Tenth Daughter, Part 4

 A ship with no supply

I was still deep in my reverie when I heard the sergeant bellowing in his typical annoying way. 

"He's waxing poetic, in one of his little wet dreams, right there? Right Winkle?" The words ran like the spittle that splashed on my cheek. Roberts had big, sloppy lips. You needed to pull over an economy sized rubber to hold a conversation. "Give us a story Blinkit, a limerick maybe."

"It's not Winkle, or Blinkle or Pimple," I said. "Hey boss man," I shouted after the sergeant who was walking the other way. "How 'bout a mulligan on this hill? Not big on heights."

They hooted. "Not big on heights! Stinkit is afraid of the big scary hill!" and other such bollix. "A poem, a poem!"

"No mulligans, Plunkit. Ever'body up. We get on over this beast and resupply in the flats. There's fish and ale in town." 

I got up to follow and caught up. "C'mon boss. I don't ask much. I fell hard. Just put me back a couple steps, with Hagrid maybe."

"Fine, this is your one pass, Plunkit. Get your head back in the game." He picked up the pace knowing I couldn't keep up in the armor. "One time only, payback is hell, Plunkit, so don't get killed." 

I walked back to get my helmet and weapons. One of the guys picked up my head gear and tossed it to Stretch. Fuck. Shit. Fuck, again.

"C'mon Blanket. A poem. 'Poetry, pot-pourri, pottery, porta-potty.'"

I snatched the helmet and snugged it over my scalp. "Not Blanket, and no poems. Can't think of a rhyme." I slung the big cannon over my back, Goony slapped my shoulder and gave a little push.

"Get thee back to the giant, Shakespeare," he said. "like you know you like it, in'a rear." Stretch and Blondie chuckled. Not bad, though, I thought as I retreated a little bit. 

We formed up and climbed the hill. I had my cannon slung and my laser fitted arm raised to one side, my other arm outstretched with my palm on Hagrid's backside. His butt was level with my head. Sergeant grunted and we moved. My eyes stayed low, I avoided the blank horizon, and the giant blocked most of my view. The dirt and grass were splendid. Wriggling worms, pigeons in the grass, alas. A poem, a poem, my kingdom for a nail. There once was a man from Nantucket... Shit, they wouldn't stop popping into my brain. I readied a pocket and slipped comfortably numb, between the sheets. The fireworks began as the troops started lobbing bombs over the hill. 

I hadn't even time to develop a story line when we crested the hill. The sky was blue and peppered with white cumuli. But the hill was uncontested. Some supply drones buzzed behind us, hovering over the hill then sliding down the other side. Turf was scattered, boulders charred and overturned. Some of them cracked in two, or thirds and more. We'd done more damage to the earth than to the enemy, who had, apparently, taken a mulligan themselves. The little person in my brain piped up. 'I don't think that word means what you think it means.' Right. "I know, shut up, stupid," I muttered.

The giant spun to look at me. "Whazzat?" he asked. Then the sky, which had muted as clouds passed over, lit up strangely, and streaks of plasma fire arced in zigzag patterns. The bolts speared anything and everything, including ourselves. I felt heat from the suit, then the neural connections failed. Beyond and above us the supply drones lurched then plummeted to the earth. 

"Heads up," someone yelled, and then were other screams besides. I wheeled, hoisting my all but useless cannon, then heard a groan and a thud. 

Tenth Daughter, Part 2

 On the Cusp

The ground opened up beneath her feet. Beneath ours,  mine.  We were young, playing in the park on a beautiful spring day. The year was a few months gone by, but now I feel like spring is when the year really begins. I believe that's when my world ended, and this new one began.

The family was there, ma and pa. Me and my twin sister. We were born minutes apart, but ma would never tell me who came first. Pa never bothered to find out. She seemed older and whatever the truth was, she was my big sister. I looked up to her, and I loved her. 

The park was on the edge of the city, filled with manicured lawns and strategically planted trees, it bordered a crooked stream that was well mown so that every granite ledge and bubbling rivulet could be seen and marveled at. I tossed the ball into the air and swung the small bat, lifting the orb in an easy arc. Deedee, she was Deena or Dianne to everyone else, loped to her right and reached for the ball. She was just about to, it was the easiest catch ever. Then Deedee would have laughed and thrown the ball back. Just easy, just like that. 

There was this loud crack, like a gunshot, and I fell down. In my mind I hear my mother scream, but I know that no human shout could eclipse that crack and the unceasing crashing rumble and rush of pebbles and fine particulate that followed. When the aftermath ended, there was dust. Ma and pa stumbled, maybe crawled, to me. They asked if I was hurt because they couldn't see anything beyond arm's length. If that. Ma felt my face and I winced as she ground the sharp rock and dust into my bloody scratches. 

Then I cried, not from any physical pain, but because the last sight I recalled was Dee three or four steps from the crooked stream waiting for the ball to reach her outstretched hand. We would never be the same. The East, beyond the creek, lost more than a daughter. A big sister. The air above the rent cleared as the winds swirled and flew the dust orderly away. The great crooked chasm took its place. No granite ledges, no tiny waterfalls, no Deedee. 

story of a silly-singy family

They, by ‘they’ I mean the tidy family of four, heard the knock on their front door from the kitchen where Sassy was applying glitter to her paper mache pink walrus baby girl, Muchi-poo. Her older brother was constructing the counterpart volcano on the floor out of wire, stone, and mud and its slopes had crept out and were threatening to collide with the dishwashing machine, which was broken and had been since Bag decided to clean his collection of blue-red-green garden rocks.

 “Is it almost done?” asked Sassy, now fitting out the walrus fashion model with an Academy Award’s style gown. Walrus divas must look their best when plunging down into the fiery depths of raging volcanos.

 “I don’t have the east slope properly combed.” Bag was rubbing his chin and looking suspiciously at a handful of multicolored pebbles. “Also, waiting on dad and the boxes of baking soda. And sparklers.”

 The dad was sitting at the kitchen table looking over schematics. Large sheets of paper covered the well-used wood surface. “Mmph.”

 “Dad!”

 “Mmmph.”

 “Your father is busy, Bag. We’ll go shopping for your project later this morning,” said their mother sternly from the sink, where she was cleaning and peeling sticks. “In the meantime, I have your defoliated lumber. What was that?”

 They were a normal, suburban family. And at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning in March, before the sun pushed out the night, there was a knock at the door.

 Peggy Tinville dropped her paring knife into the sink. It clattered against a spoon. “Did you hear that? Was that a knock?”

 “Dad!”

