat waited for them a mile up. They would drink the diluted water and gnaw on marrow and scraps from a stale larder, and so they would live, for another day, one more or maybe two.
–
Her portraits caught the eye of Elena Consuelos, and soon Annie moved to the apartments of the wealthy Spaniard who wore a tiara instead of an aura. Elena set her upon diamond pillars etched and vividly streaked by the torrents of roiling surface flows, and the best artists on Titan lined up to immortalize her. The cavern walls of Mademoiselle Consuelos showcased the artful posturing of Annie, as she stretched and arced and reclined in still life and landscapes.
Elena loved Annie so. She caressed and bathed her. They lay together every day and night, oftentimes to an audience or with many men who moved as instructed by their mistresses. Elena lived for Annie; she was so precious to her; hers was a sickness. Annie vomited every morning, but she decided eventually that she could live with the shame; better this. Even this - better this than to dwell like a rat in the tunnels running errands and sweating ammonia from gasping pores.
Sitting erect, high with a straight back, her green hue exchanged for blue, soon Annie found she was wearing the crown, while Consuelos bowed in her moist lap, prostrating herself to the glory of her mistress, eager to do homage and pay any price for Annie's attention.
Finally Annie recalled the reason she was here, on Titan; she remembered the sere men that crawled as insects and lay curling like parchment in yellow embers.
Chaos in the Night - 4
Chapter 4
The Company advertised heavily their forward progression on human rights, and although the union was a thing of history not even taught in the company run schools anymore, common laborers had all the advantages of their managers and the ever watchful inspectors. Or so they said. The quality of services and health programs was diminished by the quantity of providers. Jobs were abundant however, and since the great mid century die-off there were never enough bodies to go around. Economic misfortune had caused all of the 21st century's superpowers to splinter and eventually break, and the Great Lakes territory was purchased by Moon State Tech, which had holdings all over the continent. The greens simply called Moon State 'the Company,' and they were as much slaves to the territory as they were citizens. At birth the people were processed and gained either a blue or green aura. It was a caste system, but remaining a blue wasn't a given. Crime, civil disobedience, or mental instability could easily earn a demotion. And the Company's hovering satellites acted as a steel cage to keep everyone in line.
The advertising was aimed at adding citizens to their list of holdings. And if a person ever came to work for Moon State on one of their countless properties throughout the solar system, he or she had better read the contract before signing on the dotted line. World courts didn't have much power across territory lines, and Moon State was never one to play nice. They also engaged in legal piracy and shanghai protocols, especially in instances of interstellar travel and keeping up a good rotation for the mining projects.
Which is why Stephen and Draybeck were being secured in the back of a large vehicle to be shipped off to Saturn's largest moon.
Annie reacted quicker than she might have believed possible. An adrenaline situation like this had never surfaced before in her rather mundane life. She sprang from her low chair and leaped down from the third story balcony onto the second, and then down to a ground level awning and with one arm swung to the tarmac, just as the thugs had tossed Draybeck and Stephen into the rear of the lectruck. With a surface gravity of .138 of earth's, one might suspect Titan wouldn't have equipped Annie for such accomplished jumping about, but because the moon had such a low grav, she spent hours each day in a high grav workout suite, tighter than earth's, and the internal rotation of the human transit vessel was also set at a +/-.05 earth-grav. Her muscles were well tuned for the conditions of this new planet, but had she thought twice, Annie probably wouldn't go jumping out of buildings every day.
Jarl and his accomplice climbed into the cab and moved forward into the alley; they had a list and before returning to the loading district expected to have a full cargo of conscripts. With these two, their work was done. Lining the interior walls were another eight men, either handcuffed to rails or unconscious. Harried and bloodied, unwilling, but good enough for what the Company demanded in the mines.
Annie turned the corner as the lectruck lurched forward, and she closed her grip around the rear door's handle. It didn't open. She held on tight and balanced on the bumper, bending her knees and hoping she was unnoticed by the driver. The trip wasn't lengthy, and in minutes the truck entered the docks. Annie dropped off the bumper and jogged off to the side of the street, keeping an eye on the vehicle. Shortly it drove into a secure area and she couldn't follow.
“Shit,” she said. Not because the chase was lost, but because of the sign on the fence. 'Loading for Titan'. A big cargo container fitted with three Tri-photon cage shuttles was sitting on a launch pad getting the full treatment. Crates were onloading via electric ramps and a big crane was dropping megaton cargo into the hatches. Stenciled onto the container was 'Y. Penslar' – the interstellar ship Annie had just slept in on. Now she knew; the guys were headed to Titan, and the way they were going was a one way trip. The shanghaied were never documented, and when they finally succumbed to overworking and death inside the deep mines of Titan, they would be jettisoned toward Saturn and never seen again, except perhaps as tumbling pieces of its giant rings.
–
“Where do I sign?” The legless Squidge transmitted a standard Company form onto the glass surface and Annie scrawled her legal identity-code onto the designated line. So much for gaining a hard earned life on Earth; she was headed back to squalor and claustrophobia, and for two guys she barely knew. Soon Annie would be placed into a second hand coffin that had seen who knows how many voyages here and back again. If she was lucky, then she'd make the twenty plus year journey back to Titan, and a moon she had prayed to escape from for most of her life; and if unlucky – well, then the life support would fail and inside the rotating coffin her organs would roll, and Annie's body would twist into a pretzel, folding onto itself like a hopeless origami poker hand. What the fuck was she thinking?
