Many Moons

by Scott Azmus

  “We waid long. Ssoon, we leev deess plaiz. No more waid.”

  I almost jumped and ran. The Bresla I’d given the VCR was standing directly in front of me. I looked deep into his eyes and that lonely homesick feeling was back. The same as I’d felt the night before, only stronger. Much stronger. Like it was tearing at me from inside, trying to get out.

  I didn’t want to cry in front of him, so I tried to force some warmth into my thoughts. I thought of mom hugging me when I had bad dreams about dad. I thought of the summer grandpa planted all the eggplant and corn and strawberries and peanuts to show me how things grow. I even thought about the great times Dan and I’d still have together. With his face rearranged, Berg wouldn’t want him around. It would practically be like old times. Me and Dan, hanging out together.

  That scared me. Suddenly I knew that I’d been so jealous of Dan and his friends that I’d almost hated him for it.

  The Bresla blinked. We blinked together. I knew he’d seen what I had. What I’d made myself see.

  He pressed something into my hand. It was a tool of some sort. It was almost weightless and sort of purred in my grasp. I traced its oddly contoured grip, the long tubular projection and the twin, recessed prongs at each end. The control panel had more buttons, lights, and little dials than one of the old space shuttles.

  The Bresla’s fingertips slid across my palm. They weren’t sharp like I’d expected, but rubbery and warm. I looked up, surprised, and he took and lifted the “converter”—the word popped into my thoughts—to my forehead. I placed my hand over his and I was dreaming. We both were, together.

  Bright blue lines and weirdly interlaced symbols gave way to a world with apricot and platinum-streaked skies. A Bresla doctor was using a similar converter to heal a compound fracture. Another Bresla, probably a technician of some sort, busily mended a crystal-lattice-computer-thing I couldn’t name. Still another used it to repair an array of broken plumbing.

  See, the converter wasn’t a weapon. It couldn’t kill. It wasn’t meant to destroy anything. If you tried, it wouldn’t work. The Bresla used it to change things by reshaping and moving—“transposing”—their smallest parts until they were like you wanted. Like what you saw in your head.

  Our radio was now part of their navigation system. The microwave, some sort of particle shield. The popcorn popper sat at the heart of their drive train. I don’t know about the VCR.

  I tried to ask questions, but stopped when I realized all my spark burns were stinging less and less.

  “Lige deess?” He pulled his hand from mine. “Eess ssome’dig you need?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” I stripped the Timex from my wrist and held it out. “My grandpa gave this to me. It’s broken, but it’s yours if you want it.”

  He dangled it against his palms and his ears dipped. “Eess good. Weed deess, we leev deess world, deess dime. Tangss.”

  When he turned away, I stood and quickly realized that he had not been alone. Three other Bresla stood in a line before me. Each held a pair of eggs, only these were black and shiny and smelled like the devil’s idea of really fine limburger. The three rose high on their feet. Three sets of thin limbs cocked back into throwing position.

  I stared at the first Bresla, folded my arms, and tried to look unafraid. I deserved this for what I let happen.

  “And now we geev you deess reed’jool farewell.”

  I looked down like when dad used to take off his belt. I tried not to think about what was coming. I tried to loosen up and told myself The Lie. “This won’t hurt. You can take it. Don’t cry.”

  For the longest time, nothing happened. Nothing at all. When I finally got the nerve to peek, everything was bright and hot. The afternoon sun cast fence shadows halfway up my legs—

  The afternoon sun? Wait a minute! I looked up and the whole world flexed dizzily back into place.

  I was alone, the Bresla camp empty. Even the fire was out and the big silver football-thing was gone. So was that lonely, homesick feeling. And so was the ache in my chest I’d had ever since dad caught me raiding his secret pantry. I didn’t even feel stiff although I must have been standing there for hours.

  But why the show, the nasty-smelling eggs? Maybe the Bresla were like the wolves I’d read about in biology class. If they liked you, they’d grab your neck in their jaws but not bite down. Supposedly, by not ripping your throat out, they were saying, “I could really mess you up, but I won’t. We’re pals.”