 Dad looked up. He had on peering goggles. “What?” he said, “a knock? M-possible, that was only a realtor’s yard sign blown by the wind into our siding which caused a noise, which alerted you all to the fact of said heavy winds. Probably caused a dent too. Blast it.” Derby adjusted the goggles and began gathering the confusion of papers from the table top. “Time to clean up this mess,” he said. “You too, Bag.”

 “I can’t just put away a volcano.”

 Derby peered at the volcano. “You should have put it on wheels; this is sandwich day after all. Followed by spaghetti night.” The goggles were for peering at schematics, not volcanos. “Unacceptable.”

 “You can’t just fold up a volcano and push it under the bed, dad! Duh.”

 “Duh,” repeated Sassy. The walrus baby was stunning. There came another knock at the front door. This time it was series of raps and was unmistakably knock-like.

 “That’s no blown sign. That was repetitive, and clearly a defined knock,” said Derby taking off the goggles and handed them to his son. “Go check the door, Bag.”

 Peggy turned from the sink, her flower pattern apron spun with the twirl, and stepped over a landslide of graham cracker crumbs and loose gravel.  “We’ll all go,” she said. Sassy hopped down from her chair and took her mother’s hand.  “After all, this may be a momentous Saturday morning!”

 “Ok, gee. Come on Bag, leave that for later. The door awaits!”

 Bag put on his father’s big goggles then jumped up, as boys do, and sprinted from the kitchen into the living room. A slight disturbance of air particles and footfall on the floor caused a tremor and a North Slope avalanche which killed a family of parsley munching plastic cows. Nobody was there to see it. Cows made in China don’t count.

 “Wait for us, please,” called Peggy, and he did while hopping on one leg. “Okay, we’re here.” Bag opened the door a smidge and with half his goggled face looked in to the outside.

 “Nobody there. Musta been a sign.”

 The family gathered at the door, and they heard another sound. It wasn’t a knock, but a soft mewl from lower down. On the doorstep was a lovely wire woven bassinet stuffed full of blanket and wriggling baby.

 “A baby!” cried Sassy.

 “Not a sign then, curious,” said Derby Tinville. “And on a Saturday!”

 The next noise they heard was neither a knock nor a baby cry, but a weird clicking, like the whirring of a hand held, manual eggbeater, from above. They all looked up, but saw nothing and soon the sound dissipated and only the soft caterwaul of the infant remained.  Peggy moved through her small crowd of family and bent over.

 She plucked out a printed sheet of alien velinium-sheef from the blanket and read it aloud. “’Given your western propensity of bestowing three names upon a child we of the dry and boney planetary system Staria name this creature we found in your distant Cro-Magnon past from these popular titles in your culture: Netflix Taco-bar Babyshark. Care for it as we choose not to, for this baby is not so cute as the one we desired for our earth-themed zoo, and we instead procured a mule deer. ‘”

 There was silence, but for the wind which in any case was not nearly blustery enough to blow realtor signs on to siding. Derby was relieved.

 “Well, that is just ridiculous,” said the father. “Netflix is a rather unwieldy name for a baby. We’ll call him Taco-bar, by his middle name. Is it a boy?”

 Thus begins the enigmatic life of a normal everyday family of five, voila!

Things left Unsaid

Episode Nine.
Start at the beginning HERE

Our vacation had taken quite a turn, and being stuck in a one horse town downwind of the Grand Canyon wasn’t exactly the high point. It turns out Billy is a mean drunk, and there wasn’t much else to do but drink. I didn’t care much for Billy after that. Billy’s a dick. We parted ways, but I met Samantha at the Rotisserie, and we hit it off. Sam has a few alterations, but when the tech came back online, we went all out. Optic upgrades, interactive tattoos (I learned some moves I didn’t even know existed!), and now my Jag has limited flight capability. Earth is fun again.

 Of course, we still have Cleveland showing us around. Northern California is spectacular. We did almost three-hundred over the salt flats. Scary fast, what a rush. And Yosemite was out of this world. Samantha got me some Ultra boots and gloves. I love extreme hiking! 

 The big news was, of course, the Battle over New York, where Skyland Resort was caught up in a great big controversy. The news was slow in coming, possibly leaked out from resistance fighters who infiltrated the Resort. The photos, if they’re real, showed some pretty hideous creatures up there. Apparently they were eating tourists? Billy and I had applied for the chance to go up when we were in the area, but we were denied. The official letter somehow blamed our enhancements, which I thought was bullshit, since all of that came from the overlords to begin with. Now I’m happy we didn’t go up. The pictures of Mr. Atrocious, if you haven’t seen them, are atrocious.

 I’ve been trying to keep up on current events, and Cleveland helps out. He shuffles the headlines and keeps me informed. Here’s the gist: There is a new head overlord; he’s a stern looking gent, looks a bit nervous to me, sort of on edge. Though the man in charge is not an alien, but a local. Which is to say, he’s an earthling named Patrick. Sources swear up and down he isn’t a flesh eating alien from another world, even if one half of him is pretty damned ugly. His left side is bloated and three times too big, and there are squidish things wiggling out of him. He tries to hide most of the bad half behind screens and large potted ferns, but I swear I saw a second mouth coming out of the side of his neck, and it seemed to be repeating every word he said out of the right side of his face-mouth. Sam and I were in a bar getting drunk on tainted mocha creams the first week after the takeover above, and a table at the back of the joint was filled with a gang of unruly locals. They were a bunch from the resistance that backed our man in the sky. Said his name was Scutum, and he was one of ‘em. The Astrologers, big news, and their leader was there too, Leo. He wasn’t bouncing up and down like the rest, just sat still with a mug in one hand and a dink on his lip, coloring the air over his head. He had a melancholy look, and a tawny cloud.  Still, he took a good many slaps on the back, and smiled once or twice.

 The overlord guy goes by the name of Mr. Face. He always stands behind Patrick, sometimes off screen. He’s got us back on track; there’ve been more upgrades than shutdowns. News comes slow, when it comes at all, but I see an upturn. He wants to cede more power to the Regions of Earth, but we have to play nice. Mr. Face is fair, but I imagine he has a heavy hand. He lets Patrick do most of talking, but we all know who is really in charge.

 Cleveland wants to take us into some caverns next, but I don’t like the idea. I’m a bit claustrophobic; I would just as soon stay above the earth. And Sam doesn’t like spiders. She wants to head out east and see if we can get to the Skyland Retreat when it opens back up. Won’t that be fun!

The Very End!

Ten Little Indians

Episode Eight.

He remembered the humanoids from boyhood days spent in front of the wall screen. There would be cartoons, when his folks allowed, but his most vivid memory was when the spaceship arrived, and the aliens came down to Earth.

