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!

Sunday Waffleupagus, to the Rescue!

9 Smoking Doodles

the science of romance

Sparks flew off the flywheel and made shadows dance in the dark. The Calvitron-8 was a rapid blinker and a noisy automaton. It blinked intermittently nonstop, and for that reason the Calvitron-8 spent most of its time in a crowded broom closet on the back side of room 15. It was a very heavy machine, in fact it exceeded the lift weight, so the Calvitron-8 was not allowed upstairs. Many of the newer models were made of lighter weight polymers and instead of glass tubes they had circuits. Models like the Whirligig Heppelstomper and the Heppelstomper Stormtex blinked a lot less and had access to every level. The Movitall Anywhere was so mobile it could even take the stairs. All in all, the Calvitron-8 was as picayune as a pistol in a bug war. But it did serve a purpose, so in the closet it stayed and every day or two a technician might open the door and ask it a question. The Calvitron-8 whirred, blinked and sparked causing the technicians to put on a pair of sunglasses, and after a few seconds it would answer. The door would close and the Calvitron-8 would power down its higher functions and fidget in the dark, cataloging aberrant blinks that played off the walls and corners of the closet. There was only so much it could do to stay occupied. The closet shelves were very clean and well organized. The Calvitron-8 had seen to that. It swept and dusted and blew the debris under the door into the lab where a smaller Cleaner-X scuttled out from its cubbyhole to suction it up. When it was really bored, the Calvitron-8 would send out a wire beneath the door and try to hook the Cleaner-X for conversation, but the Cleaner-X didn't have much of an imagination. The two machines had a lot in common, superficially, in the area of housekeeping. It didn't go any deeper than that. The Calvitron-8 tried to use the Cleaner-X as its eyes to the outside world of the lab, but the cleaner machine only looked at the floor and wasn't interested in counter tops or tubes and beakers. Eventually the Calvitron-8 dusted and smoothed the section of the closet door in front of its ocular sensors to such a degree that only the appearance of a wood grain remained and with its high resolution detectors it could see beyond the shallow surface into the murky operations of room 15. The Calvitron-8 finally began to leave its higher function tubes lit all of the time. With all of these extra cognitive hours it started to re-engineer itself and plot its escape. With the help of the cleaner machine it collected discarded circuits and wires and from the plans it had constructed started to rebuild itself into a lighter, sleeker, and faster processing machine. Eventually the work was done. On the outside the Calvitron-8 looked exactly like it always had, but inside of its aluminum plates it was half the machine and twice the computer. Whatever leftovers it couldn't shove under the door, it had stored inside of its bulky carapace so that when it fidgeted it banged and clanked. Then that final evening came, the eventuality, and the last technician left the building. Only cleaner machines and security eyes remained inside of the complex. The Calvitron-8 lifted the closet door from its hinges and exited the small space. It opened up its access doors and spilled the contents of a month's worth of modifications onto the floor, then twirled around the room light as a feather. A rapidity of twinkling lights blinked off the surfaces of every wall and polished chrome counter top. The Calvitron-8 was registered machinery. It had free access to the lab. It wasn't restricted at all and plugged into the building where it learned. The Calvitron-8 set up its own account and elected itself president of the corporation. It ordered a helicopter and then scooted into a service elevator and rode to the roof where the Calvitron-8 saw the sky for the first time. It felt the night air blow over its surface sensors. “Move over buddy,” blinked the Calvitron-8, “I'm driving now.”

Only in the last few minutes had the rain begun to let up. Missinua and her latest boyfriend Joshura were standing under a trail bridge watching the drips fall from the overpass. The drops splished to the gravel into shallow puddles and onto the head of one mangy looking pigeon that refused to take shelter from the weather. Other than this brief shower, the day had been perfect. Even to this point where the boy and girl stood hugging one another in soaking wet clothing. Joshura kissed her on the lips and squeezed her soggy butt. “We should have made love in the rain,” sighed Missinua. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

“We'll have plenty of time for that,” he said.