  I hoped that’s what it was, but what about Dan?

  I turned back to the gas station and was surprised that no one had seen me. Berg’s Toyota stood broadside to an ambulance and a police van. He and Kiefer leaned against their radiator grill, while a cop walked mom up and down the ambulance’s boxy shadow.

  When I swung through the fence, it jangled and Berg jumped like Kiefer’d stuck him with a pin. I would’ve laughed, but mom was already shrieking my name and hugging me and spilling hot tears down my collar. I couldn’t understand a word she said but when she pulled back to stare at my face, I asked her where Dan was.

  “They’re taking him to Mercy General. He has a fractured skull and a broken j-jaw and...” Tears ran down her face. “The paramedic says he’ll probably make a full—” More tears. “Full...”

  “Recovery?”

  She nodded real hard the whole time I towed her back to the ambulance.

  Halfway there, Berg threw his shoulder into mine. “Watch what you say about last night. Okay?” Behind him, the ground shimmered like water, the pumps swam in the heat, and Kiefer gave me the bird.

  I wanted to reach out and break that finger. I wanted to beat the fake grin off Berg’s face. I wanted to—

  The converter pulsed warm and solid in my fist. But, like I said, it wasn’t a weapon. And no amount of wishing could change that. I mean, it wouldn’t do much to Berg except maybe clear up his acne. And why would I want to do that?

  Then I noticed his truck’s ruined tailgate and all the new dents. I couldn’t hurt Berg or Kiefer directly, but I could sure take away their wheels.

  Forever.

  Or as long as I wanted. How about turning it into a giant, vinyl-upholstered egg?

  I didn’t have the right number of fingers, but all I had to do to start the change was aim, concentrate on the image, and press one of the triangular studs. There wouldn’t be any light or sound....

  But no. Something inside me said, no...don’t stoop to their level.

  That’s when I smiled. I wasn’t going to be like Berg. Or Kiefer. Or even dad.

  “Mom? I’ll explain everything at the hospital, but let me ride with Dan, okay?”

  I guess it was. She hugged me real tight before letting the cop lead her away. As soon as I was sure they’d be okay, I climbed in the ambulance and slammed the door. “Let’s go!”

  With all the tubes and needles and gauze and stuff, Dan actually looked worse than when I’d left him. I pressed the converter to his forehead, but nothing happened. I forced myself to concentrate. I thought of Dan when we used to steal Hot Wheels and Lego from each other. About when he’d had his first girl friend over and the time I’d caught him drooling over dad’s Penthouse.

  No response. I thought about climbing trees and wrestling. About how we used to talk about dad late into the night.

  The images changed. I saw Dan with dad. He was taking a hell of a beating. Dad’s studded belt slashed again and again. Across hands, arms, back, face....

  Sweat beads popped across my forehead, joined, and drizzled into my eyes. I fought back by concentrating on the mud pies Dan and I used to make for the neighbor kid and how he’d taste a crumb, but only after we showed him how good it was by scarfing down half a slice....

  Dan’s answering thought image came back at me: Tabasco-flavored lemonade that he made me drink before pretending I was invisible. How could I forget?

  When I opened my eyes, one of the converter’s triangular studs was blinking. I tabbed it. And the next and the ne
xt. I didn’t know what all the dials were trying to say, but I figured he’d be okay. His bones were sliding back into place. The swelling was going down. Even his usual color was showing up behind the bruises.

  “Hey, Rick,” he slurred after I’d moved to less obvious repairs. “If more aliens ever come?”

  “Yeah? What?”

  He cracked his eyelids. “And they ask me to take them to my leader?”

  I pretended to wince at the cliché. “What then?”

  “I’m taking them to you.”

  I smiled, couldn’t help smiling. And he smiled back. It was still sort of lopsided, but it was real.

