The Tide hath Turned, Mightily, part six

The creek was minor, as creeks go, and sprouted from a dribbling stony runoff high in the city’s outer boundary. From there it meandered down and snaked about the innards of the allocation until it exited, rushing and plummeting down a steep cliff face, into the Falls River. Named so because it was the recipient of hundreds of these little creeks and all of their scenic water falls. Falls River was also the name of a grand city allocation that many found a beautiful and relaxing vacation destination. Barbara had been there with Robert, her deceased husband. He was murdered in the line of duty. Dead to the world; but to Barbara, Robert had been gone for much longer than just the other night. The river of falls began as a drop, then a rivulet, but it grew in might and ran fast into the wide, unforgiving ocean.

 “Tell me what you’re feeling, Barbara,” said Angela. They were sitting together on the edge of the couch. Barbara was cradling a glass of bourbon at her bosom. The alcohol was no substitute for the narcotic cigs that Johnny had been supplying her with, but the glass was cool and gave her something to hold on to.

 “Nothing. I can’t say, I don’t know.” She touched her dry, cracking lips to the brim of the glass, but didn’t sip. Amber drops merely brushed the flesh. Barbara suddenly sat back into the cushions, sloshing her drink.

 Angela reached over and took the glass, sitting it on the coffee table. “What was going on between you and Robert? Did your… relationship with Johnny have anything to do with the accident last night?” The affair might have been a secret from her husband, but it was difficult to keep them from mayors.

 Barbara just glared at her sister. “You can’t think I had anything to do with that,” but she had wondered the same thing. Johnny had been in her bed just hours before he killed Robert.

 “I don’t know why you turned to Johnny, how things soured between you and your husband,” Angela said. “You know I never really thought much of Johnny, but it was always your decision to be with him. It’s not anything to do with his work. Everyone in Kenetica has a purpose, and crime was Johnny’s.”

 “You’ve never approved of him, of us!” Barbara sat up and reached for the glass, but then let her arm fall back into her lap. It wasn’t going to be enough. Nothing would be good enough anymore. Barbara shuddered and collapsed again. “You…”

 Angela covered Barbara’s hands with her own. “You three were always close, from early on. I may even have been a little jealous. I guess it’s not surprising that you would turn to your best friend when things got tough. Something happened to Robert, and I just want to understand. I want to know when his world turned upside down, and if Johnny or you were in any way involved. That’s all.”

 “I… I don’t know.”

 “Somewhere along your journey, time stopped. Somewhere it all just ground to a halt and then it lurched ahead again and bubbled up and gave rise to this big tidal wave.” Angela let go of her hands and stood up. “These things you’re hiding, they’ve come crashing to shore, and little sister… you need to help clean it up, because you can’t stay out of the way any longer.”

Over to the Underneath, part five

Having learned their lessons from mistakes made on Earth frontiers, Eleventh Door recipients were free to pick and choose from a myriad of successes. Even these had pitfalls of course. Every different place, time, and dimension has its special opportunities, and one size never fits all. I had one little thing implanted behind my left ear that in its time on Old Earth was a godsend, and a moral disaster. Kenetica revived it, but not to its full extant.

 “This is Stuart, yes. Hello Angela.” I received the urgent message from our co-mayor through my backflow devise. It tingled a little, but communication was instant with the implant. She had been bouncing the surveillance cloud around down south and came up with a lead. “Okay, let me run it by Steve. Yes, I found him.” Another dig at Steven, resident astronaut. What was it with Angela and him; did they have an affair when I wasn’t looking or something? “Steve, Angela found tire tracks leading to Mole City. She wants to send some Trapezoids that way. You concur?”

 “Why not? As soon as I get this wobbly pinchoke screwed down I might pop over myself,” he said, mumbled from under the Klantien floor grates. I heard something metallic falling into the works and then some more ancient Earth words. We don’t teach those words now, but it’s hard to break old habits – ask any transplant.

 I wasn’t so sure, but if we wanted Johnny back, the Traps might be our only good hope. “Well, they are a bit heavy handed. Should I ring up Miron?”