The Company advertised heavily their forward progression on human rights, and although the union was a thing of history not even taught in the company run schools anymore, common laborers had all the advantages of their managers and the ever watchful inspectors. Or so they said. The quality of services and health programs was diminished by the quantity of providers. Jobs were abundant however, and since the great mid century die-off there were never enough bodies to go around. Economic misfortune had caused all of the 21st century's superpowers to splinter and eventually break, and the Great Lakes territory was purchased by Moon State Tech, which had holdings all over the continent. The greens simply called Moon State 'the Company,' and they were as much slaves to the territory as they were citizens. At birth the people were processed and gained either a blue or green aura. It was a caste system, but remaining a blue wasn't a given. Crime, civil disobedience, or mental instability could easily earn a demotion. And the Company's hovering satellites acted as a steel cage to keep everyone in line.
The advertising was aimed at adding citizens to their list of holdings. And if a person ever came to work for Moon State on one of their countless properties throughout the solar system, he or she had better read the contract before signing on the dotted line. World courts didn't have much power across territory lines, and Moon State was never one to play nice. They also engaged in legal piracy and shanghai protocols, especially in instances of interstellar travel and keeping up a good rotation for the mining projects.
Which is why Stephen and Draybeck were being secured in the back of a large vehicle to be shipped off to Saturn's largest moon.
Annie reacted quicker than she might have believed possible. An adrenaline situation like this had never surfaced before in her rather mundane life. She sprang from her low chair and leaped down from the third story balcony onto the second, and then down to a ground level awning and with one arm swung to the tarmac, just as the thugs had tossed Draybeck and Stephen into the rear of the lectruck. With a surface gravity of .138 of earth's, one might suspect Titan wouldn't have equipped Annie for such accomplished jumping about, but because the moon had such a low grav, she spent hours each day in a high grav workout suite, tighter than earth's, and the internal rotation of the human transit vessel was also set at a +/-.05 earth-grav. Her muscles were well tuned for the conditions of this new planet, but had she thought twice, Annie probably wouldn't go jumping out of buildings every day.
Jarl and his accomplice climbed into the cab and moved forward into the alley; they had a list and before returning to the loading district expected to have a full cargo of conscripts. With these two, their work was done. Lining the interior walls were another eight men, either handcuffed to rails or unconscious. Harried and bloodied, unwilling, but good enough for what the Company demanded in the mines.
Annie turned the corner as the lectruck lurched forward, and she closed her grip around the rear door's handle. It didn't open. She held on tight and balanced on the bumper, bending her knees and hoping she was unnoticed by the driver. The trip wasn't lengthy, and in minutes the truck entered the docks. Annie dropped off the bumper and jogged off to the side of the street, keeping an eye on the vehicle. Shortly it drove into a secure area and she couldn't follow.
“Shit,” she said. Not because the chase was lost, but because of the sign on the fence. 'Loading for Titan'. A big cargo container fitted with three Tri-photon cage shuttles was sitting on a launch pad getting the full treatment. Crates were onloading via electric ramps and a big crane was dropping megaton cargo into the hatches. Stenciled onto the container was 'Y. Penslar' – the interstellar ship Annie had just slept in on. Now she knew; the guys were headed to Titan, and the way they were going was a one way trip. The shanghaied were never documented, and when they finally succumbed to overworking and death inside the deep mines of Titan, they would be jettisoned toward Saturn and never seen again, except perhaps as tumbling pieces of its giant rings.
–
“Where do I sign?” The legless Squidge transmitted a standard Company form onto the glass surface and Annie scrawled her legal identity-code onto the designated line. So much for gaining a hard earned life on Earth; she was headed back to squalor and claustrophobia, and for two guys she barely knew. Soon Annie would be placed into a second hand coffin that had seen who knows how many voyages here and back again. If she was lucky, then she'd make the twenty plus year journey back to Titan, and a moon she had prayed to escape from for most of her life; and if unlucky – well, then the life support would fail and inside the rotating coffin her organs would roll, and Annie's body would twist into a pretzel, folding onto itself like a hopeless origami poker hand. What the fuck was she thinking?
Sunday, February 6, 2011
A new batch of C c c c c comix
aLiEnAnTiCs!!!
it's still cold in our neck of the world
+ more freak'n snow--
super bowl Sunday;
who's yur pick?
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Chaos in the Night 3
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
A great claw swung over the rampart that blotted out the sun. Draybeck looked up and fought the urge to jump. He visually scanned the sweep of the machine to a small cab perched high above the deck. A smaller man sat inside directing the crane as it swiveled over the shipping container and dipped its claw into the behemoth.
“Hey Dray, wouldn't it be great if we could land a job on that monster?” Stephen pointed to a similar monstrosity further down the dock. He had one arm wrapped around Annie, a pretense at steadying her as she acclimated to Earth's motion. “This big rock is soaring around the sun at 67,000 miles per hour, after all,” he had told her. Actually she was feeling pretty good. Her hi-grav training and rigorous work schedule had kept her fit; she was probably more than a match for most of the Earthlings in this district, and Annie had even succeeded in many of the Outermost Death matches she'd entered inside Titan. No one really died, but a broken bone or two wasn't unheard of.
