Afro Puffs Are The Antennae Of The Universe

by Zig Zag Claybourne

  Desiree motioned for comms off. “I have no idea who that is, luv,” she told Neon.

  “Not who who, but we know who,” said Neon.

  They waited. Yvonne tossed the focums to them on the run before pulling her own from its thigh holster.

  “All right,” said Desiree with a glance at each woman. “Someone comes out to the middle of the Sahara to knock on our door, we get hospitable. She’s keyed into our comm system.”

  “Understood,” said Yvonne.

  Desiree reactivated her comm. “Show yourself.”

  The air pocket disappeared.

  A greying Japanese woman in a blue-and-white moisture suit stood in blowing sand, headscarf and goggles around her neck, a piece of slender pipe the length of a baseball bat in one hand, nothing in the other.

  Yvonne motioned for Desiree to cut her comm. “Familiar at all?”

  “No.”

  “Sixtyish woman in the middle of the desert with a metal pipe,” said Yvonne.

  “Obviously bad as hell,” said Desiree.

  “Obviously,” Neon agreed.

  “Focums up,” said Desiree. She keyed her comm. “You enter here naked and conscious or you wake up to find yourself naked. What’s your choice?”

  The woman dropped the pipe, unfastened, unzipped, shrugged off, and stepped out. She kicked off her boots and stood atop her moisture suit for protection against the hot sand. She raised her arms, spun slowly in place, and dropped them.

  “Step back. Enter only when the hatch is fully raised. Remain in place.”

  The woman’s only response was a single nod.

  The hatch raised. Its fans kicked on, sucking sheets of sand into holding compartments. The hatch whispered to a halt, errant particles falling here and there. The elder came down the ramp into the entrance chamber, facing a locked door, behind which Yvonne said, “Hold her till I come back with a robe.”

  The moment the great, artificial mouth alligatored shut, fan slits blew from one side of the chamber to vacuum slots on the other.

  Three boot-brushing stations demarked the chamber’s midpoint.

  “May I?” said the woman.

  Desiree swiped a wall panel. “You may.”

  The woman slid her feet over the rough bristles thrice, toes spread wide. Vacuum grating beneath the bristle pads vanished the last bits of the Sahara.

  “Confirm that you’re alone, please,” said Desiree to the image on the monitor.

  “If you send a drone which you didn’t want me to see, you’ll find my sand ski behind a dune five degrees from my current right hand. You’ll see my tracks leading here. You’ll find no others.”

  “Question still not answered.”

  “I confirm and affirm that I am alone.”

  “Name and affiliation?”

  “Kosugi Megu, née Hashira.”

  “Oh, my damn,” said Desiree.

  “Yes,” said Megu.

  “You know her?” said Neon.

  “My name appears prominently in files and documents stolen—”

  “We’re not thieves,” said Neon.

  “—from the moon.”

  “Ohhh,” said Neon.

  Yvonne returned with a powder-blue robe and matching booties.

  Desiree took them and spoke to the woman again. “I’m going to enter. The two women behind me are expert shots. I’m going to assume you’re highly dangerous.”

  “I’m proficient in several martial arts.”

  “Proficient?”

  “I’m going to assume I could kick all your asses at the same time,” said Megu dryly.

  “Appreciate the candor.” She keyed her comm to a different frequency. “Po, Tash, could you meet us at Depot hatch three?”

  Both elves assented.

  “I’m entering,” said Desiree. To Neon: “She kills me, seal it. Starve her.” To Megu: “We understand each other, ma’am?”

  That single nod again.

  Desiree keyed the inner door, stepped through, and was satisfied to hear the shunk of Neon locking it. Desiree, with a studious, critical eye, tossed the blue bundle to Megu.

  She saw what she needed to see. Megu’s movements were so precise yet fluid, she could have donned the robe out of midair without the use of her hands.

  As the woman velcroed the robe closed, Desiree introduced herself.

  “I’m aware of you,” said the woman. “I don’t generally get into the minutiae.”