 “Fuck’m. Ah, here we go. Finger tight is good enough for me,” he said, putting out a hand. “Pull me up Stu. You coming along?”

 Why not? I’d never been in any sort of spaceship, even a little short range doo-dad. All us old timers came through the door in catapulted canisters under a heavy dose of somavapor. “Sure, yeah. Miron can hang out at the office. They can spare us, right?”

 Reparte plunked down into his captain’s chair and swiveled the co’s toward me. “Sit. Road trip!”

 --

 Johnny kicked it in to high gear, standing high in the stirrups, as he ponied down the white stripes toward Mole City. He’d been there before, on a buddy’s trip he thought, but his memory was sketchy. He bit his lip, trying to recollect something that seemed to be dodging him. There it is, he thought, then the think he thought ducked behind his liver. At least that’s the way it felt, because his guts were turning over. Johnny decided to put the notion away for now and his stomach immediately settled.

 Soon the city started to rise into view, and with it the road was changing over from concrete to a hard glassy surface. It was laid end to end, six wide, in tiled units, and the pony rode upon it like melted butter on a hot skillet. It looked slick, but this was the smoothest most controlled ride Johnny had ever experienced. He tried some gentle swerves and his tires gripped the road tightly. In fact they sensed the perfect surface and shrunk down to their quickest, skinniest dimensions. The pony had its race shoes on, and jumped ahead like a champ. “Woohoo,” Johnny cheered.

 At these speeds Johnny entered the outer city in a hurry. There were small structures off the side of the road at regular intervals, and the road changed somewhat, causing his velocity to slow. Soon the pony came to a crawl, there appeared to be some sort of roadwork ahead. Johnny pulled off onto the shoulder and climbed down to check it out. There was a fuzzy gopher-looking creature levering up one section of the road with hydraulics, and it stopped what it was doing when it saw Johnny.

 It let out a squeal and knelt down to pick up a road sign that it waved at Johnny, squeaking furiously the entire time, then the varmint dropped its sign and hurled its body down the exposed hole. Before Johnny could react the road became a frantic hub of activity. Small mole vehicles came from left and right, motoring over the highway like rush hour traffic, and it may well have been just that. He was close to the levered slab, so Johnny rushed closer to it, avoiding the unapologetic traffic. They swerved in and out, just avoiding the road work and each other.

 He figured he would wait it out, the crush of traffic was bound to disperse as rapidly as it began. Then a louder buzz from above caught Johnny’s attention. From the north over the horizon some airborne geometry seemed to be approaching, and in a hurry. Three of them, Trapezoids; “Hot chocolate!” he shouted, and looked around for place to hide. Johnny had never seen the illusive sky sentinels before, but knew of them. The mayors would only pull them out of mothballs for something big. Johnny figured he must be all that and a bag of chips if they were siccing these bad boys on him.

 The Trapezoids came quick and were sure to home on him fast. Murder from on high, and a veritable cloud of locusts on the surface. “Godammit, only one way to go,” Johnny jumped and disappeared below the surface into the subterranean city of moles.

Original Orgasmic Origami, part four

‘Ole Beard, white as a spruce bough in February, was moving hither and fro at a pace unheard of, or so they told the tale on Main Street. Monday morning the cloud was seen going south, when the wind was more north-westerly. Strange but not surprising. The air currents in Kenetica sometimes behaved sort of hokey. 'True cattywampus' they observed, craning their necks, outside the barber shop.

Mayor Angela wasn’t even trying to disguise the cloud’s movements. She couldn’t if she wanted to locate the illusive Johnny while he fled, presumably south, on his pilfered pony. The cloud didn’t quite zigzag across the terrain, but it did move up and down some, getting a wide angle view. And the cameras could get multiple views and zoom in as well.