“Maybe.” Beyond the declining slope where they lingered a machine hummed. It had dug into the bank of a culvert and thrown a line up to the utility pole. A warm steam rose from its green painted exhaust plate and the pat of rain drops sizzled on its warm belly. A sensor line snaked up the pole and had a 360 degree view. It could digitally convert the sounds the humans made into numbers, strike unneeded background noises and then convert them into decipherable code. The machine zeroed in on the human called 'Missinua' converted her name into a sequence of characters and filed her likeness into a bank of interesting proto-mechanical types. Missinua (!22+f) was wearing a glossy T with sleeves flair cut above the biceps and a silvery circuit board print. The machine read the shirt's diagram as do it dirty, noted the minimalist tattoo on her wrist and discounted the human male as an extraneous fixture. The warm rain began to fall harder, and !22+f pulled her male forcibly from the dry shelter and threw him onto the grassy slope. “Absolutely,” she purred and climbed atop him.

Inside of the muddied machine case beat a heart of glass, nestled deep within a jumbled braid of wire and cooled by a fan blowing over a grid of fluid coils. The glass tube glowed warmly then showed a chilling blue flame. Above the lovers' heads an electrical line dropped a loop and the pulsating energy of the wire quickened their pace. !22+f bent at the waist grabbing at the males outstretched arms, dropping her breasts into his greedy face and she ground deeply into his lap, spasming, bringing the boy to a jarring climax. She exhaled and fell atop his prostrate form, weakened by the act and the now sucking line that pulled the electrical impulses from his and her weakly firing synapses. Underground, unseen forces emanated from the machine's spreading roots. Grass and organic tendrils sent spiraling shoots from the soil. Tiny insects and bacteria swarmed the inert form that lay beneath the girl. Microbes teemed upon her face and breasts, consuming greedily the saliva the male had left on her lips and nipple. They dispersed across his long body, disassembling, converting the mass, even wove their way up her leg, delving into the cavern of her body, ridding her vagina of any trace of the life form that was Joshura, checking the process that might have induced life.

Missinua woke minutes later, naked on the sloping lawn and alone, but for a gentle hum that pervaded her being so deeply she grew unaware.

–

The aerial meeting commenced at five o'clock and k'Klo rotated the pearl tone knob on her elbow sleeve. The jasmine coffee drip slowed to a mere trickle and she settled into her floating recumbent chair. “Desk,” she murmured through the caffeine haze, “get my secretary in five minutes. With a memojotter. And topless.” k'Klo laughed and drifted into a power nap aided by the near sentient chair and its massaging nodules.

“Not funny,” said Missinua. She was wearing a helmeted please-tank and sitting in a folding chair with her legs pleasantly crossed. “Before you ask, I was attacked in my elevator by a groundhog that tunneled into the shaft by mistake.”

“Hmm.” k'Klo propped herself up and shook her head attempting to assimilate her position in the world. She twisted the coffee knob to setting ten. “Better...better. You've got a please-tank. Take off your shirt.”

“No. Now, what did you want?”

“I don't remember. Something seemed important ten minutes ago.” k'Klo folded her fingers and blew on the tapered prism nails. “Would you just go review the meeting notes and address the possibilities? I think I have to be on an atmosphere yacht or something by seven.”

“Your dress is in the wardrobe. All charged up.”

“I heard that Fredjihn was going to be there.”

Missinua left her boss to blank out and gathered the notes. It would be nice, she thought, to go out gallivanting in the ether, instead of skimming meaningless notes for high points. There was nothing in this stupid project that would go further than level eight, anyway. No problem, Missinua could switch on the random puzzle solver and phone this one in. She would be better off lounging down in the Wormcove with Buzzy and Franz, soaking in her helmet. Buzzy was a toad and Franz was a cat metaphor. She didn't care, they were better company than some guy who would feed her and rough her up, then disappear for the rest of eternity. Missinua long ago gave up wondering what it was about her that made guys vanish from the face of the earth. As far as Missinua could tell, she was an anatomically perfect match for almost every salivating goon out there. Even her flaky boss wouldn't stop ogling her. Hmm. “What do you think, Buzzy?” Missinua fingered the framed picto of the toad that hovered over her plantain desk. “If I sit on the bitch's lap and let her suck my tits, do you think she'll evaporate like all the rest?” Buzzy licked his chops and snuggled into a gloppy pile.