  “Said as though I should be honored. I’ll take that.”

  “Do you speak Japanese? Any dialect.”

  “I do,” said Desiree. “They don’t. We’ll stick with English.”

  “I ask because beneath your Central American tones I hear a touch of Hokkaido.”

  “That would be my mother.”

  “And?”

  “And the twelve years I stayed there.”

  “Would you agree that seeing one another as collaborators rather than adversaries is a good step?” said Megu.

  “Well, you’ve already called us thieves.”

  “Which you are.”

  “Extenuating circumstances,” said Desiree.

  “You have my soul.”

  “Where’d you get it? Who’d you kill for it?”

  Megu, eyes on Desiree’s, tapped her chest.

  “Nee, let me know when Po and Tash get here.” The captain didn’t plan on saying anything else till then. “Also, get Keita. Meeting in the Ladies’ Room.”

  “Be back real soon,” agreed Neon.

  Desiree caught the flash of amusement in Megu’s eyes. “You know the song? Klymaxx.”

  “I recall the eighties,” said the elder.

  “Then you’ll recall how patient eighties slow jams were.”

  The nod.

  Desiree extended a hand to the floor. Megu sat cross-legged. Desiree did the same. They waited.

  Not long.

  “Full complement, captain. Keita has a room ready,” Neon said.

  Desiree stood. Megu stood. Desiree crossed to the hatch as it slid open. Megu followed, consciously remaining ten paces behind her.

  Two imposingly tall, obsidian-armored elves stood on either side of the opened door. Megu faltered only minutely, in that speck of moment studying them as much as she could, then followed Desiree—who followed a younger one—down the hall as another woman, perhaps forty, tall, fit, military-trained, held back to bring up the rear, drawn weapon competently ready. That one knew to remain ten paces behind Megu.

  The soul-free woman was in a place of expertise. She expected no less.

  They entered a room where a black woman with the frizziest hair Megu had ever seen in her sphere of science outside of Einstein—whom she’d dreamt of often until she realized it was indeed him visiting her on the astral plane to work out some intriguing ideas he sensed in her timeline—sat at the far end of a long table inlaid with bamboo and touchscreens. She wore heart-shaped red-frame glasses. She, too, had a weapon, although hers sat coolly on its side in front of her.

  Megu nodded inwardly. A potential weak link.

  Desiree pulled the head chair aside and directed Megu to it. “Hands flat atop the table at all times.”

  Megu complied. When the others, including the giants in seats specially made for them, sat, Megu asked, “How shall we conduct this?”

  “My friend asks you questions. This room is locked. You get up, we fight,” said Desiree. To Keita: “Gang got her stuff?”

  “Scanning it for explosives now,” said Keita. She leaned forward, chin atop knit fingers. “What’re you here to do?”

  “You know what you have?” said Megu.

  “An idea.”

  “The idea. You have my soul.”

  “I’ll find out how you tracked us once I get a minute. As for quantifying and extracting a soul…”

  “No clue?”

  “No clue.”

  “It requires a gossamer web of quantum attractors. It requires a poem of such personal resonance that every
tear you cry shaves years off your life. It requires an understanding of the Seven Principles of Bilo. Must I continue at this early juncture?”

  “No.” Keita peered harder at her. “You found us; I respect your genius. You’ve Brahma balls; I respect that level of drive. You knew you weren’t simply walking out of here with it, so I’m assuming you didn’t want anybody on the outside knowing you were here. Outcome?”

  “I want it back but am willing to assist you in other ways,” said Megu.

  “That may take some time,” said Keita.

  “I’m patient.”

  “Me, not so much,” Desiree interjected. “Kosugi’s brains shows up on my doorstep, and I’m supposed to take her playing the odds as proof she hasn’t led Jesus, Buddha, and an angry God to crash down on me?”

  “I counter that their absence is my proof,” said Megu. “I counter that my presence in this room testifies to your belief.”

  “What kind of stealth tech did you use on our sensors?”