The dock was a noisy place and all of their communication took place through phone plugs that stopped the eardrum shattering decibels from doing immediate damage. Tri-photon cage shuttles attached themselves to the lode bins and noisily settled to the off load areas where giant cranes and their claws moved the shipments to rail or seacraft. Annie had come down on a container the size of a small building. Three of the cage shuttles helped it rumble safely down to a touch pad, where the shock absorbers limited their pain of arrival.
“I have a voucher for a TV dinner and a faux Chrona. I guess the company has a mess in the relocation district.” Annie had a palm-sized bit of Flixon with directions. The walk would have been 2 miles, but Stephen produced some coin and rented a lateral boonicap. They were there in 2 minutes. All around them, the green auras of the working class cast an earth hugging haze, while outside the buildings that loomed above the avenues a hint of blue shimmered from the reflective window panes. New Detroit was the bustling center of industry its namesake had once been, a century earlier. Built over the bones of the dinosaur that had been Detroit, this new city was run by the Company on the sculpted banks of Lake Erie, almost a country unto itself. Eighty percent of the interstellar traffic flowed through the upper Midwest. Wider, deeper channels had been cut into the Great Lakes and every major rail line had a hub here. There were a few stratosphere scramjet terminals for long range deliveries, but for the most part the mag'rail network was just as fast, and cheaper by a wide margin.
Once beyond the docks they pocketed their ear-phone plugs. Inside the relocation district Annie checked in at a corner hub where a Model T% directed her to the nearest mess. “It's the cleanest, as well,” said the Eduardo happily as it scanned her aura. “You are new to Earth. Welcome to Earth, Annie. Good day.”
Draybeck pulled Stephen aside while she was busy checking on her status. “You've got to stop throwing coin around like that.”
“Step back, Dray, pal. We're not some shlubs, you know. Did you want to walk an hour just to get here, to this shit hole?”
Draybeck pulled a punch at Stephen's arm. “Hey, you wanted to be a green. So here we are, and you need to act the part. You've got to live like a green to get the full experience, idiot. Good thing Annie is fresh from the outermost; she doesn't know the ins and outs yet.”
“Shit. Do you see that shop over there, can you read that sign?” asked Stephen.
“Yeah. Hell yeah – it's a mellow cafe.” Draybeck puled Stephen back. “Later; we're waiting on Annie, and getting a TV dinner.”
“Ha. Fuck that. Have you ever eaten a TV dinner? Well, you let me know how shit tastes, and I'll be spacin' at mellow central. First one's on me, my brotha'.” Stephen broke free and made for the cafe.
–
They sat facing each other in the crowded mess. Annie had turned in her voucher for the TV dinner, but after a bite or two she pushed it away and sat back to sip at her faux Chrona. “Does this taste right to you, Draybeck? So, the Chronas we had in Titan were pretty shitty, so I, I don't know.
Comparatively, I mean.” She poked a bit of tofu with her fork and sighed.
He liked her accent, actually he barely heard the words at all. “What, again? Oh, yeah; the Chronas.”
Draybeck was about to say they were crap; nothing like the Chrono Mocha le Chockas that they mimicked and could only be had on Outpost X V. He remembered getting sick on them, he'd drank so many, when his dad had taken him along on that inspection trip to X V. He wasn't really into the faux Chronas here on Earth; when you've had the best...you know. Now a good mellow; he was looking forward to that.
They were nearly shoulder to shoulder at the bench tables, and the big guy sitting next to Annie was looking between her breasts and the still warm TV dinner. Draybeck didn't much like the look of him, but the guy was huge and reminded him of an old vid's ax murderer he'd once seen on a contraband Flixon bracelet. Speaking up wouldn't help Draybeck blend in, so he just minded his own business.
“'Scuse'me miss – you gonna eat that, or no?”
“Or no,” Annie replied. “What's your name?”
“Jarlon.” He snatched the tray and glanced up at Draybeck. “You slick, what's your business then?”
Shit, he knew he wasn't fitting in. “Ah, I'm looking. Got any leads?” That was the reason he and Stephen were down around the docks anyway. To live like a green, one needed to work. The scant coin they packed wouldn't last forever.
“There's digipost boards down the pub a ways...if you don't want to go through the Company. Skip the scan, know what I mean.”
Draybeck did know. “Ah, no I don't know what you mean. Annie, are you ready to go?” Jarlon sneered and spooned some of the slop into his gap toothed maw, leering at Annie as she rose.
“Right; I just want to check in for my lodging and work schedule. You coming?” The Model T% just outside could direct her, as her meager Flixon map wasn't equipped for that function. They left the mess, dropping the depleted Chrona mugs in the door barrel. No food of any kind was allowed outside of authorized messes, or eateries. The only exception was re-purposed water pumps that were fitted into work garments. Sip-suits, they were called, and most of the greens down at the docks wore them, especially during the hot, muggy days of Detroit's summer months. Annie didn't have one, yet. It might take her a couple weeks to earn enough to wiggle into one, if her job required one.