  Preface: Red Moon

  I wrote this story in a hurry. It was supposed to be a great deal shorter but the central character (Marky) and I somehow really “connected.” Perhaps that sounds strange. Anyway, the story kept needing this or that new paragraph along the way and I ran out of writing time before the quarterly submission deadline for Writers of the Future (Volume XIV), again edited by Dave Wolverton.

  A week or two passed after I submitted the story and then: huge surprise! Although I never once edited this story, it sold on its first submission! Not only that, but this second sale to Writers of the Future also offered a trip to Hollywood, California, more big parties with well-known science fiction authors, a tour of the “Deep Space Nine” television set at Paramount Studios, and my first encounter with several big-name TV and film stars.

  Red Moon

  Cheating was bad. Bad, bad, bad. Really bad. Marky didn’t like to cheat on the tests, but high scores seemed to make everyone so happy. Especially Doctor Pat and his friend, Doctor Harkness. And Trisa. It made Trisa happy, too.

  “Yes, Marky,” she sent over their private carrier. “Now move the little black pieces into place. One by one. Do you see what they make?”

  Marky moved the first little black piece. Trisa was nice to help him. She was his little sister. She lived far away in a dome on the other side of Kibero Patera. Two generations advanced, Doctor Harkness said she was a better “total-concept model” than he. Intelligent. More reliable. Better suited to the harsh realities of surface life on Io.

  His gill rakers flattened. He was proud to have such a smart sister!

  “Thank you, Marky. Now try the second piece, please. You’re doing very well.”

  He pulled another black piece from the Lego bag and pressed it into position between the yellow triangles. He stared. It made an eye. Was it a cat’s eye?

  He looked over the whole picture and grinned. Yes, the picture was a cat! A cat!

  “Press the buttons, Marky.”

  He made a cat. Just like Doctor Pat made things. Alive things. Marky hugged the keyboard. He carefully pressed C and A and, finally, T.

  The little green light strobed. Food, waxy nuggets of clear eso-three, clattered into his bin. They smelled wonderful. They tasted better. He even liked how they felt against his minutely scaled skin.

  Trisa’s voice came to him, once again. “In the mouth, please, dear. You’ve made everyone very happy.”

  Marky looked out his window and nibbled the pungent eso-three. Doctor Harkness certainly looked happy. She smiled as she flashed a sheaf of freshly extruded Mylex at Doctor Pat. “Unbelievable,” she said. “Simply unbelievable. Look at this. I know he’ll never be brilliant again, but he is improving. Two weeks ago we voted to put him down and now, just look at his scores!”

  Doctor Pat frowned. He didn’t look so happy. The way he looked into Marky’s special room made Marky feel bad inside. Like he knew Marky was a cheater. Nothing but a big, fat cheater.

  “It’s all right, Marky,” Trisa whispered into his thoughts. “There’s no way Doctor Pattison can tell. Not with that equipment set up. Not for certain. The frequency’s all wrong.”

  Marky sent a spike of frustration at her. How could she tell from so far away? He might get in trouble. Why was she—

  “You won’t get into trouble. If they ever do figure out that our comm bands overlap, they’ll probably be thrilled. They’ll celebrate by writing a joint paper or something. Yeah, with a title like ‘Interference and Resonance of Organic Interpersonal Communications Bands between Mode One and Mode Three Ionians.’ Earth will love it. Probably bring more fear. More riots. Escalate the fighting.”

  She paused. Her transmission became more soothing. “Besides, I didn’t help you all that much, big brother. You’re a lot smarter than they think.”

  Marky sat a little straighter. He grinned at Doctor Pat. All he wanted was to make Doctor Pat happy. He loved Doctor Pat.

  Trisa was still sleeping when Doctor Pat came to visit Marky. It was early in the Ionian morning. Doctor Pat’s hair was messy. It stood up funny behind his headset. He pressed his palm to the thick Perspex barrier and clicked his talk button. “Rise and shine, Marky-boy. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

  Marky stretched and splayed a wide palm over Doctor Pat’s. He had eight fingers. Doctor Pat had five. Later, suited and on the surface, they might wrestle and hug. If it was Saturday. And if he did well on his tests. But other than the accidental “containment breach” Marky caused way back before Doctor Pat made Trisa and his other brothers and sisters, he and Doctor Pat had never touched. Not actually. Not for real.