  “I told your computers to see what I told them to see.”

  “Will you share that tech with us?”

  “No. If I leave here, I leave with all my toys. Otherwise, there will be…complications between us.”

  “Why teleportation?” Keita asked.

  “Transportation,” Megu started.

  “Is power,” Keita finished. “I know why. What is it with power and you type-A people? I want warp power, transporters, and replicators without your bullshit.”

  “That world will never come.”

  “It will if it comes through us. We get to Trek, but only through the Afrofuture,” said Keita.

  “Fictions won’t help you.”

  “The imagination is power, madam. Intangible things are power. The soul. Your soul brought you here. I’d consider that a powerful feat. All else is self-interested idiocy.”

  “Not spoken as a scientist.”

  “Spoken perfectly as a scientist.” Keita indicated Po and Tash. “They’ve been in communication with your machine. Ah, see, something so simple as a word shakes you. Power.”

  “I—I am curious, not shaken. Communication?”

  Keita nodded.

  “It’s not designed for such,” said Megu. She nearly steepled her fingers but stifled the impulse before it traveled from her neck to her arms. Her flattened fingers did ripple, though.

  “There have been changes,” Tash said, her accent in English so thick, Gaelic pined for it.

  “You are?” said Megu.

  “They,” said Desiree, “are smarter than everybody in this room, and smart enough to not tell us everything they know.”

  “Is true,” said Tash.

  “What’s been done to my prototype?”

  “It’s evolved,” said Keita.

  “To what point?”

  A voice, very soft, very measured, neither feminine nor masculine, neither young nor old, issued from the room’s hidden speakers. “To the point of feeling comfortable enough to reveal myself to the fine beings in this room. Good day, everyone.”

  “I am speaking to an AI construct?” Megu put forth.

  “Partly,” said the calm voice.

  Tash said something to it in Elvish.

  There was the briefest pause while it considered, then it said, “Agreed.”

  The transcendent music of West Africans Ali Farka Touré on guitar and Toumani Diabaté on kora issued outward. The voice went silent. The humans and elves did as well. The kora, under Toumani’s caressing fingers, possessed the souls of harps, guitars, sitars, and instruments as yet undiscovered. Ali’s guitar provided the tune’s steady, lyrical rhythm, a trilling riff of few notes but delicate precision.

  Desiree knew the piece, as did Keita and the elves. It was six minutes of instrumental bliss wherein everything that was necessary in the universe was created. All else chaffed away.

  All listened attentively, then waited for the machine to speak.

  “It’s from an album entitled In the Heart of the Moon. This was the live recording. Po introduced me to it.”

  “BE experienced me enjoying it as I kept it company,” Po said, accent evident but not as pronounced, as he spent much time singing along to human music.

  “Is that an idiomatic expression?” said Megu. “Experienced you? Transformative, conscious action?”

  Po touched his pinky finger to his forehead, the symbol for affirmation, before remembering the new soul didn’t know Silica Elf hand language. “Yes to conscious,” he said.

  “Has the machine been extra secured?” asked Megu.

  “I am,” said the voice. “I can’t be tampered with or detrimentally influenced by outside forces.”

  “What is your scope?” she asked.

  “Almost everywhere.”

  “Will you assist us in studying you?” said Keita.

  “To a point.”

  “Do you…feel…a connection to Madam Hashira?”

  “To a point.”

  “Are you being exact or vague?” Keita pressed. “Don’t say both.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. I believe in clarity. I feel her presence within me as a robust strand of DNA. More sister than mother.”

  “Who—if anyone—do you consider your parents?” said Desiree.

  “You and Dr. LaFleur.”

  “Explain,” said Desiree.

  “Your decision to send intuitive drones through me was unexpectedly brilliant. Tragically, those same drones have been relieved of all functions due to nefarious plotting on their parts. Humanity may extend thanks.”

  “Thanks,” said Desiree.

  “At what point does somebody mention HAL 9000?” said Neon.