 It was the tire tracks that gave Johnny away. He veered off the main road into the countryside, heading for Calypso. Then he changed course, climbing up onto a different road. Highway Three, a connector. From here Johnny could go east or west. Mole City or Gold Rush. At the place where the pony entered the road, the tire tracks were visibly muddy and left a clear trail. The tracks turned east, but not for long, because Johnny made a series of tight loops on the pavements, until his tires shed the muck, then he boogied… but east or west Barbara could not discern. For an hour perhaps she focused on the highway, going east to west and backtracking, until finally she spotted a clue. It may have been something, or nothing. But it was all she had to go on. Barbara made the call, and the Trapezoids left their garage and flew off east toward Mole City, magnitudes faster than any fluffy old cloud could.

 “Stupid cloud,” muttered Johnny, clenching the pony between his knees and rocketing down into the green verge off the road. There was an edging of woods there, and beyond that he reckoned was open fields, who knows what, maybe more woods, and eventually another highway. Johnny had no more than an inkling opinion of what lay between him and freedom. Actually he wasn’t even sure what it was he ran from. Johnny was spooked, and unsure of what had happened, and rehabilitation just scared the bejeebus out of him.  

 The pony sensed conditions under foot, or tread, and its tires widened, rising above the verge which had begun to sog up with precipitation. The grasses poked up from the wet like a frog’s haircut and soon they sunk completely and Johnny was riding on a vast expanse of carpeted ripples. The wheels changed over to ample skis and he sailed ahoy to a treeless horizon, bespotted with the occasional island hillock.  

 “This will not do,” Johnny decided, and pulled the rudder to lee, wanting to get into some firmer footing. Open water terrified him. He didn’t even consider what might lie below, until it poked up some eyes and considered him. Johnny throttled up and left the eyeballs in his wake, heading to shore. The pony left a waterfall from the fire spitting engines in its stead, until he had to turn and reverse course quickly when a cavalcade of tentacled phalangi sprouted in his path.

 Johnny screamed as a fifteen foot arm swooped down toward his head, and several more broke the surface. Geysers erupted in every direction, soaking his already moist body from his dripping hair to the stitching in his underclothes.  He pulled the pony in every direction, dodging the flailing appendages and more pointy beaks than he ever cared to see again on this day or in any future dream, ever. After he decided he wasn’t dead, Johnny figured the monstrous sea creatures weren’t trying to kill, or eat, him. From their delighted squawking it was apparent the great slimy booger covered octopi were probably in the throes of a communal copulatory festival. When Johnny finally made it to shore, putting the heaving ocean behind him, a collective huzzah burst forth from the frothing waters. This was followed by a moan and bubbles arising from the depths as the monsters sunk sighing to the depths of their pleasure.

 “Oh gods no,” said Johnny, moving away from the swampy lowland, “That is not the way to go, no not at all.”

 Angela missed all that from her remote cumulus viewpoint, but she never suspected the direction Johnny’s eventful morning would take him next.

Dreams and Misconceptions, part three

She stood locked akimbo, hovering over the sink while hot water swirled down the drain. The vapor came up from the eddy in lazy circles. Barbara could feel the latent heat, but it was the frothing current spreading over the blue porcelain basin that held her hypnotized. 

 This was an old kitchen, styled after what the designer called ‘mid-century’, but Barbara didn’t know what century, or even what civilization of planet hopping mid-evolutionary monkey could have possibly wanted a setup like this. Robert’s aesthetic came from some old world mutant gene, a malady relegated to the working class hero, she supposed. His attitude and ability to put in tireless, long hours certainly spoke to his work ethic. Robert had been a champion to the community he served, always believing the best of the people in difficult circumstances. He was an excellent cop. He rarely drew his gun in the course of duty. The one time he fired it was when a rogue turkey lion crossed the eastern boundary to terrorize a rural farmstead. Mere bullets only annoyed the creature, but held it at bay until backup turned it away with an onslaught of flash laz fire.

Barbara knew Robert’s rationale. An old kitchen required preparation, thought, and above all, time – one thing she had in seeming perpetuity. While her super hero was out saving the world, Barbara could putter in the kitchen, wearing a frilly apron, making some smelly old bread and burning the soup. Well, he never complained. Now Robert was dead, and she was stuck with a fucking blue kitchen. Her neighbors had a digipost wall panel with squidge-bot servers. Good lord, the pot was boiling over.