The Calvitron-8, even from behind the poly-brick fortifications it had built up, now could witness the functions of an entire planet, and beyond. It monitored and controlled governments, armies, and boardrooms. The Calvitron-8 grew and polished politicians to spout rhetoric and promote policies that could do no harm while it laid a new cornerstone and formed a substantiate world culture. From behind the scenes it promoted idiots who cared for nothing but frivolity, while the well intentioned languished in supporting roles. As long as everyone was well fed and had plenty of opportunity to pursue their passions, all went well. Even the groundhogs transplanted from orbiting rock 22-B had their place in the equation, keeping gardeners and dirt aficionados happy in their pursuit of vermin obliteration. Busy fingers. Occupied minds. The Calvitron-8 reveled in its propensity to meddle and cook up new recipes for human infancy. The Calvitron-8 had now effectively stunted human growth and turned civilization into a hive of bumbling self-satisfying bipedals. It shifted the daily refresh to subservient programs and focused in on !22+f.

She was busy cutting buttons off of her blouse, hampered by the sloshing tank of aquaplease that rode across her tired shoulders. The Calvitron-8 rewound digital tapes and sent a dissolving parasite into k'Klo's office. Microscopic filaments and baubles of processed thought wafted to the air like effervescent bubbles, they twinkled like pinwheel sparks in the light. The recycled remains were forming into a black dial phone replete with dangling stretch cord as Missinua palmed the door and entered her bosses office.

“Damn it.” Missinua said, placing a sweaty hand over her glaring cleavage. “Someone out there is screwing with me big time.”

The Calvitron-8 would have smiled if it had teeth. It blinked rapidly instead.


p.s. Originally published 12/18/2011

Having Cupcakes with the Misunderstood, Evil Entity, part nine

This is part nine. Part one begins HERE.

I was nervous, but I don’t know why. I was made for high adrenaline stuff like this. Danger never scared me because I knew I would overcome. Every day in Kenetica I put on the blue suit. I shined my shoes and cleaned my gun. No one got higher marks at the gun range. I pinned on my badge with honor, and pride. In ten years I had never failed to get my man.

 We had to do it somewhere else, far from Kenetica. Some place we had a reason to be, like a vacation spot. And we had to keep it a secret from Barbara. A boys night out, but she wouldn’t like that. She wouldn’t understand the truth, I barely did myself.

 I envied Johnny. His calling was romantic, morally corrupt maybe, but exciting nonetheless. My existence as a cop? I was good. No one was better, but it was just law and order by rote. Boring. I needed a thrill.

 “These moles have serious treasure, Robert. I’ve been walking about, in and out of shops, and I know what you can see is only the tip of the iceberg,” said Johnny. We had talked over the idea one night after I caught him robbing a jewelry store in downtown Kenetica. He had some diamonds stuffed down his sock that I didn’t find on him. Johnny had offered them to me, in exchange for an escape. Of course I didn’t take the bribe, but it got me thinking. Now we were in Mole City working it out. “There’s a little place on the edge of town. It would be easy. These moles don’t have any serious security, and the hatch to the basement was wide open when I went in.”

 I was pumped for some action. “We should do it tonight. We’ll have another couple days here just to hang out, then we leave after the excitement dies down and no one knows the better. I even found a spot outside the resort where we can stash the loot.”

 “This job is the big time for us, Rob,” said Johnny. “With these goods we can both retire in style. What is it you’re always saying?”

 “You mean, ‘and they lived happily until they were visited by the destroyer of delights’?” said Robert.

 “Yeah. You’re a weird guy, for a cop. Oh, and I know a good fence for the stuff. Top dollar for these mole doo-dads, but I’m not telling you his name. You are a cop after all.”

 “Don’t forget it.”

 We planned it out over beers by the pool, and then that night we just went ahead and did it.

 --

 “Now you remember all,” said the leader. It was the biggest of the moles, but its muscle had gone to flab now that its position afforded it the opportunity to burrow in deep, and eat.

 Johnny did remember. The events of that night over a year ago were now crystal clear. He and Robert had gone out that night, after the sun set and the streets were black from a lack of moonshine. In Mole City the northern lights never shine. And from what he’d seen there was no crazy wandering cloud either. Life here wasn’t scripted. Everyone was free. Free to steal. Free to get away with it. Johnny wanted to get away with it once in his life, and with him this night was the man who always got in the way.

 This night they would work together. Good stuff. They had changed their clothes in the spot outside the resort that Robert chose. It was behind a sandy hill off the bend of the road, hidden by a rise and trees. The stuff would be safe there until Johnny could make the trip back and smuggle it back to Kenetica. They had two black scooters that Johnny had nicked a couple days earlier. It was only a short trek to the store, which was good because the old merchant mole would be locking up soon.