 This was a time of hysteria, tempered by a dystopian backdrop and the wonder of life beyond the stars. Earth, the planet and all of its embattled cultures, was falling into an irreparable spin of self-destruction. The environment was a pissed-on cesspool and the good parts were doomed, under the thrall of vile businessmen and their heavy thumb of patriotic enterprise. The Overlords came just in time.

 They were scary, but in an older uncle, distant sort of way. Patrick would back away from the screen when the Overlords broadcasted their special announcements.  Their words were unimportant at that time, he preferred shows about dinosaurs and talking dogs, but he would always remember the faces of the aliens. They stood in a triangular formation, with the leader, he supposed, at its peak, and his lieutenants fanned out behind. They had human faces, mostly, but they were queer, and unsettling. The leader was stout, with a hardened look and golden cheeks. Patrick and the world knew him as the Prime Overlord, who was ever present at the broadcasts. He was firm, but benevolent. The lesser folk of earth came to love him.

 The others were a blur, but for one whom always stood to the back of the triangle, a sharp point in the geometry of the group. He was unnamed, but had a face Patrick could never forget. His eye always drifted to that one. Patrick took to calling him Mr. Face. He was lean and tall. And his face, though unimpressive, reminded Patrick of the screaming mien in Munch’s iconic masterpiece. The face haunted his dreams and left him sweat soaked and trembling in the wee hours of the night.

 The years slowly passed, and the world became a more hospitable place. It was like a garden under the supervision of the Overlords, but there was unrest too. The people had comfort, but creativity waned and life for many was stagnant. They aliens gave, but they repressed as well. And later, well into the occupation, people began to disappear. Some people revolted, and they were quelled without comment. That was when the resistance movements began, and the more secretive they were, the longer they lasted, and harder they hit. Patrick was older now; Patrick was a vital follower of the Astrologers, maybe the last hope of a free race of earthlings.

 He was in the boardroom of the beast, a newly ordained general of the beast, naked among his peers in the hook of Thee Most Atrocious. The ten squirmed like oily maggots on the body of the beast, held by wriggling tethers, in an orgy of galactic depravity. Thee Atrocious gathered his new generals, naming them as filthy apostles to his flesh, and together they pounded, caressed, and tugged on his fat, grotesque body and pulsating appendages. Green sweat oozed out and covered the generals. Patrick had squirmed sideways around the fatty arm of the beast, and hung suspended near its back. He was grasping at its bony plates, trying to avoid most of the mucus and throbbing members as they whipped and groped the humans. The more they struggled, the further excited Thee Atrocious became. In this state it moaned and occasionally pulled the head or a limb off of an unlucky general, then chewed it absent mindedly.  

 The ordeal was reaching its crescendo, and the rigid shafts began to pulsate, the beast stiffened, and sticks of pinkish bone prickled out from its corpulent, gummy body, impaling some of the generals, and ending their misery. A bony shaft pierced Patrick’s shoulder, and he shrieked, and then fell off of Thee Atrocious when the protrusion retracted and cut the leathery tether that held him.  He was loose in the fluid soaked platter when the thrusting members spewed sticky seed onto the beast’s belly and covered the writhing generals, as they screamed and clutched at the beast. A whipping appendage discharged toward Patrick, and the semen splattered across the left side of his face and body. It burned, and filaments of spaghetti skin formed on his slick skin, winding out like worms, or leaky veins. Patrick had escaped the worst of it.

 The other generals, the ones with heads attached, caught the bulk of the ejectant, and were screaming and cursing. Their bodies pulsated and morphed rapidly in time with the thrashing monster that bound them.  Patrick felt sick and he vomited. He began to crawl away, trying to put distance between him and hellish orgy. “Scutum,” he heard the soft, gasping plea. “Scutum,” she cried out, but her face was puss covered and into the lesions her face and lips disappeared.

 “Oh my god, Minerva. Minerva.” Patrick knew it was too late for Tina, probably for him as well. Operation Bowstring had come undone. “Minerva,” he gasped. “We are lost.” The generals were becoming little monsters themselves, as the creature’s seed seeped into their dilated pores. Where the sticky fluid had once infected its hosts and germinated on a hope and a prayer inside unsuspecting guts, this airborne sploof corrupted the flesh and mixed with the epidermis, bone, and cartilage, creating miniature and atrocious beasts. They turned on the master, falling onto its flesh, and consuming. One general with serrated bones exuding out of places that once owned a head and legs began sawing into the wailing, atrocious monster. "Thumuffa bitch," it shrieked in distress. 

 Patrick backed away, trailing green ooze and blood, and came to an impasse along the back wall. There he slumped weakly and waited for the end that must be coming. He heard a metallic screech, and beside him a once invisible ventilation grate wheezed off its screws and plunked onto the ground.  A head poked out, one Patrick could never forget.

 The Face that screamed, but now it was calm. This wasn't a dream. “Come with me, if you want to live,” said the Overlord. He stretched out a thin hand.

Episode 9

the King's Advisors

Episode Seven.

“Oh, Denral Zang, und Deneral Zuce, wook at you two, how nize to zee yuse.” The generals entered, ushered in by two heavily armored spiders.  Thee Atrocious, self-proclaimed ultimate and eternal

Atrocious, squatted in the enlarged chamber on a purple mat in front of a big metallic platter. “How long now has I allowed yuse to liff, mebee toosday wid be da day? Mebee?” Thee Atrocious had an on and off speech impediment, complicated by multiple fangs and tusks sprouting from its oral cavities.

 The generals bowed, a new honorific for the horrific new Atrocious. The former had submitted meekly at first sight of this succeeding one, and was summarily disemboweled then dined on with fresh blood turnips, an otherworldly delicacy.  “We are grateful for this chance to live, Thee Largest and Most Awful Atrocious. Forgive us, and let us do your bidding again, just for this day, if it pleases his Most Atrocious,” submitted General Xious to the beast. He had become gray, and noticeably thinner.

 “I too,” said the other general, Xiang. She prostrated herself to the great thing, and her words were garbled under her flattened face against the floor. “You, Thee Utmost and Never-to-be Defeated, Biggest and Baddest of All and Ever, Thee Shamer of All the Universe, Big, Bad Atrocious Monstrous and Planetary Thing. We are humbled to orbit your Atrocious, Hoary Body.”

 Thee Atrocious seemed to blush as these new compliments spewed forth. “More, more. Thish ith ekseelent!” It rose red faced and clapped some flippers, sending bits of flesh and bone into the platter, where they rattled, then settled to the bottom of the concavity.  “No, no. Neversmide, we has bithness to dikscuss. Cummon, sit.”