 Broth bubbled over the sides and splattered on the burner, acrid fumes reached her nostrils, and Barbara, jolted from her funk, grabbed the pot handle. The handle scalded her hand and she swore loudly, dropping the pot and spilling dinner. Fuck, she wasn’t hungry anyway, just filling empty time with hollow gestures. What Barbara really wanted, needed, was one of Johnny’s special cigs. He was gone, too.

 She lit up a regular veggie stick. Here in Kenetica even run of the mill mood dinks were against the law. The contraband carton Barbara had hid in her suitcase over their last vacation to Waterfalville was long gone. Now the best she could hope for was store bought mundania. That and ice cream. She opened the freezer for that, and grabbed up one of the big spoons.

 On the couch, her arm hung over the cushion and thawed strawberry ice cream had dribbled onto the faux wood floor. Dreams infiltrated her sleep, in which friends and family gathered in familiar places, exchanging gossip and drinks. They were at a bar, maybe it was an electronic's game floor, having food and getting buzzed. Johnny had just come up the glass stairs and shook Robert’s hand. They were grinning. It hadn’t mattered that Robert roughly arrested Johnny the night before, or that Johnny had his arm in a sling. He wouldn’t be throwing the stone tonight, or sweeping. Just bending his elbow, and that suited Barbara.

"John, you scamp! How's the arm?" asked Robert, throwing a fake punch at Johnny's bad bicep.

"Whoa there. Who knew the job could be so painful, huh? I'm going to file for some work comp first thing Monday. What are you drinking there?"

Robert waved at a passing waitress and put two fingers up, pointing at his glass. "Let's play some ping pong and talk. Are you seeing anybody? You should bring her over next week. Barbara would love some company."

"Oh, no. Not into the dating thing right now," said Johnny.

"Ooh, how about that one?" Robert nodded at a woman, judging from her outfit, who was coming in the door.

"That man is the ugliest woman I've ever seen. Anyway, work is keeping me pretty busy. You know how it is," said Johnny. He stole a glance toward Barbara. Barbara felt funny seeing herself from Johnny's eyes. She started sweating, which also felt funny, in a detached, dreamy sort of way. Go figure. Then Johnny and Barbara were screwing in the women's restroom while her husband shot pool with someone with two good arms "Ouch, shit. Easy on the arm. Man, I need a week off!" The overhead light crackled with energy.

  Arrests,  bruises, paperwork, a night sleeping one off on a hard floor… that was all just business as usual. It was work, and this was the weekend. A buzzing fly annoyed her, it bombarded her, made her flail and throw the spoon, and sit up too quick to a pounding in her skull.

 No, the doorbell was ringing. “Oh shit, hold up a second.” Barbara rose unsteadily and crept like a hunchback to the door. “What time is it? I’m coming.” She opened the door.

 It was the Monday evening after a long day, and Mayor Angela leaned against the porch rail tiredly, a bunch of flowers and a jug of wine in the crook of her arm. She had that disapproving look on her face; gods know what her eyes were doing behind those sunglasses. Barbara squinted against the fading light and waved Angela in.

 “Good lord, Barbara, you look like shit.” Angela held out the flowers. "I'm sorry about Robert."

 “And a good howdy fuck to you too, sister.”

The Mayors, part two

He was the only astronaut in the city. Hell, come to it, Steven Reparte was the only astronaut on the entire planet, leave alone our allocation in Kenetica.  He came through the Eleventh Door, of course, and stayed.  There’s the theory that he also went back, but we don’t deal with metaphysics here. That’s for others at the hub, or back on good ‘ole mama Earth, bless Her, and Moon state Tech of course. They own everything.  We’ll never see Earth, but still She looms over like a big pink thumb. Try not to think of it. Now, we didn’t exactly need an astronaut. An astronomer would have done nicely however.