The Model T% scanned her quickly. “Annie, again? Was your meal well received? Yes...well, you haven't earned a second complimentary meal. You've a credit for any lodging in this area, or nearer your job site. Report to the Plywaller office at 7 am. There is a mellow coupon on your map. You are welcome.” The Eduardo spit out a strip of Flixon map and muted.
“Ooh,” she said. “I don't have very much plywaller experience, though. Do you want this coupon? I don't need the map, the office is on this one I already have.” Annie ripped the strip off and handed it to Draybeck.
“Thanks.” He had no idea what a plywaller was. His life as an inspector's son left him woefully unprepared for any sort of menial occupation in this district. “Is it a hard job?”
“Nah; tedious. Well, the really talented ones don't have to work for the Company. That's a bright penny, huh?”
Draybeck was traumatized by her lilt. “Bright, penny. Hey – what now?” He hoped they could spend more time together, but not with Stephen at the mellow cafe. Still, “uh, want to get a mellow?”
“Oh no,” Annie smiled at him, near to send him spinning despite a lifetime of earthly acclimation. “I think I might get a bed at this place here,” she pointed to sloppy stucco building on the street. Every room had a tiny balcony, probably to match the tiny room and even tinier bed. “I don't have any gear, and tomorrow after work I can look for a closer place.”
Draybeck stared at her for a second, but after she didn't speak further, and he had little to say, “Well, I guess I may as well catch up to Stephen then, for a mellow." He had an insight and dug a thin Flixon card from his front pocket. It had a coin credit of thirty-hundred on it, but also included a memo function. Draybeck was sure he would see her again. He spoke a number to the Flixon which recorded it. "You can reach me by this. I'll see you?”
“Uh huh. You know where I'm at...” Annie turned on a heel, looking back over her shoulder at him briefly, “...tonight.”
–
Stephen was completely melded. “Yo ho ho.” He pointed to a seat. “Sit you.”
“I hate it when you go monosyllabic.” An orange waitress traded Draybeck a small mellow for the coupon. She was easily five foot, but her poodle-doo kicked that up another notch.
“Did you see her boots,” said Stephen, “they reach into the floor. Wow. And the fog here. It masks, right? Could be anyone in this joint. You know, maybe a blue...slumming in the districts. Look around mate...they could be us.”
“You're high. Wait up.”
Draybeck had one more. The sun was going down and he didn't want to go out overly relaxed. He asked if Stephen wanted a caffeine infusion, or if he'd seen any job listings on the digipost.
“Oom pah. Pah. Pahhhh.”
They decided to look the next day for work. Until then, the hotel across the street was looking pretty good. It looked excellent to Draybeck, and once he got Stephen settled he would be inquiring after a certain lovely Titan miss. He was loose enough to go knocking on doors.
In any case he didn't have to go knocking. Annie saw them stumble out of the cafe from her balcony. Her credit level put her on the street side and she was settled in with a virgin mochacreme watching Earthlings from three stories up. Annie waved.
Draybeck felt something hard up against his head, and before he knew it was lying on the pavement. He remotely heard Stephen cursing and throwing punches. Two big guys, maybe three. Probably they were just waiting outside the place. Draybeck shook his head and his eyes cleared a bit. Jarlon. The big guy from the mess....
Stephen was down, and now they were being dragged into an alley. There was a big lectruck in the shadows, with the rear door up. Jarlon hauled Draybeck up and tossed him in on top of his friend.
“Hey Jarl, these the guys looking for work?” A big bronze leatherneck laughed and spit onto the wall.
“Not no more they ain't,” said Jarlon. “These boys is Titans now. They's pressed.”
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
A great claw swung over the rampart that blotted out the sun. Draybeck looked up and fought the urge to jump. He visually scanned the sweep of the machine to a small cab perched high above the deck. A smaller man sat inside directing the crane as it swiveled over the shipping container and dipped its claw into the behemoth.
“Hey Dray, wouldn't it be great if we could land a job on that monster?” Stephen pointed to a similar monstrosity further down the dock. He had one arm wrapped around Annie, a pretense at steadying her as she acclimated to Earth's motion. “This big rock is soaring around the sun at 67,000 miles per hour, after all,” he had told her. Actually she was feeling pretty good. Her hi-grav training and rigorous work schedule had kept her fit; she was probably more than a match for most of the Earthlings in this district, and Annie had even succeeded in many of the Outermost Death matches she'd entered inside Titan. No one really died, but a broken bone or two wasn't unheard of.
The dock was a noisy place and all of their communication took place through phone plugs that stopped the eardrum shattering decibels from doing immediate damage. Tri-photon cage shuttles attached themselves to the lode bins and noisily settled to the off load areas where giant cranes and their claws moved the shipments to rail or seacraft. Annie had come down on a container the size of a small building. Three of the cage shuttles helped it rumble safely down to a touch pad, where the shock absorbers limited their pain of arrival.
“I have a voucher for a TV dinner and a faux Chrona. I guess the company has a mess in the relocation district.” Annie had a palm-sized bit of Flixon with directions. The walk would have been 2 miles, but Stephen produced some coin and rented a lateral boonicap. They were there in 2 minutes. All around them, the green auras of the working class cast an earth hugging haze, while outside the buildings that loomed above the avenues a hint of blue shimmered from the reflective window panes. New Detroit was the bustling center of industry its namesake had once been, a century earlier. Built over the bones of the dinosaur that had been Detroit, this new city was run by the Company on the sculpted banks of Lake Erie, almost a country unto itself. Eighty percent of the interstellar traffic flowed through the upper Midwest. Wider, deeper channels had been cut into the Great Lakes and every major rail line had a hub here. There were a few stratosphere scramjet terminals for long range deliveries, but for the most part the mag'rail network was just as fast, and cheaper by a wide margin.