 They approached and sat cross-legged on the opposite side of the immense platter. “How can we be of service, Thee Atrocious, thee Foulest and…”

 “Enuph, enuphhh,” it spit and dribbled. Things had changed, plainly. The new administration, Thee Atrocious, had firmly planted itself in the boardroom for the foreseeable future, halting any new egg growth, thus thwarting any chance of being unseated. It had also stopped the influx of new technology to the earthlings, and even criminalized use of the previous granted gifts. These new policies were protested by the cabinet of humanoids, brought along from beyond this galaxy, but they were set on by Thee Atrocious’ loyal Space Spiders, and held as hostage to outlying factions, or packaged for later consumption. The former Atrocious was vile, by every stretch of the imagination, but it had at least upheld the program’s directive: To serve and protect the Earth civilization by educating and policing, and firmly limiting their dangerous potential to the universe, as a whole. This new Atrocious had upended all tradition to become a bloody dictator. It was on the verge of destroying an entire civilization.

 “I hath brut up thum new yoomins from under, ash we haff lost summa da olduns,” it referred to the overseer humanoids which were no more. “Summa dem can be new denerals, like yoo. Summa ken be fleshy toys or jus wigglies, or fud. Wat yoo say?”

 “Excellent, Thee Atrocious,” said General Xiang. “As ever, your ideas are the best, and most awesome.”

 Thee Atrocious waved at its spiders, “Brig dem in, then.” Its stomach rumbled both loudly and visually, and a steady stream of drool flowed from its rictus, green face. As the spiders turned, the generals both sprang up and jumped to their retreating backs. From the armored flanks, they fluidly drew the spider’s scimitars, and then rolled back toward the platter to face the big, appalling monster. Thee Atrocious clapped and grinned so frightfully that its face nearly split, stretching apart and held only by tense, reddening sinews. “Ah, sooo,” it breathed. “Ah, sooo.”

 With their swords, the generals attacked from both sides. Xiang was first, her curved blade feinted at the monster’s face, but when it made to block the attack with a tusk, she ducked below and the scimitar bit deep into its torso. Thee Atrocious never made a sound, but took the blow, sucking the sword deeper, until it and her hands sank into its blubber. She let go and pushed her feet into the beast, forcefully pulling her hands free. Xiang back flipped to the ground, dodging as its barbed tail whipped around to pinch her.

 As she danced free, General Xious planted his sword point first into its ear, twisting as he dug in. Thee Atrocious moaned, and greenish pus spurted into the general’s face, forcing him to cough and lose his grip. The discharge was slimy, and Xious lost his footing, and the sword. At the door, the spiders turned, while the earthlings beyond looked in, horrified at the melee, and the beast within.

 “Look athis, yoomins, look thee vut I can doo!” Before the generals could regroup, its tail fanned out, spikes splitting forth from its rim, and raked the attackers, chopping and carving them into unfortunate, imminent corpses.  Xious and Xiang lay, fragmented, bloody, and Thee Atrocious gathered them up and sluiced them into the platter, where they slid down and coalesced as one indistinguishable heap. Only the eyeballs looked out, dismayed for a moment in time, then lifeless.

 Thee Atrocious squirmed and rubbed at its ear. “Piddle paddle, piddle paddoo. Go ahead, spiderz. Brig dem in. We needsum noo denerals, we doo. Wee du.”

Episode 8

A Thing Well Done

Episode Six.

Look, the children grow with haste. The spider had come down into the girder web from above, just off duty at her sentry position. She clung with apparent ease while removing armor with a few unoccupied legs, and combed her eyelids out with a palp. Now off duty she relaxed and watched the egg brood play, which consisted mainly of squirming. See the red one, it needs to dominate; not so loathsome as before, are they?

 The female’s mate blinked a couple lazy eyes in agreement. It had been a long morning with the brood. They were unruly and needed constant watching. Several times he had unraveled one or more from the sticky webbing stretched about for their safety. It would not do to lose any from a fall.

She looked up from the playing maggots. I will watch, I require nutrition now. The male blinked now more rapidly, and the female blinked back, once, with all her eyes. Chided, the male departed. Again, the female eased, and watched the egg brood with interest. She kept her biggest eye on the slightly larger red one to see what it might do next. There was prestige in raising a specimen of great ability.  The Atrocious One would be pleased. Well pleased, squeaked the spider as her mouth coxae fiddled eagerly.

 The male, smaller than the fearsome female warrior, came up from below carrying a webbed limb in her palps, and stuck it to a girder. The female pulled it off and with her pedipalps proceeded to feed. Delicious, it is still the pieces of the sneaky bastards found above?

 It is. I have saved the best and meatiest pieces for you, mate.

 I am pleased. She sucked at the limb with vigor, and then discarded the desiccated leftovers into the void below the girders. Look there, the red one has an adversary. At last… In a corner, by the webbing, a greenish maggot was squirming and shedding its skin. It emerged larger, and with bright yellow fangs. Small, pointy things scratched at the platform beneath its segments, and a horn poked up between its squishy knob eyebulbs. The red maggot bellowed, seeing the challenge, and threw its weight forward, charging.

 The male spider bounded forward, looking to separate the two, but the female warrior jumped to her mate’s side and put a staying leg on his abdomen. No, this is the way of things. They have this great hatred, it is innate. It is just.

 The male stepped away, though with a sadness only seen from the smaller, weaker of its species. It is just, I agree. His duty to the brood was over now, no matter how the struggle concluded.

 As the red maggot gamboled at its sibling, the slime of its infancy sloughed away and it came out scaled in rotating spikery, a slithering maw round with fangs. The brothers (or sisters?) collided and became a frenzy of blood and whipping tails. In their metamorphic phase they altered to the situation, and if one became embroiled in a pinched hold, it sprouted boney pikes that lacerated the enfolding limbs, and so pieces of the wrestling maggots flew about the platform and into the abyss.

 The warrior spider was so engrossed with the battle it forgot its duty, but her mate gathered up the armor and fitted her ably as the bout ensued. Finally, the red one slithered weakly around its foe, trying in vain to choke it, but the enemy’s serrated teeth were in the penultimate stage of ripping off its head. At the end the green maggot emerged the victor, and consumed what was left of its red brother, thus exiting its larval stage. It was now an adult, though still of an adolescent size.

 Bravo, and well done, look at this atrocious specimen! The green monster squatted tiredly on the platform, and then rolled over toward its pupae siblings, who were quivering with dread before it gobbled them up.  