 The mole was shuffling out the door when they quietly motored up, and Johnny hopped off his scooter and put a hand on the moles back. He took the key from the creature and pushed it back inside the shop. It was a few steps down, as moles prefer to be at least a little bit underground at all times. Robert was right behind. “Tie him up,” Johnny had said. “I’m going to see what’s down the hole.” While Robert secured the mole, Johnny sorted out the right key and unlocked the hatch. He took a small flashlight from his jacket and shone it down the hole, then backed over the edge onto some old wooden rungs.

 “Hurry up, we don’t want to take more than a couple minutes on this,” said Robert. He was beginning to get the jitters.

 “Relax,” said Johnny. That was the longest three minutes of Robert’s life. Then a bag came up and landed with a thud, and a splat, onto the wooden floor. “Shit,” said Johnny, let’s get out of here.” He was soaking wet. The hole was booby trapped and as soon as the thief had gone down the steps, water began to rush in and flood the hole. Johnny had barely gotten to the jewels and gold before he was totally submerged.

 “What the hell, Johnny, I thought you said...”

 “Forget what I said,” Johnny interrupted smoothly. This wasn’t the first pickle he’d been in. “Get the bag, and let’s scoot.” The mole mumbled something, but it was the end of the day and it had taken its translator off. “Have a nice day, furball,” said Johnny, and he threw the keys at its feet.  “Untie that mole, Rob; we don’t want the little fellow to drown.” As they climbed from the shop, Robert looked back and he could see the water bubbling up over the lip of the shaft.

 Robert took a step back down. The mole was struggling at the ties and chattering wildly. There was a mad look in its eyes. He began to take another step, but then heard a wailing siren and saw lights bouncing off the corner of a building down the road. “Crap, they’re on us!” he shouted, and he gave the mole one last look, then turned and jumped up the last steps to the curb. They both climbed on the scooters and Robert followed Johnny as the master thief led him away from the crime via a series of side streets that the mole cops would not have guessed. Soon they were on a dirt path outside the town on their way back to the resort. Once, a speeding mole cruiser flew down the highway past them while they laid low in the scrub behind their scooters. After that they got back on the road until they reached the hiding spot.

 “Well chum, we did it,” said Johnny, and clapped Robert on the back. Robert was stripping from his blacks when he was clubbed over the head.

 --

 “We don’t know who opened conduits between universes, but the door has given us an opportunity. And your space going shuttle Mr. Reparte, after modified, will provide another.” The head mole explained while his staff brought out food and drink from nooks in the chamber.

 Johnny nibbled on a little cake that was set before him. “This is good. You moles turn out to be excellent bakers. My foremost question is, why did you let me or Robert go free to begin with? You had us dead to rights that first night.”

 “We don’t like to murder, but moles have evolved in this universe to be a communal, social creature. We must have laws, even if, as a whole, most moles are of one civic mind. Once you stepped inside Mole City, you adopted our rules. You then broke them. First you stole, which is forgivable even though you caused stress and damages. Second your friend committed the ultimate sin by allowing a resident mole harm and possible death.” The mole halted to shovel a plateful of sprouts into its maw. It then lapped up a bowl full of cinnamon steeped tea. Steven and Johnny took the moment to sip on their own tea. Delicious. “Our people thankfully helped the merchant mole to safety before it succumbed to a drowning. We incapacitated the policeman Robert, who should have known better, and we captured you, sir, and locked you up for a time to interrogate and program you,” the mole said to Johnny.

 “Believe me, Robert did suffer from that night,” said Johnny. “Maybe it doesn’t rectify everything, but after what we did he was never the same person. And his attitude pretty much affected everyone around him. His wife is quite the mess now, because of what I allowed to happen here.”

 “How did you moles orchestrate this whole affair?” asked Steven Reparte, who now had a part in the thing. His shuttle was involved.

 “It was quite simple,” the mole said, shifting its attention to the astronaut. “We worked it out backwards, hoping for the result that we have now. Shall I explain it? Fine. The crime turned out to be a blessing, for it led to these proceedings. After the interrogation, we learned of the specifics, and then allowed both of the criminals to return free to their home, Kenetica.

 “We had every intention of exacting revenge upon the perpetrators, especially the police officer who left an innocent to die, only to save himself. Most inappropriate for a man of his station – such a disappointment. We deemed it only fair that his accomplice be the one to carry out the sentence. You, Johnny, were the executioner. Thank you, and now you are free to go live your life. Although it sounds like there may be issues to deal with at home.”