Once beyond the docks they pocketed their ear-phone plugs. Inside the relocation district Annie checked in at a corner hub where a Model T% directed her to the nearest mess. “It's the cleanest, as well,” said the Eduardo happily as it scanned her aura. “You are new to Earth. Welcome to Earth, Annie. Good day.”
Draybeck pulled Stephen aside while she was busy checking on her status. “You've got to stop throwing coin around like that.”
“Step back, Dray, pal. We're not some shlubs, you know. Did you want to walk an hour just to get here, to this shit hole?”
Draybeck pulled a punch at Stephen's arm. “Hey, you wanted to be a green. So here we are, and you need to act the part. You've got to live like a green to get the full experience, idiot. Good thing Annie is fresh from the outermost; she doesn't know the ins and outs yet.”
“Shit. Do you see that shop over there, can you read that sign?” asked Stephen.
“Yeah. Hell yeah – it's a mellow cafe.” Draybeck puled Stephen back. “Later; we're waiting on Annie, and getting a TV dinner.”
“Ha. Fuck that. Have you ever eaten a TV dinner? Well, you let me know how shit tastes, and I'll be spacin' at mellow central. First one's on me, my brotha'.” Stephen broke free and made for the cafe.
–
They sat facing each other in the crowded mess. Annie had turned in her voucher for the TV dinner, but after a bite or two she pushed it away and sat back to sip at her faux Chrona. “Does this taste right to you, Draybeck? So, the Chronas we had in Titan were pretty shitty, so I, I don't know.
Comparatively, I mean.” She poked a bit of tofu with her fork and sighed.
He liked her accent, actually he barely heard the words at all. “What, again? Oh, yeah; the Chronas.”
Draybeck was about to say they were crap; nothing like the Chrono Mocha le Chockas that they mimicked and could only be had on Outpost X V. He remembered getting sick on them, he'd drank so many, when his dad had taken him along on that inspection trip to X V. He wasn't really into the faux Chronas here on Earth; when you've had the best...you know. Now a good mellow; he was looking forward to that.
They were nearly shoulder to shoulder at the bench tables, and the big guy sitting next to Annie was looking between her breasts and the still warm TV dinner. Draybeck didn't much like the look of him, but the guy was huge and reminded him of an old vid's ax murderer he'd once seen on a contraband Flixon bracelet. Speaking up wouldn't help Draybeck blend in, so he just minded his own business.
“'Scuse'me miss – you gonna eat that, or no?”
“Or no,” Annie replied. “What's your name?”
“Jarlon.” He snatched the tray and glanced up at Draybeck. “You slick, what's your business then?”
Shit, he knew he wasn't fitting in. “Ah, I'm looking. Got any leads?” That was the reason he and Stephen were down around the docks anyway. To live like a green, one needed to work. The scant coin they packed wouldn't last forever.
“There's digipost boards down the pub a ways...if you don't want to go through the Company. Skip the scan, know what I mean.”
Draybeck did know. “Ah, no I don't know what you mean. Annie, are you ready to go?” Jarlon sneered and spooned some of the slop into his gap toothed maw, leering at Annie as she rose.
“Right; I just want to check in for my lodging and work schedule. You coming?” The Model T% just outside could direct her, as her meager Flixon map wasn't equipped for that function. They left the mess, dropping the depleted Chrona mugs in the door barrel. No food of any kind was allowed outside of authorized messes, or eateries. The only exception was re-purposed water pumps that were fitted into work garments. Sip-suits, they were called, and most of the greens down at the docks wore them, especially during the hot, muggy days of Detroit's summer months. Annie didn't have one, yet. It might take her a couple weeks to earn enough to wiggle into one, if her job required one.
The Model T% scanned her quickly. “Annie, again? Was your meal well received? Yes...well, you haven't earned a second complimentary meal. You've a credit for any lodging in this area, or nearer your job site. Report to the Plywaller office at 7 am. There is a mellow coupon on your map. You are welcome.” The Eduardo spit out a strip of Flixon map and muted.
“Ooh,” she said. “I don't have very much plywaller experience, though. Do you want this coupon? I don't need the map, the office is on this one I already have.” Annie ripped the strip off and handed it to Draybeck.
“Thanks.” He had no idea what a plywaller was. His life as an inspector's son left him woefully unprepared for any sort of menial occupation in this district. “Is it a hard job?”
“Nah; tedious. Well, the really talented ones don't have to work for the Company. That's a bright penny, huh?”
Draybeck was traumatized by her lilt. “Bright, penny. Hey – what now?” He hoped they could spend more time together, but not with Stephen at the mellow cafe. Still, “uh, want to get a mellow?”
“Oh no,” Annie smiled at him, near to send him spinning despite a lifetime of earthly acclimation. “I think I might get a bed at this place here,” she pointed to sloppy stucco building on the street. Every room had a tiny balcony, probably to match the tiny room and even tinier bed. “I don't have any gear, and tomorrow after work I can look for a closer place.”