 The warrior looked at her mate, as longingly as was possible for the ferocious Space Spider. She took the helmet from his offering claws and donned it. Mate, I will speak of you to the Atrocious One, who will be well pleased with your fostering efforts. This is a thing well done, loved one.

 Mate, then I am well pleased, and he jumped forward into the waiting arms of the pulsating green thing as it split from its skin, bloated from all the feeding.

Episode 7

Prestidigitation in the Lion's Den

Episode Five.

There were some who opted for limited enhancement. Tina Luisa hadn’t been in for a regular checkup for years, certainly not since the overlords made healthcare free to the masses. Going under the knife was a terrifying prospect for the Astrologers, but Leo – only a select few ever met the resistance’s leader – advocated a few improvement gifts from the overlords. A single enhanced eye was an accepted risk, if one could learn the important things not to look at with both eyes open. Tina was getting pretty good at it. Her position with the Astrologers was climbing and news was Leo’s Spearmen were assigning her to a new zip code. They were meeting in the park.

 He was there waiting when she arrived early. A jogger with his golden retriever ran by her bench for the second time, then stopped twenty paces beyond and leaned on his knees. He dropped the leash, and the dog turned and loped back to Tina. She seemed friendly, and Tina patted her neck. “What’s her name?”

 “Diana,” said the sweaty man. He wiped his face with a towel. “And you are?”

 “Minerva,” answered Tina.

 “Nice to meet you, I’m Apollo,” he said, and leaned down to pick up the leash. Apollo dropped something on the bench, on the side of Tina’s original eye. “Put that on, but not until you start back down the walk. I’ll catch up.

 There was a path into the woods, and Apollo led her into it. After a few twists and turns they came to a small clearing, well inside the trees. Tina had a patch over her enhanced eye, so she had to swivel her head to see everyone gathered there. A thin man with a thick head of hair put a finger to his lips, smiling at Tina, and he nodded to the jogger. Apollo picked up a stick and beat it three times on a hollow log. After a second a bird was heard, the distinctive call of a cardinal. Then two thumps and finally a keening howl. “Ha,” laughed the thin man. I never tire of Scutum. You will meet him soon, Minerva. In fact, I mean to send him with you, into the lion’s den."

 Tina stitched a knit into her brow. “The lion’s den? That sounds a bit ominous.”

 “It’s not a cake walk, no. I’d love to go, but that would be one lion too many, and you know how that would turn out,” said the thin man. He pushed his long fingers though his thick mane.

 “Why, you’re…”

 “That’s right. It’s nice to meet you, too. Now, Tina, and for now on you only answer to Minerva when one of the Astrologers gives you the sign, now you will learn your true mission. But only if you agree here and now to accept, for the information we’ve just stolen from the skies above was paid for dearly. Any and all involved from here out are standing on the razor’s edge. On all sides there is danger, and the worst is just under your feet.”

 She accepted, of course. The thin man, Leo, turned the meeting over to his second, the runner, Apollo.

 Operation Boomerang had every chance of failing. Surprisingly, only a handful of resistance had been lost to the lion’s den. Of the dozen who went up, nine returned. “Pyxis lost his wife, another member came back down after suffering the worst stomach ailment she could imagine,” said Apollo. “The rest were well rested and had nothing much to report, until they examined all the facts.” They all took the tour, and all noticed the similar and mechanical seeming dignitaries. The food and drink was quite good, especially the first sugary shake-like beverage they were all served. There was recreation they could all participate in, including swimming and boating. Sports, like volleyball and shuffleboard were prevalent, depending on how active you wished to be. In the evening people could enjoy comedy shows, or concerts. Members of the Astrologers were careful not to associate, but they tried to get out and around as much as possible, while other vacationers would just relax at the beach, sipping on cocktails, or staying in their rooms.

 “So far, nothing sounds too sinister. Surely something major stood out,” remarked Tina.

 “Nothing obvious, at first,” he said. “General consensus was there was something in that first drink that affected some people more than others. Most of Operation Boomerang had experienced a slight bout of flulike symptoms.” Of the nine who returned, none knew for sure what happened to the three lost, but the man who lost his wife said she had become lethargic and had gotten a bit more of a stomach. They were both a tad heavy to start. Comparing notes, they all remembered seeing a few people with abnormally big belly bumps. They couldn’t all be pregnant, or have dubious beer bellies.

 “It was clear there was something going on, because not everybody who went up came back down,” Apollo continued. “It was all hush hush, proving some sort of collusion. Boomerang was a success, but it begged more answers.” They sent up a second mission, Operation Mudpack.

 “Mudpack was designed to get a mole into the pleasure dome, but we didn’t want to risk any of our own to what we started to call The Drink. All of the return Boomerangs went through extensive medical testing, but we found nothing conclusive, other than some intestinal scarring.”

 “Ouch,” said Tina, grimacing.

 “Yea,” said Apollo. “The worst cases were repaired. We have some pretty good surgeons on board. We keep them under wraps.”

 “The mudders are our finest bunch,” said Leo from atop his hollow log. He was smoking a cigarette. “I hope they’re still up there, but we don’t know for sure. They knew from the beginning it might be a one way trip.”

 Tina gaped. Apollo went on, “Well, they had the option of going through the dome if they felt their mission was concluded, but I don’t think any of them wanted to risk The Drink. Anyway, they couldn’t go back the way they got in.”

 “What was their mission?” she asked.

 “They were to go as far as the preceding domes, then wait for an opportunity to bug one, or hopefully several, of the vacationers.”

 Leo interjected, “We called them victims, which is quite callus I know, but it’s not like we could have saved them.”

 “So you may as well use them?” said Tina. It seemed more like deplorable than simply callus.

 “Everyone entering Skyland Retreat is thoroughly scanned, they don’t even like letting any enhanced get in. It’s almost like the unenhanced are expendable goods,” said Apollo. By a little sleight of hand, they were able to smuggle in the pieces, bit by bit, until the needed devices could be assembled.

 “What happened?”

 Leo crossed his arms, leaving the half spent cig to dangle on his lip. “They got one victim through, he was properly bugged, and he got in.”

 “Yeah,” said Apollo, “and then he really got bugged, rather buggered.” The device that the man named Ted was applied to, gave his whereabouts, what he ate and drank, and his medical status. “Every indication is, whatever he drank initially got into his intestines and grew there, then ripped his guts apart getting out. Not too fresh.”

“Geez,” said Tina.

 “Naw, bad way to go,” said Leo. “So, we hear they’re looking for earth candidates up there. We feel you have the qualifications to go. Are you up to the next mission, our third to hell above, into the lion’s den?”