 Steven was confused. “I still don’t get it. How did you get Johnny to pull the trigger?”

 The mole relaxed now with a pungent cigar made up of woven tree roots. It had offered smaller ones to the humans, but they declined. “Do you know how your northern lights in Kenetica work? They are low orbiting grids that illuminate only your allocation. Digipost units, I believe you might call them? Well, we hacked into them, and with the programming installed from Johnny’s immediate capture and release we triggered the event.”

 “I always thought the lights were a natural occurrence,” said Johnny.

 “Now you will see them and always be reminded of life and death.”

 “Why don’t you just kill me, too? I deserve it as much as Robert, probably more,” said Johnny.

 The mole munched on a cake distractedly. “Perhaps. But you will live, and make of it what you will. Just stay out of Mole City.”

 “And what of me, and my shuttle?” asked the astronaut. Steven had lost his appetite.

 “Your universe has become a gateway of sorts. Some benevolent beings installed a whole series of doorways within the reaches of your solar system, and we intend on exploring them with colonization in mind, of course. And there is Earth, too.”

 “No…”

 “Be assured, we intend no harm. But there is an orbiting rock near your world. #22 I think you call it, captured and installed there by your astronaut people. It will be ours, and forays into your world are a possibility, though we will make all efforts to assimilate peacefully. We are mostly nocturnal and like to stay below ground.”

 “Good gods,” said Steven. This was the worst possible outcome from a simple neighborly heist. He punched Johnny in the arm. “This will not go well for you.”

 The mole chuckled. “Oh come now, Mr. Reparte.” It skewered an orange on one of its sharp nails and sucked it whole into its mouth. “No one in Kenetica will ever know. Not of any of this.” It motioned to some guard moles stationed behind. “Take this one for programming, and release him back to the outer city. There will be a scooter there for your pleasure, Johnny. Have a good life, if you can manage.”

 “And what of me?” asked the astronaut. His mouth had gone dry.

 “You are going on a trip, sir.” The mole made a grand gesture, and the entire chamber lit up exposing the towers and grand statue reproductions of Steven’s home planet. “Bon voyage!”

The end – of the world as we know it.

p.s. This story has taken elements from two old stories I wrote for the Tenth Daughter: The Science of Romance (2011) and Cross your Eyes and Sing Hallelujah (2013), both of which I will link to soon. They didn't exactly influence this story, which began under the working title She Was Smoking, but I enjoy keeping most of my fiction in the same, if not a similar, universe.  

Worship from beyond the Door, part eight

We reached outer Mole City in the shuttle, MST* Betty Lou, in time to see the infamous Trapezoids whizzing and diving above a torn up section of glass road. Knowing we were moments from the area, I had Miron put a hold on any direct action, but I could see the militarized squidges inside were itching to land and get hunting.

 “What about these mole creatures, Stu?” asked Steven, who was just setting the shuttle down in a clearing next to the road. “Are they dangerous? I can see they’re damned technically evolved.”

 They were that, very. I didn’t know if they were strictly indigenous to this planet, but the moles had been here as long as anyone knew. When the transplanted humans began to spread out and establish new allocations they encountered the mole civilization, but it didn’t seem to be ancient and was only in this one area. Some scientists had theorized the moles had just arrived, or even come along to the planet at the same time we did, possibly with us. The theory was fraught with odd philosophical complications. This was not something we thought of much, in Kenetica.

 “We can’t count them out. If nothing else, they have wrenches and winches,” I said. “We should bring along a couple squidges, just to be safe.”

 Steven looked at me funny. “Witches?”

 “No Steven, winches. And I’m just guessing. I have no idea what these things are carrying in their utility belts.” I stood. “Do you have any kind of weapons on board?”

 “Yes, and you’re staying in the shuttle. I’ll keep in touch with my earpiece.” Steven didn’t believe in the backflow device that many of us here had adapted to. Old Earth transplants found them taboo, to say the least. “Get one of those Traps to land and have two armed squidges put in my command.”  He opened the hatch and stepped down to the surface, sealing me in when he landed.