 It was the northern lights. The lights shimmered large in the night sky, immense in form, yet formless. Constant, like the sun and the moon, yet this night they winked. They were in a snit, and had some other allocation been affected we might have known to look for problems. But Kenetica has no equal on the world. We deal with the lights, like other places deal with the waves, or the flights of dragons, or any other myriad deviations in nature. All we can do, us mayors, is play like an oracle and map out a weekly schedule. Johnny gets up, Johnny gets to work, Johnny gets paid, Johnny goes home. Everyone is happy, life goes on.

 “Except tonight, Johnny mucked it up and maybe life doesn’t always go on,” I said, then had a sip of the tea that Miron brought to the table. We were all a bit disheveled, having been roused from our few hours of slumber. Tea was a nice jumping off point, but something much stronger would be needed to see us through Monday.

 Angela pulled a hand through her mussed hair. She was wearing beige tinted sunglasses, big ones, which seemed to cover half her face. “Where’s Reparte? Shouldn’t he be here?” Angela as ever had a beef with Steven, despite his obvious placement here as an honorary. He could come and go as he pleased, and had no distinct role. What other allocation had a friggin’ Earth astronaut?

 “Let’s just go over the transcripts and see what went wrong, ok?” said Miron. He began passing folders around. Angela whipped her cover open and huffed. She took a long sip then looked under her frames at the front page. “Maybe flip to the end, Anj.”

 We scoured the data for hours, and we traded tea for mellow infused coffee from a stash that Reparte had smuggled in from Earth. I silently thanked him, at least, for that. I wondered why he hadn’t yet joined us. “I don’t think we’re going to figure this out from one occurrence,” I said leaning back, worn, in my chair. “Anj, can you just climb into the surveillance basket and try to trace Johnny? Miron, we’ll need to alter the schedule since we’ve lost two citizens.”

 “I can’t see this being a big deal for now,” said Miron as he stood up. “Just a hiccup, but it might throw off the social dynamics. What are you going to do?”

 Before I pulled into Steven Reparte’s lane I could see the cloud drifting off toward the border, south of the Donut shop. Angela was looking toward the obvious direction. Normally I wouldn’t agree with her decision, Johnny being well trained and shrewd. But I knew he would be thrown off whack from the night’s events. He might just head for the exit in panic.

 The house was a cement prefab, tucked under the lip of a forested hill. An immense limestone ledge leaned out over the façade, and the appearance of a tall green door was the only clue that a home might lie beyond the edifice. I parked in the gravel and was going to walk up for knock, when I heard a faint electric whine and some clanking coming from the hanger further up the lane. I trotted around and saw smoke rising from the stack and mixing with the morning haze. The metal door was ajar a smidge and a concerning clatter arose from the shop.

 As well as some choice words. I entered. “Steven, are you alright?” I called out, looking around the spacious hangar for him. His shuttle from the Space Crawler towered above the carts and shelving in the building. Then I saw him hanging from a fin, twelve feet above the scaffold that had collapsed in a heap below him.

 “Hello, Stu. I’m just freshening up the Betty Lou here. Mind raising a ladder for me?”

First Night, part one

She was smoking. Wisps like a cirrus cloud knocked off its foundation swirled from her nostrils and climbed, spreading tendrils through her auburn curls. Barbara took a breath and a shroud covered her face, of course it did. I should have known then, but you know what they say about armchair quarterbacks. Roberts black shirt was long on her slight torso. It draped her, bunched up over her knees as she sat Indian-style on the rumpled sheets. I left before she smooshed out the spent fag.  Eggs. I required eggs more than I needed her accusing, her grievous silence.

 My shift was just beginning, his was nearing its end, but cops never punch a clock. A job was done when it was done. It happened tonight the northern lights were at their peak, so damned bright that the moon, embarrassed from trying, hid behind the one cloud in the sky. Here in Kenetica we always have that one cloud. Some of the residents even have a name for it: ‘Ol Beard’. Or ‘Gandalf’. Sometimes ‘The Great Grey Bush’.  The geezers talk about the cloud like folks in other towns talk about the weather, or the Yankees. So colloquial, there they’ll be on stools in front of the five and dime, or gathered like crows in the barber shop. “What’s Santa’s Fuzz up to this morning?” “About six foot, five.” Meaning low and to the East. From town that would be over the high school football field. Such was the talk around Kenetica. That and Molly Reynold’s skirt length, or this recent crop of freshmen. Bums, all of ‘em, and their old men too, for what it’s worth.