 “Operation Bowstring,” said Apollo, taking her by the arm. “Here, let me catch you up.”

Episode 6

Tripping

Episode Four.

“Oh, stop your complaining, Ted. You’re always so-ooo negative.” Shirl was excited. She repeatedly put on and took off her sunglasses while they were waiting to board the shuttle tube. The air here, at the launch site, was hazy from the dust being flung up as the shuttles rocketed skyward. Her glasses clarified the scene, and magnified the heavenly view of the Skyland Retreat. “So lovely, we’re going there!”

 Ted was a chubby, anxious podiatrist. He was more frightened than impressed of the spectacular transit station as well as their destination. He couldn’t help saying so. “Well, this is a bad idea. You know I don’t hold with all this futuristic mumbo jumbo. You don’t know what’s up there. And these capsules getting flung up into space, that doesn’t seem safe. Not at all.”

 But Shirl was hanging onto the arm of an elderly man behind in the line, gushing over the prospects. Ted glowered, looking pasty in the loud Hawaiian shirt his wife had laid out for him in the morning.  There was a wan woman looking back at him from further up the line. She appeared grief stricken. Ted scowled and slumped into a pose, glaring down at the dust that swirled around his new, white sneakers.

The line moved ahead slowly, but in a timely manner. People disappeared in ones and twos into the pneumatic tube shuttles and after a brief intermission whooshed up a hundred feet encased in a plastic tube, then over the top and into an arc, in their egg, riding on a string all the way to the Retreat. The egg capsules were small and quickly disappeared from view of the watcher’s un-enhanced eyes. Shirl looked up though, craning, and saw a glint jumping off one shuttle as it approached Skyland. “Ooh,” she exclaimed.

 Skyland was a hastily constructed mesh of Klantien and plastic beams. Domes, above and below, filled out the assembly, filled with forests and towering habitats. The shuttle capsules had but one windowed opening, and it spun slowly showing views, after erupting out the tube’s summit, of the retreating transit station – then the earth – up to the approach of Skyland Retreat. In procession the capsules climbed up the line and entered the center of the floating world. They hooked onto a rail and smoothly rode through the girded interior, and finally emerged into a brightly lit conversion dome.

“Welcome, welcome to the Skyland Retreat,” said a uniformed woman as she ushered the visitors from their seats. The passengers emerged gingerly from the eggs onto a white platform and onto a moving walkway. Then as their heads swiveled on their necks to take in the views, they traveled on the conveyor out of the welcome dome and into another.

 “Welcome, Welcome…” she said. Shirl took the woman’s hand and stepped out, sliding her sunglasses into her pocket. Ted followed, unconvinced. The woman put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to the walkway. He thought he could hear a whirring coming from her. Her movements seemed uncanny, even mechanical.

 “Is there an exit around here, somewhere?” But the woman was already waiting for the next egg, and Ted rode away, straggling behind Shirl as she held her Flix aloft, filming the dome and scanning the surroundings.  

Aloft, in the sunside domes, the workings of Skyland remained a mystery to the lucky vacationers, as they rode through on the conveyor belt going from one spectacle to another. Ted scrunched into himself, examining the walkway and the structures and fauna as they moved along. A planting of cactus passed, and as Ted took a step back to get a better look, the belt hit a snag and lurched. They were just about to pass into a connector tube, and Ted hooked one of his sneakers behind the heel of the other, and he stumbled, and then fell off, tumbling into the dirt beside the conveyance. Shirl was too enthralled and didn’t miss the ever moaning Ted, as she rode into the next dome.

 “Welcome, welcome,” said the uniformed woman who looked more or less like the first welcoming woman. Shirl didn’t notice. Suddenly she was lost in a crowd of dozens of Earthers, all pointing and whispering. This dome was the biggest and buildings towered around the edges. In the center was a deep lake set inside a circle of white sand beach. The water was the bluest Shirl had ever seen, and it percolated in the center, sending gentle, rolling waves in concentric circles to lap at the beaches. “Welcome to heavenly Skyland Beach. Here you can relax and play, and the Skyland attendants will see to your every wish.”  Several welcoming women now pushed a bottle into the hands of the vacationers and guided them back onto the walkway, where they traveled around the beach and palm tree groves toward the high rise hotels. Occasionally a fork would appear, and a rider would shift to another track, while the rest traveled on.

 Finally Shirl found herself diverted and she wondered silently where Ted had gotten to. A low, beige hotel sprawled before her and Shirl took a sip from her bottle. The juice inside was thick and sweet, and she immediately took a longer swallow. Delicious! she thought. Ted would probably hate it, but Shirl wanted more. Another woman waited for her at the hotel, and Shirl stepped off where the track curled off, turning back toward the main walkway. “Welcome, welcome,” she said. “Welcome to your room. There are refreshments and everything you need is inside. Welcome to Casa la Playa.”

 The room was furnished much like any hotel suite she and Ted had been to with dressers and a bed and side tables. There was a glass desk and a minifridge. The bathroom was tucked behind a wall and Shirl peeked around to see the loo and a big walk in shower. Big enough for two, but when was Ted going to find his way? On the king sized bed was swimwear and towels. Shirl changed into a one piece suit and took a fruity drink onto the porch where there were two chairs and a pair of binoculars. She sipped at the bottle, which was good, but not like the first, better drink, and peered through the binoculars onto the crowded beach.

 A man and woman reclined under an umbrella on beach chairs, sipping their drinks. They were satisfied. They were listless. The first day they arrived, after slurping up their thick beverages, the couple walked in to the beach and played on the sand, then dove into the warm water, letting the waves wash over their bodies as they rolled together in the surf. Under the dome, they were young and energetic and happy. Five days in, they laid unmoving at the water’s edge, or in their beds, sated, with their bellies full and round. The two barely acknowledged each other, quaffing fruity drinks and moaning. “Oh look, there go Lucy and Renaldo.”

 Lucy and Renaldo were wrapping up their vacation. They had put on a few pounds and now wore bathrobes over tight fitting swimsuits. “Thank you for staying, come back again!” said a uniformed woman. They stepped onto the moving walkway outside their room that faced the beach. All the rooms faced the beach.

 “Well, that was nice,” said Renaldo. He laid a hand on his distended stomach and belched. “I don’t feel so good.”

 “You ate too much,” said Lucy. “You let me eat too much. You haven’t touched me for a week.”

 Renaldo huffed. “You just lay there and moan, and fart. Then you complain. It is past time we get back.”