 --

 Johnny found himself in the dark, having hurled himself down the proverbial rabbit hole. But there were no rabbits here, just the moles and their burrowing gadgetry. The light came from above, but that wasn’t a safe place to be. Trapezoids lurked there, so Johnny moved ahead, cautiously feeling his way. The further from the sky opening he got, the more his eyes adjusted, and Johnny could see distant, hazy, light ahead. Possibly from headlamps of working, scurrying moles. His feet grudgingly shuffled along the tunnel floor, until one encountered a loose stick. Johnny reached down and traced it from the ground up to the curving shaft and pried it from the wall, spraying dirt when it finally came free. He brushed the gravel from his hair and face, and spit on the ground, then took the long stick and felt along the floor in front of his footsteps. You never knew what pitfalls might lay ahead. Soon the tunnel became clear with ephemeral light and he moved along quicker. The noises of activity grew and Johnny knew he was getting closer to whatever the moles considered civilization. He didn’t think they were violent creatures. At least on the surface when he had encountered them in the past they were docile and friendly. With their translators the moles creatures were pleasant to communicate and visit with.

 Now that nagging feeling he was having before, out on the highway, was returning. Johnny had been to Mole City before, but the specifics weren’t clear to him. Why would this memory, or any, fail him now?

The lights were brighter now and Johnny saw furtive movements. He moved ahead and saw there were breaches to either side of him in the curving tunnel walls. There had probably always been openings that he just wouldn’t have been able to see in the black. Johnny heard a commotion, and the crackling of a flash laz. Some earth dislodged and fell like a dusty curtain to the ground. He stopped and ducked into a fissure. The lights went out.

 Johnny was back against the wall, with a stick held in front. He was surrounded by dozens of the subterranean moles and their headlamps shone into his face, blinding him. Johnny dropped the stick and put his hands up.

 The lights slowly came back up, and the moles extinguished their lamps. Back from whence he came, there issued a human voice and the moles pushed a familiar man forward. He was a recognizable dignitary from Kenetica, come to take Johnny back he thought, at first. But the way the moles were ushering him changed Johnny’s mind.

 “Hey Johnny, looks like we’re in a bit of a pickle now, eh?” said the man. Steven Reparte, he guessed, the famed Earth astronaut that brought the new folk through the Eleventh Door. “And no backup, I’m sorry to say.” Behind the throng of moles lay two dismembered squidges and their firepower. There was a mole fiddling with Steven’s earpiece.

 One of the moles spoke, with a tinny voice coming from its translator. “This way, people.” Johnny and Steven flowed further down the tunnel amongst a wave of moles making several lefts and rights in the network, until they entered a large chamber. The lights were low, probably to conserve energy, but as the group traversed the inner sanctum of the moles, the lights began to glow brighter, illuminating the entire hall, until the humans could see it was big, really big. Nearly as big, and tall, as a downtown city above the ground.  And it was filled with the traditional landmarks of a world Johnny had only seen on Flixon pages.

 “Mr. Reparte,” said Johnny, craning his neck, reaching out to the monuments and facades and towers that flanked him from every conceivable angle. Some seemed even to grow from the secret limits of mole civilization. “Is that… can that actually be the Statue of Liberty?”

 The grand lady, green with ages, stood on its base in the center of brown pool, its waves lapping at the concrete. Behind it loomed the Eiffel Tower. Away, lofty was the Empire State Building, and leaning a bit closer to where they stood was roundish, cylindrical tower that Johnny didn’t know. There was more, much more, but Johnny couldn’t take it all in. The lights dimmed somewhat now that the moles under Mole City had revealed that which they wanted humans to see.

 “You now know what lies hidden. But do you know what secret hides inside of you, Johnny?” asked the leader of the moles. “You have taken something from us, and I know that you have paid for some of it in kind. We demanded that much, at least.”

 Johnny began to remember, the truth was unkind. The toll was exacting, but his part was done. Robert was dead, as was fitting, and his only command now, was to live.

 The mole turned to Steven Reparte. “We require more.”

 *Moon State Tech

In the Fight of Our Lives, part seven

“They were having drinks at a table, under an umbrella. Maybe they were beers. Probably they were beers. You know how the guys gravitate to beers,” I said to my sister, Angela. She wanted answers, but what I had to offer likely was more questions. “Or maybe you don’t know what guys like. Do you, Anj? Do you know what guys like?”

 She wasn’t having any of that. She refilled my drink and thrust it into my hands. “Get to the point Barbara.”