Draybeck stared at her for a second, but after she didn't speak further, and he had little to say, “Well, I guess I may as well catch up to Stephen then, for a mellow." He had an insight and dug a thin Flixon card from his front pocket. It had a coin credit of thirty-hundred on it, but also included a memo function. Draybeck was sure he would see her again. He spoke a number to the Flixon which recorded it. "You can reach me by this. I'll see you?”
“Uh huh. You know where I'm at...” Annie turned on a heel, looking back over her shoulder at him briefly, “...tonight.”
–
Stephen was completely melded. “Yo ho ho.” He pointed to a seat. “Sit you.”
“I hate it when you go monosyllabic.” An orange waitress traded Draybeck a small mellow for the coupon. She was easily five foot, but her poodle-doo kicked that up another notch.
“Did you see her boots,” said Stephen, “they reach into the floor. Wow. And the fog here. It masks, right? Could be anyone in this joint. You know, maybe a blue...slumming in the districts. Look around mate...they could be us.”
“You're high. Wait up.”
Draybeck had one more. The sun was going down and he didn't want to go out overly relaxed. He asked if Stephen wanted a caffeine infusion, or if he'd seen any job listings on the digipost.
“Oom pah. Pah. Pahhhh.”
They decided to look the next day for work. Until then, the hotel across the street was looking pretty good. It looked excellent to Draybeck, and once he got Stephen settled he would be inquiring after a certain lovely Titan miss. He was loose enough to go knocking on doors.
In any case he didn't have to go knocking. Annie saw them stumble out of the cafe from her balcony. Her credit level put her on the street side and she was settled in with a virgin mochacreme watching Earthlings from three stories up. Annie waved.
Draybeck felt something hard up against his head, and before he knew it was lying on the pavement. He remotely heard Stephen cursing and throwing punches. Two big guys, maybe three. Probably they were just waiting outside the place. Draybeck shook his head and his eyes cleared a bit. Jarlon. The big guy from the mess....
Stephen was down, and now they were being dragged into an alley. There was a big lectruck in the shadows, with the rear door up. Jarlon hauled Draybeck up and tossed him in on top of his friend.
“Hey Jarl, these the guys looking for work?” A big bronze leatherneck laughed and spit onto the wall.
“Not no more they ain't,” said Jarlon. “These boys is Titans now. They's pressed.”
Chaos in the Night 2
(chapter 1)
Chapter 2
“What you're suggesting isn't possible.”
They were in a sparse dwelling; the room's few windows were shrouded heavily and the floor was nothing but earth's finest. Dirt.
Stephen paced nervously; he stopped and waved his hands at the air, turned and paced some more, kicking up some dust. “Why can't I shift my aura to green? That's what I want!”
The sitting woman still had her eyes closed and her arms outstretched, palms skyward. “A shift, yes of course. I can do that; but it won't be permanent. In fact, a temporary shift from blue to green is perfectly legal. Just fill out the paperwork...”
“I don't want to be traced.”
“Well. That will cost you.”
It took some talking, but finally Draybeck relented. Stephen had hounded him for weeks. “Buge was zie! You know, they're living like slaves. We've got all the money, and the little people are in the trenches, doing our dirty work. It's not right.”
They were reclining in the study with a carafe of mellow; a faint bluish glow emanated from their uncovered heads. Draybeck sipped at his drink. He could feel his body melding with the reciprocity seating. “Look at me, man. Why would I want to be a green?”
Stephen pointed. “Ha. What would your dad say if he saw you here, stretched out on mellow? No – he wants you in an office, up to your arse in paperwork, maybe shooting whiskey with the old boys at club old fart. What kind of bullshit is that?”
“Yea. Uh huh. Why did you say 'booj-wazie'? What the fuck's that.” monotoned Draybeck.
“Down with the establishment! Flower power, dude; go blue devils.
“Come on man...it's not forever.”
In the end they told the folks they were going to Holland for the summer. Volunteering their time at the dikes. Stephen led Draybeck to the witch in her makeshift yurt. The ground level apartment had been stripped of its flooring and her hovel sat on the bare soil. “Primal.” Stephen said the word like it meant something. Draybeck secretly thought it was just like so much shit. They laid face down in the dirt while the witch pranced over their naked bodies, intoning, mumbling incoherent phrases, sprinkling God knows what onto their backs. Finally she rubbed a rancid oil into their hair and stripped off her clothing to lay with them. They became one with her, a lowly green, and with that their auras dimmed.
For awhile the three sat together in a semicircle, smeared in the mud she had made. Stephen wanted to do it again, but the witch merely meditated, and waited. “It is done,” she said. Their blue auras were now green.
–--
Annie was new in town. A refugee from the mining camps on Titan. She came back with the latest lode, a delivery 25 years in transit. In a densely packed locker her casket had been stacked twelve deep, and even chances had her make it to Earth with her freshness seal intact. The odds were figured at 80/20 for the greens to come out of deep sleep with all functions go. Due to shifting and general disregard, there were always a few who didn't make it. And occasionally the crew might crack open a box for a little bit of interstellar fun; they weren't the most adept at resealing. Annie was lucky, her box was buried under a hundred other bodies, and her seals stuck.