 “Whatever.” The rolling walkway unexpectedly descended below the sand, and the couple dove into darkness. “The hell?” Lucy grasped Renaldo’s arm.

 In the dark they heard a skittering noise, and were lightly touched here and there about their bodies by cold, pokey things. The darkness transitioned to mere greyness, they still couldn’t see well, and shadowy shapes moved around them, touching and sometimes separating them. Dreamlike, they slumped and were enfolded into the welcoming grasp of Galactic Spiders. Lucy and Renaldo were now inconsequential.

 Inside, in the guts, small sugary grains had washed down the gullet and took a turn in the stomach, enduring the harsh acidy hell that heaved about. For a day the grains sunk and rose in the slurry of chunks and fluids that rained down from above. They expanded and shrunk dangerously, until they were flushed out into a contorted tunnel of slime. One by one the cooked grains attached themselves by hooked tentacles onto the channel walls, gripping tightly as the fetid slush pushed by.  Most couldn’t hold, and were expelled with a multitude of muck out a sphincter, eventually into a furnace that burned the waste into an ash that was released and floated on the winds across the face of the earth.

 But the persistent grains grew. They filled the tunnels and stopped up the guts, until finally the brittle hooks snapped and the stony grains, pocked like cratered meteors, descended methodically through the undulating river of flesh. The guts would quiver and shake, as the host organism wailed demonically, singing a song made for the devil’s ear.

 One at the time, the choir’s number would drop, as a thrashing body would still and the slime coated eggs dribbled out into a pan, to be collected by chitinous appendages.

 Between the surfaces, in a jungle of Klantien braces and high strength plastic netting, dwelled the colony of Galactic Spiders. They scurried through the underbelly web of their world, seeing neither the heavens nor the earth. And they were content. Unknown to the people of earth, the spiders made up ninety-nine percent of the overlord’s population. The immensely fat and segmented scorpion queens made up the remainder, and the face of their regime was handpicked humanoids, augmented to appear mostly earth-like, with pleasing faces and silky voices.

Episode 5

and, Meanwhile...

Episode Three.

Gleaming chrome-suited spiders pushed the food cart into the room, a triangular space with walls that transitioned into a dome a third of the way up. The smooth ceiling was mysteriously lit behind its opaque surface and gave off a weird, greenish glow. The table positioned perfectly at the center was a split oval, and the cart slid on tracks into the opening. It clicked into place, and the spiders - spider-like things - skittered out.  A big blackish fellow, with a turtle-ish carapace, reached out with its segmented tail to pluck a charbroiled piece from the serving board.  Two well decorated generals, human, sat on stools opposite their larger, figuratively as well as metaphorically, companion.

Saliva dripped off a fang as the diner skewered its meat. “This meat smells superb. What is it, again?” The portion was red and juicy, it dribbled, bloody and globby fat, onto the creature’s tongue as it held the morsel suspended over its maw. “Mmm.”

General Xious held a handkerchief over his mouth and nose. “This is a water buffalo, Mr. Atrocious. It is from Asia.” The general pushed a button on his baton, and gestured to the digiboard over his left shoulder. A large map of the world glowed there, and then zoomed in on Southeast Asia. “The supply is plentiful.”

 "As it should be,” said Mr. Atrocious, who had taken the name as a courtesy from the former Mr. Atrocious. “We are wanting to see all indigenous species on the rebound, of course. Not only for meat, as you well know.  Yet, we must eat, you and I, and my superiors too.” Thankfully the superiors were smaller, much so, and hadn’t anything like Atrocious’ appetite. They mostly dwelled in glasses of water, or raindrops if the urge to travel came up.

“Any advances in security?” It wolfed down slabs of meat in between queries. There were no side dishes, only the semi-cooked buffalo. A bowl under Atrocious’ chin caught much of the dribblings. “I could use a bib.”

General Xious nodded to his right, and General Li Xiang stood. She was a foot shorter than Xious, and childlike next to Mr. Atrocious. The view behind now changed to an illustration of the human optic system. “The technologies your people have brought to the earth are a godsend, Mr.” She was stone faced, with bangs that fell down to her eyebrows. Her sideburns were long on the sides, but zig zag cut in the back, falling to an inch above her collar.  Li Xiang continued, “Even with a slow release to our best engineers, we are finding new ways to improve society below. It will take time, but we come ever closer to a Utopia that alone we would never realize, not in our lifetimes.”

 “Fiddle faddle,” Mr. Atrocious delighted in colloquialisms that even these two generals rarely understood. “Your world would have perished entirely without divine interference.”

“Truly,” agreed General Xious. “The new optic ‘scouts’ are bringing in far more data than any stationary devises or even satellites. Under the guise of visual enhancement they do well for us. And the earth people get a great deal of enjoyment, too.”

 General Li remained afoot. “Yes, I have sampled them.  Here is some of my data.” From her viewpoint, a green vista of forested hills played out on the digiscreen. She panned, the whole of the forest swept over the board. Then she turned and narrowed her focus on the buildings, cars, and people behind her. Her glass and metal eyes probed and recorded. If something of interest came to view, the clarity would beckon her eye to delve in. With her enhanced optics Li Xiang could see through shadows, and around slight bends. She swept back over the entire scene and around to the forest and hills again. A black vulture circled aloft, among its committee, and she zoomed up to its hideous, bald head.

 “Ugh,” remarked the Mr. “I find that distasteful. But, the detail…”

 “…is amazing,” said Xious. “We have a team following the exploits of two enhanced travelers. They have taken every advantage of your technological gifts, Mr. Atrocious. The beautifications, the optics. Even the handy, advice giving literature. So far the mouse and cat volumes top everything on the New York Times Best Sellers List.” The spiders were back, clearing the table. Mr. Atrocious hoisted his pail and drained the sloppy, wet drippings. It dropped the bucket onto the cart and spiders removed it, clattering, from the room. The door sighed shut.

 “I am pleased. With everything. The buffalo and the surveillance. You have done well, so there will be more presents, of course, and accolades for you, as well.

 General Li Xiang climbed back to her seat and the view behind changed to the vantage point of the two vacationing men. The scene was of the night, with street lights and the neon store fronts. The screen darkened, and at first Mr. Atrocious believed there was a malfunction, but then the lights burned brighter and brighter, and it knew the cause was a regional system reboot.  The Mr’s clawed tail shivered in the radiant glow of the domed chamber.

 “What, is this?”

 Xious glanced sideways, to his fellow general. “We have found two holdouts. They don’t seem to be… receptive to compliance?”

 “Oh my.”

 The door wisped, opened, and the puff of a breeze ruffled the generals’ tightly cropped trims.  They stared straight ahead, saying nothing.