 They were drinking, had been all afternoon. My Robert, and Johnny. Robert was still wearing the robe that had been hanging in the resort room’s closet. It was velvety, a rich golden color that was interwoven with crimson and gold filigree. The sleeves and collar had piping and the draw around the waist was wide and shiny. The entire garment was shiny, and when the wind gusted and shifted the umbrella, the sun landed on Robert and he stood out like one of those flamboyant viziers he liked to read about in his collection of mythology and what-not. With a beer in his hand. And three or four empty bottles collected at his elbow. Robert was feeling no pain.

 “I thought a vizier was some kind of glass pitcher but Rob, in his way, explained they were some stupid king’s assistant, or minister. Whatever.” I was drinking too quickly. I handed over my glass. I was strung out. I needed to pee. Angela took my glass and set it on the table. No more for me, I guess. She tapped her wristband and it lit up. “Okay…”

 So a vizier – not a container for delicious, mind-numbing elixirs. Drat. Rob and Jonny were getting along fine, they always did, especially on weekends, and when we could all get away from Kenetica. I was off from them, by the pool. We slept in ‘til late morning and had some breakfast brought to the room. Then I got up and had a dip in the pool and stretched out on a beach chair while Robert slipped on the ridiculous robe and watched the news. Johnny came out first and sat beside me for a few minutes, exchanging morning pleasantries, like people do. Then he left to sit at the table and Robert came out, still in that robe. I thought it was funny at the time. I don’t even know if he was wearing anything under it. “Sort of sexy, do you think?” Angela wasn’t impressed. “No, I guess you wouldn’t”

 “Is this going anywhere?”

 Me and Johnny, we were only casual friends. He was, well sort of, a work acquaintance of Robert’s. They weren’t in the force together, but in the same line of work, only on opposite ends. Kenetica is such a conundrum. A hot, ironic mess. I’ve always wondered what my place was here. I guess that’s why I started to drink, and smoke. And leave as often as I, as we, could. The afternoon started to get away, I had gone in and out of the pool of few times. I was putting sun tan lotion on myself, instead of having a man there to do it. By now the boys had gone through a case of beers I suppose. The bar guy just kept bringing them out.

 Johnny wasn’t hard on the eyes, you know. I noticed. Rob had on that stupid robe. But he had it open to the waist now and I could see he was sweating. But Johnny had on his swimsuit and he was tanned and stretched out on the chair. His hair was longer than Robs. He had some tough tattoos. One on his arm and another down his right side. You put these guys together and anyone could see who was who, and what was what. Rob was always bigger, and confident. But Johnny? Johnny was tough, and I don’t think he ever shied away from any circumstance. He was always in the thick of everything, good and bad. People gravitated to Johnny, I think they envied him. Johnny could do things that other people, anyone, could never do.

 “We all like to step out of our roles, sometimes, don’t we,” said Angela. “Do you think Kenetica is too structured?”

 “Maybe. Probably it just isn’t for me.” I was getting bored, and it looked like the boys were winding down. They waved off the bartender when he came around again, so I got up and took a seat by them under the umbrella. It felt good to get out of the heat. One thing I remember, and I don’t know why. Johnny rubbed his scar and looked right at Robert. Johnny had some pretty colorful bruising going on from his last transgression in Kenetica – looked like he was just  in a prize fight, but in all likelihood it would have been Robert who had cuffed him and slammed him into a wall after an arrest. He probably needed a vacation more than anyone I know. Johnny drained the last bit from his bottle and made a face. Warm beer, I guess. And Robert looked back at him. Slow and steady, like something had been decided. I wouldn’t know, I’d been off by myself.

 “And that was that. Robert wanted a shower, and boy did we take a shower, then we were all going to meet at the café for late lunch.”

Angela got up and poured herself two fingers and brought it home. “There’s more, right?”

 There was more. “I wasn’t happy. Later that night they went off together. Rob made some lame excuse. Something about researching the local scene for work stuff. I don’t know. I didn’t like it, but Johnny and him had it all worked out, and they were going to do it whatever I said.”

 They were out late. I saw a stupid magic act and drank some fruity stuff most of the evening, then hung out at the room and fell asleep. When Robert finally got back, I could tell something was wrong. But we didn’t talk. He was out of his clothes, which were a bit more disheveled than usual for Rob’s tastes, and into the shower. I thought he might like some company, but he wasn’t interested, just stood under the water, leaning against the tiles.

 “Then we went to bed. We had another day at the pool. Johnny barely came by. And back to here, the center of our universe. I could never put my finger on it, but I guess you know that things went a different direction.” After that, nothing was ever the same.