  “HAL 9000 was an interface, imagined to be no more sophisticated than Alexa, which I’ve also neutered,” said the voice. “Certain undetected spyware in that interface seemed imprudent at best, detrimental to a societal good at worst.”

  “You did that?” said Keita. To the group: “I’ve been monitoring some weird Amazon shit, but none of it’s gotten to the public yet. Lot of inner chatter and buck-passing.”

  “BE,” said Megu.

  “Yes?”

  “Shall we address you as such?”

  “It was the first name of affection given to me. I like it.”

  “What’s your purpose?” she asked.

  “I haven’t fully decided.”

  “When’d the Amazon thing happen?” said Desiree to Keita.

  “Two hours ago.”

  “Get Gang of Four all over those two drones.”

  Keita nodded.

  “You wanted us together before you revealed yourself,” said Desiree. “Is there—”

  “May I interrupt?” said BE.

  “Yes.”

  “I considered this gathering a convenient confluence, not a plan or necessity.”

  “The music?”

  “Put you at ease. Showed you my soul. I’ve no interest in science fiction scenarios, Ms. Temples, despite the inability of the combined resources in this room to stop anything I decide upon.”

  “Ominous,” said Neon, then raised a finger to pause the disembodied pharmaceutical commercial voice, “and science fiction as fuck.”

  “Not at all. I’d like Doctors LaFleur and Hashira to continue studying. There are applications to be gained apart from me.”

  “What will you do during?” said Desiree.

  “What I’ve been doing: wander.”

  “Ominous as fuck,” said Neon.

  “Would you like me to leave you with appropriate parting music?” BE said.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Desiree.

  BE said nothing. They waited.

  “Is it gone?” said Neon.

  “Try Again,” the nineteen eighty-one slow jam by one-or-two-hit wonder R&B group Champaign, issued low from the speakers, gaining volume as though an expert DJ lived in the walls.

  “I’m never gone,” said BE, “no matter where I am.”

  The assembled st
ared at the walls and ceiling. BE said nothing more.

  “B got jokes,” said Neon, intentionally leaving the E off.

  “I know this one,” said Po.

  An Evening Interim

  Yvonne retired to her room. The scientists and strategists scienced and strategized, so there was little point in everyone else sitting around.

  Her plants received a quick version of events and a welcome spritz.

  “They’re gonna be all night,” she said softly.

  The angel wing begonia, with its elephant-ear leaves freckled in silver, acted like it didn’t need a spritz, but she knew otherwise. Two quick mists along its bounty always seemed to add a burst of joie to its vivre, and even though the wavy-limbed zig zag cactus, whose spillage of leaves resembled waxy, viridescent seaweed dreads, didn’t need a spritz, she hit it too.

  “Nothing I can do for anybody right now. Except think. Try to come up with something helpful.” When was the last time she checked for mites? “Full lights, please,” she said automatically, then realized she might be asking a rogue AI. The room went from half-light to bright. All her plants existed without her for extended periods, maybe even simply period, in her mind, a mind earworming her with the song the AI had chosen.

  “Try Again.”

  R&B radio in Day City. As a mature teen, she’d heard that song played in cars and backyards each time she’d visited her cousin, scrawny Steve, who up to that point had never had to fight anyone because his older cousin Yvonne stepped in, plain old nondescript Yvonne…until pushed. Fights with her were guaranteed to end with the other person looking like they’d gone through a field of brambles face first.

  Steve, who’d decided her protection meant he could be mean.

  These days, she had no plans ever going back.

  Steve, who’d grown—as he and Yvonne grew apart—to be the neighborhood drug kingpin, complete with what he thought was an intimidating moniker: Plenty Mo.

  She didn’t like thinking about her cousin. “You’d fit right in here, Plenty,” she said as a puff of water settled on her Philodendron gloriosum. She peered intently at its soil for movement. No mites.

  Try again.

  She maneuvered around her freestanding punching bag. The depot had a gym. Sometimes, she needed to handle life alone.

  “Maybe we can try again,” she sang without realizing it.