 A drop of rare, red blood fell from the black tooth of Mr. Atrocious’ fang – a grin spread across his devilish face. “Good heavens, dessert is here!”

Episode 4

Business as Usual

Episode Two.

They watched from a nondescript motorhome opposite a well-used steakhouse in a small, touristy town. Almost no one lived here, other than a few never sleeping techs who monitored the kitchen and service machines in the establishments up and down the road. The residents of the motor home were transients who moved from destination to destination when they could scrape up enough credits to fuel the beast they aptly named Rocinante. Rocinante currently puttered by on enough synthetic petrol to power its life sustaining devices.  Marge and Boris ate, slept, and defecated day in, day out in their humble, currently mired, abode. And for kicks and giggles they spied on the comings and goings through the parts in dark draperies.  

 “That’s a fancy one, right there,” said Marge.  She pointed to a silver roadster. I wonder what it looks like when the batteries pulled. Marge ducked down a little when two men climbed from the vehicle. Boris belched and snugged up his sweat pants. He was just returning from the loo.

 He thumbed the curtains wider and Marge snorted. “Looks like a metal box. Like this heap, just little. Going for a steak, wouldn’t that be nice.”

 “Your beans are fine,” she huffed. Marge was the cook, and the Foozone was on the fritz. She had taken to old style food packets and a hot plate to boil up the precooked meals. “Fix the cooker, like you said, and you’ll get your steak.” Marge snuck up on the window again to peek out.

 “Only if we get the upgrade chip,” which they wouldn’t be doing. Any upgrade would only give the enemy access to their privacy. This would jeopardize their very existence. Boris lurched when every light blinked out. “Oh,” he said. The night turned to day and then just as quickly it grew dark, and the lights blinked back on.  “They’re at it again.”

 Marge stared out. “Do you see their eyes?” she asked, shrinking down a bit. “Are they looking at us?”

 Boris leaned over the sill. “I see; they have the eyes of the accursed, up above. The dirty spies. Don’t worry, they ain’t looking at us. And besides, we’re not doing anything.” Boris had a long face, made longer by his sparse, gray flecked chin whiskers. Boris took a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and sat in a small folding chair. His well-thumbed copy of Man of Le Mancha was open at chapter eight, and Don Quixote was fighting giants. Just another day at the office.

 Boris turned a page that was barely hanging on, a miracle as the paperback book was over a hundred years old. He owned a fair amount of them, all tucked into plastic zip bags and stowed in bins under the furniture. Books didn’t look back at you when you read them. The pages didn’t size you up or talk back. The words couldn’t hurt you, like the overlords in their circling satellite fortresses. Marge and Boris were part of the undocumented, unaltered thousands, maybe millions, that peopled the earth in old mechanical wheelies and ramshackle wood and concrete bastions.

 They had dirty homes, and dirty hair. There were holes in their socks, and the treads on their rubber-like soles showed wear. Nothing in their lives worked like it should, because it was all old and held together with gum and paperclips. But those that watched couldn’t see whatever it was they looked for, and that was something. Marge and Boris were patriots of the earth, and beans their sustaining force.

Episode 3.

Lights From Heaven

Episode One.

We came to Arizona the same way everybody else did, in a 3-D magnetically enhanced box. Only ours was a replica ’76 Jaguar XJS. I liked the top down, and the car was red when I drove. Silver otherwise. We were accompanied by Cleveland the educated mouse and his feline companion, Claire. They were part of the package deal included with purchase of A Contemporary Travelogue. “Do you fellows want to see more? I can connect you to a flyover tour in two minutes, thirty-five seconds,” squeaked Cleveland. The mouse was riding in my shirt pocket.

 We could see it pretty well from here, the canyon.  Billy and I hung back. The edge was too crowded with the small folk, those without ocular transplants. They came in by the busload in those big rectangles on wheels, optically enhanced to look like something beautifully sleek. With our transplants we could see the buses for what they were, but Billy, my latest travel companion, liked to imagine the transports as dinosaurs on the hoof. They were behind us now, grazing in the parking lot just over the ridge. I could see the fun in that, so dinosaurs it was.

 Claire mewed, she was an agreeable cat but occasionally she would take a mean swipe at Cleveland, as cats were known to do. She often had a hungry look. And that was that, my stomach gurgled. There was nothing enhanced vision could do for that.

 “Later, maybe,” I said. “Is there a diner or food cart around?” No response.

 “Gotta say the name,” said Billy. “Cleveland, we’re hungry as a cat. Food, bro.”

 Cleveland the mouse ducked into my pocket and popped back up with a hardbound book too big for his anthropomorphic hands. “Gentlemen, you will need to reenter your vehicle and leave the park. Here is a list of suitable restaurants, the nearest is thirty minutes.” The mouse pocketed the book and smoothed his whiskers. “Meow,” purred Claire, meaning she wanted to drive. Fine, as long as we got there fast.

 We took the fast lane, autodrive, but the cat was having a great time pretend steering and we were getting dizzy as she careened off of one red rock canyon wall, then another. Billy finally revoked her driving privileges, and we reclined in the comfortable bucket seats while watching real, actual, scenery go by. Claire sulked. By the time we made it down to whereabouts Coconino, the sun was setting behind some large grayish hills. It got dark fast in the forested lands there. The pines went from green to black and we saw some reflected eyeballs looking out from the tree line. “Mule deer,” squeaked the mouse.

 I said “Food,” and Cleveland said we were close. Soon we came out of the forest and a haze of light blurred out the faint stars overhead and the Jag dropped into the right lane and left the highway. The little town below lined both sides of the four lane road with quaint brick motels, antique stores, and restaurants. “First available steak house,” I said, and the car turned left and parked. Billy and I climbed out and started in, when all the lights suddenly went out.

 The Jaguar reverted to its rectangle shape, dusty from the trip, and the small weight of a mouse disappeared from my pocket. All of the dinosaurs that were shuffling quietly in the lots became big boxes and everything generally took on a mundane, grimy patina. Most of the people meandering in the town didn’t skip a beat, but some, like me and Billy, stopped for a moment in our tracks and looked up. I put my hand up to shade what was coming. A pinprick of a light sparked in the eastern quadrant of the heavens and grew brightly until the flash disappeared and became all encompassing, then it slowly faded and everything was once again dark. A big brontosaurus thundered past us, raising dust from the road. A brick dislodged from the three story building we were entering and Billy kicked it away.

 “Big update,” said Billy.

 “Yeah,” I felt a familiar scratch from my pocket. “Man, I’m starved.”

Episode Two.