When she stepped off the gangplank her first sensation was the unfiltered air and clear blue sky. She was dizzy, even though warned by literature posted in every corridor and eatery. The world was open, and she stretched her arms wide.
“Don't fall, miss.” A straight backed young man steadied her and smiled through white teeth. The fresh green aura shimmered off his round head. “Hi. I'm Stephen; this is my friend Draybeck.”
Chapter 2
“What you're suggesting isn't possible.”
They were in a sparse dwelling; the room's few windows were shrouded heavily and the floor was nothing but earth's finest. Dirt.
Stephen paced nervously; he stopped and waved his hands at the air, turned and paced some more, kicking up some dust. “Why can't I shift my aura to green? That's what I want!”
The sitting woman still had her eyes closed and her arms outstretched, palms skyward. “A shift, yes of course. I can do that; but it won't be permanent. In fact, a temporary shift from blue to green is perfectly legal. Just fill out the paperwork...”
“I don't want to be traced.”
“Well. That will cost you.”
It took some talking, but finally Draybeck relented. Stephen had hounded him for weeks. “Buge was zie! You know, they're living like slaves. We've got all the money, and the little people are in the trenches, doing our dirty work. It's not right.”
They were reclining in the study with a carafe of mellow; a faint bluish glow emanated from their uncovered heads. Draybeck sipped at his drink. He could feel his body melding with the reciprocity seating. “Look at me, man. Why would I want to be a green?”
Stephen pointed. “Ha. What would your dad say if he saw you here, stretched out on mellow? No – he wants you in an office, up to your arse in paperwork, maybe shooting whiskey with the old boys at club old fart. What kind of bullshit is that?”
“Yea. Uh huh. Why did you say 'booj-wazie'? What the fuck's that.” monotoned Draybeck.
“Down with the establishment! Flower power, dude; go blue devils.
“Come on man...it's not forever.”
In the end they told the folks they were going to Holland for the summer. Volunteering their time at the dikes. Stephen led Draybeck to the witch in her makeshift yurt. The ground level apartment had been stripped of its flooring and her hovel sat on the bare soil. “Primal.” Stephen said the word like it meant something. Draybeck secretly thought it was just like so much shit. They laid face down in the dirt while the witch pranced over their naked bodies, intoning, mumbling incoherent phrases, sprinkling God knows what onto their backs. Finally she rubbed a rancid oil into their hair and stripped off her clothing to lay with them. They became one with her, a lowly green, and with that their auras dimmed.
For awhile the three sat together in a semicircle, smeared in the mud she had made. Stephen wanted to do it again, but the witch merely meditated, and waited. “It is done,” she said. Their blue auras were now green.
–--
Annie was new in town. A refugee from the mining camps on Titan. She came back with the latest lode, a delivery 25 years in transit. In a densely packed locker her casket had been stacked twelve deep, and even chances had her make it to Earth with her freshness seal intact. The odds were figured at 80/20 for the greens to come out of deep sleep with all functions go. Due to shifting and general disregard, there were always a few who didn't make it. And occasionally the crew might crack open a box for a little bit of interstellar fun; they weren't the most adept at resealing. Annie was lucky, her box was buried under a hundred other bodies, and her seals stuck.
When she stepped off the gangplank her first sensation was the unfiltered air and clear blue sky. She was dizzy, even though warned by literature posted in every corridor and eatery. The world was open, and she stretched her arms wide.
“Don't fall, miss.” A straight backed young man steadied her and smiled through white teeth. The fresh green aura shimmered off his round head. “Hi. I'm Stephen; this is my friend Draybeck.”
Friday, February 4, 2011
zombie artist faceoff
I require a hat, a philosophical plug to contains all of my wares, before they fly from my head like fluff and embryotic puss to plague the world. My thoughts are strange, they are viral. Here I lay; I am strapped to a canvas where intellects beyond the scope of reality dabble with their paints. They leave arcane pencil marks within my grasp in the hopes my sere gray matter might connect the dots. Driving to and fro on tiny wheels, the buzz-heads are tied like a child's toy, plethoral and fixed by a single laid track that circles me in my prosaic boredom; they scoot past, jotting and throwing hues at my canvas, praying for more than a Jovian landscape that threatens to bubble over and shift like a vengeful eye into view of the captors.
Should they free my arms, so that I could trace the symbols and elements of their fictions, the room would come alive with the pictures from my mind, feeble as it is. Strains of a metaphor flow like frazzled mixture, a slurry of spite, upon the surface. Tempora(l) ideas mix with the splashed oils and hastily scribbled graphite to coagulate and alter imagery into an augury that defines my shape with delicate ess curves and shite spliced sprites that come alive and habituate the fissures in dimensions hitherto untold. There they will fester and spread as corporeal voltage into hie biddies as they circle their wagons with vestigial and spatular affronts.
Horrors, abrupt and irretrievable. An err in judgment, while they scramble to devise a containment for the erupting calamity frothing in chains. Behind the glass, seeing though square goggles and breathing potable oxymorons, ones who with their largess dictate the will of the masses watch as the scooties fret and hasten to exit via unassembled viaducts; implements of construction litter the tiles as the integral entities implode then grow like hairs into a twine that fills the expanse like a wriggling spaghetti into overflow, cracking and bursting the glass.