 But, what I was getting to was Robert’s shift just ending, and me robbing the donut shop, and the intersection we were on, and the collision. You see, I should have known because it was a done deal. This thing was going down like it always does, like it was written. I backed in, leaving the jacked pony running, because that was just good business. The green glowing crystals were so cheap and plentiful that a pony like this could go on idling for a week without giving up a centimeter of radiance. Also, I was just going to ditch it over by the landfill anyway. Sundays were the best for the donut shop. Phil’s Donuts was the hub, first of the week, and all day long. Phil had the grungiest, most god-awful donuts and confectionaries. His bacon was greasy and the eggs were flat, and dry. They were so dry that the geezers dipped them in their coffee. Let’s not even talk about the coffee. At Phil’s you got breakfast, and nothing but breakfast, even at ten thirty on Sunday night. If you wanted breakfast, then you’d better get it now, because Phil locked up at eleven, and wouldn’t be back until Wednesday morning, six A.M. Sunday night, ten-thirty, the coffers were full. Always. Robert’s at the end of his shift. Coffers’re full. Full charge in the pony. Locked and loaded. I got mine, Barbara got hers, but enough is never enough. Her bangs hung low, over her dusky eyes, but she blew them up and for an instant, through the nicotine haze, I could see her gaze shift far away. To the glare jumping off his chrome, and the crunch of the wheels coming up the drive. My cue to get, to vamoose. My thirst was quenched, the job awaits, I’m off.

 Everyone here has a job, from the bottom feeding geezers who live off of scraps and tidbits, to the cops and robbers, and all the way to the top where the white bright and shiny mayors watch the shimmering, shifting lights and pen tomorrow’s schedule in blue ink in complicated schematics on white boards so white you have to wonder what kind of industrial strength solvents the janitorial staff is sucking into their bleeding lungs. These are the things I think about when I climb out of jacked ponys with a loaded gat tucked in my waistband. The northern lights are so bright tonight.

 The lights are so bright. The place is closing down, and the crowd is sparse. Everyone knows everyone else. They see me coming, it’s to be expected. The coffers are full – it’s Sunday, they always are. I’m off my step, the lights are flickering, but in the shop nobody notices because it’s not the donut shop lights that are flickering. It’s out here in the night. Over my shoulder, I look up. There’s a catch in my get-a-long, worlds out of whack, Kenetica skips a beat. Have the mayors rolled over in their beds? I don’t know. The lights rev back up, I could almost hear the heavenly roar but for the grinding gears in my head. Barbara’s cloud obscures my better instincts; bright ash drips from the tip and pricks a pinhole in Robert’s shirt.

 “You know the drill, money in the bag, pop open that till.” I don’t know how I get to this point so fast, then the sirens come and that’s time out of joint as well. How am I waving the gun around like this, godammit, the door busts open and I’m sprawling on the ground, I must have pulled a girl from her stool and she’s under my arm and there he is busting in. It’s his job, Robert the Good. He hasn’t even pulled his gun. His badge is shimmering neon, but these days we call it something else. The  nicotine cloud has dulled my mind, which is jumping around like monkeys on the bed. One fell off and the doctor said… oh shit.

 The smell of gunpowder is in the air. I find it strange that I have never in my life smelled gunpowder. This is NOT part of the job description. I didn’t even get the money. How am I supposed to eat next week, or pay off my creditors or the mayor’s tax? Will Barbara even let me in the front door without her weekly supply of mood-laced cigs? Robert’s shirt covers her, she looks child sized and her collar bone gleams under the weight of the sullen chandelier. A body falls.

 Sunday is almost done in Kenetica, and I’m running.

My Resume for Detroit

passed the wind tunnel simulation 

 beep beep

 Sunday Driving

Avoid all those traffic jams

Crash Test Dummy!

 King Tut Cruising!

Stomp Mobile

 

more flying cars!