The goggle-eyes flee to concrete bunkers; they twiddle calculations but over the wire hear the grass is not green, the verdant hills throng with discordant ire as tendrils whip the atmosphere and toss whippet winds that hurl behemoths to their graves and scour the dying dust to its bones. Then as a calm fills the void, we will delve into the cracks to dwell in hidden well springs, slurping up molassan seas, throbbing incognito within a hard scrabble shell.
Alas, the figures don't compute, and leave the undead to wander aimlessly in the corridors of my sparse
synapses, stoic but for the resonant glyph.
Should they free my arms, so that I could trace the symbols and elements of their fictions, the room would come alive with the pictures from my mind, feeble as it is. Strains of a metaphor flow like frazzled mixture, a slurry of spite, upon the surface. Tempora(l) ideas mix with the splashed oils and hastily scribbled graphite to coagulate and alter imagery into an augury that defines my shape with delicate ess curves and shite spliced sprites that come alive and habituate the fissures in dimensions hitherto untold. There they will fester and spread as corporeal voltage into hie biddies as they circle their wagons with vestigial and spatular affronts.
Horrors, abrupt and irretrievable. An err in judgment, while they scramble to devise a containment for the erupting calamity frothing in chains. Behind the glass, seeing though square goggles and breathing potable oxymorons, ones who with their largess dictate the will of the masses watch as the scooties fret and hasten to exit via unassembled viaducts; implements of construction litter the tiles as the integral entities implode then grow like hairs into a twine that fills the expanse like a wriggling spaghetti into overflow, cracking and bursting the glass.
The goggle-eyes flee to concrete bunkers; they twiddle calculations but over the wire hear the grass is not green, the verdant hills throng with discordant ire as tendrils whip the atmosphere and toss whippet winds that hurl behemoths to their graves and scour the dying dust to its bones. Then as a calm fills the void, we will delve into the cracks to dwell in hidden well springs, slurping up molassan seas, throbbing incognito within a hard scrabble shell.
Alas, the figures don't compute, and leave the undead to wander aimlessly in the corridors of my sparse
synapses, stoic but for the resonant glyph.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
snow dog
it's a little crazy here in north-eastern Indiana...lot of shoveling to be done, and the snow is very heavy.
chaos in the night
“No, no, no!” He pounds his knee and bends at the waist, falling over her body; one arm dangles, her fingers brushing the vibrating floor. An attendant backs away, as far as possible in the tight space of the emergency vehicle's Auto-doc bay. A glass arm, its work done, retracts into a self cleaning sleeve and the soft hum of the disinfecter prepares for the next eventuality. Draybeck doesn't hear it; he doesn't hear his own sobs or care that he is splattered with the drying blood of his fiance. At this moment he is an unbelieving victim of the first crime this city has witnessed in a year. Draybeck can't process the situation, and he stiffens, laying his hands on her shoulders to gently shake her. “No.”
The attendant, a young woman whose only job is to monitor the medical machinery, puts a hand on his back, but he slaps it off and growls. “Push your damned buttons; damn you! What the hell good is this thing?” Below the waist the still woman had lost much of her viscera to multiple concussions. Reverberation from close range firings displaced her guts in seconds. Maybe if an Autodoc had been on the scene in the first minutes...perhaps they might have saved the head. Not even Dr. Jigsaw could have saved the body. Draybeck slumps, finally acknowledging the slight hums. Cargo shifts as the vehicle hits a rut and bounces at the hospital ramp. No sirens. No emergency personnel rushing out to rendezvous.
“Keep her rolling, Billy.”
“Next stop?”
“Next stop.” They drive through the drop off and take the D ramp, aptly lettered. This way, to your final destination. To the big sleep. Rest and be easy.
At the road Draybeck roars and shuffles to the bay doors, slipping on blood and going down to all fours. The attendant makes a noise, but she won't move to stop him. He finds the handle and pushes his way out. The doors electrically seal and the driver turns the vehicle right, seeing the grieving man run off into the inky dark street beyond the hospital. He hopes it won't be a busy night.
The attendant, a young woman whose only job is to monitor the medical machinery, puts a hand on his back, but he slaps it off and growls. “Push your damned buttons; damn you! What the hell good is this thing?” Below the waist the still woman had lost much of her viscera to multiple concussions. Reverberation from close range firings displaced her guts in seconds. Maybe if an Autodoc had been on the scene in the first minutes...perhaps they might have saved the head. Not even Dr. Jigsaw could have saved the body. Draybeck slumps, finally acknowledging the slight hums. Cargo shifts as the vehicle hits a rut and bounces at the hospital ramp. No sirens. No emergency personnel rushing out to rendezvous.
“Keep her rolling, Billy.”
“Next stop?”
“Next stop.” They drive through the drop off and take the D ramp, aptly lettered. This way, to your final destination. To the big sleep. Rest and be easy.
At the road Draybeck roars and shuffles to the bay doors, slipping on blood and going down to all fours. The attendant makes a noise, but she won't move to stop him. He finds the handle and pushes his way out. The doors electrically seal and the driver turns the vehicle right, seeing the grieving man run off into the inky dark street beyond the hospital. He hopes it won't be a busy night.
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