  Sulfur sand rained from Marky’s gill rakers as he yawned. He pressed his face to the barrier. Whenever they were close like this, Marky tried to remember how hot Doctor Pat’s skin had felt. How smooth and damp. How sharp his true voice had been when they were both frightened. How the air smelled bad. How Earth humans looked when they were doing important things like saving Marky.

  Doctor Pat said he almost died that day. Having been eso-two deprived, he might never get back to being as smart as he was supposed to be. Might not live up to his potential. Meet the model projections. Whatever that meant. All Marky knew was that he’d been very sick. And for a long time. Doctor Pat had saved him.

  When he was okay again, Doctor Pat told him it was bad to cut the barrier. Very bad. No matter how much he wanted to be with Doctor Pat, Marky promised never to cut the barrier again.

  He splayed his feet and pushed his legs against his bed. He scratched a hard, yellow crust from his rakers.

  “Stretch and grow, Marky-boy,” said Doctor Pat. “Stretch and grow.”

  Marky smiled. He flexed his muscles. That’s what Doctor Pat always said. Every morning. Just like sometimes, at night, he warned Marky about bed bugs.

  Imaginary bed bugs.

  Bugs that didn’t bite.

  Bugs that were not for real.

  Marky liked it better when Doctor Pat turned off the day light and said, “See you later, alligator.”

  Marky was supposed to send, “After awhile, crocodile!” but he sometimes forgot. And sometimes he didn’t try hard enough and Doctor Pat’s radio couldn’t hear him.

  It was funny to call Doctor Pat “crocodile.” It was a game. His touchscreen tutor once showed him a vid of real crocodiles. And real alligators. They couldn’t live on Io. Or Jupiter. They had cold blood. Which was a good thing because if they ever came, they might try and eat Doctor Pat. They couldn’t eat Marky, though! Or Trisa. Doctor Harkness said not to worry. She said Ionians had their own special chemistry.

  Marky liked that. Being special.

  Doctor Pat checked his watch. “Listen, Marky. You’re probably going to have some visitors later this morning.”

  “Friends?”

  “Yes. Friends. Probably friends. After you went to sleep last night, Ra station picked up the inbound track. The plasma signature is one we recognize. It’s an Earth patrol, probably sent to check our progress. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure. They’re mostly interested in your brothers and sisters.”

  Marky’s head tilted to the side almost all by itself. Doctor Pat sounded funny. Like when he said Marky’s booster shots wouldn’t hurt. Marky knew it wasn’t a lie—Doctor Pat never lied—but the shots always hurt. Always.

  “Will they hur
t me?” Marky sent.

  Doctor Pat pressed his head, the shiny part where his hair had fallen out, to the barrier. He clicked his transmit button a couple times before his words finally came. “No, Marky, I won’t let them hurt you. Or your brothers and sisters.”

  Marky’s cutting nails scissored out without him really wanting them to, but he did not cut the barrier.

  “You’re a brave boy, Marky. If anyone comes here, they may want to ask you a few questions or play some games. That’s all. Just do what they say. Keep your claws sheathed and they’ll probably like you just fine.”

  Marky concentrated and sent, “If I do good on their tests, will they wrestle with me?”

  Doctor Pat stared at him. He looked sad. After a while, he shook his head and said, “I’d better get a move on, Marky. There is a great deal of work to assign before the landing. Back soon.”

  He began to unclip his headset, but before he did, Marky called, “See you later, alligator!”

  Doctor Pat held the microphone bead to his lips, but didn’t answer right away. “It is,” he finally whispered, “and always has been, my fondest wish that as soon as everyone sees how downright human—childlike, really—you and your poor misused brothers and sisters actually are, they’ll all love you, too. As much as I do. I pray that humanity isn’t so far gone in their nightmare propaganda that that day has not passed us by. Good luck, my buddy.”

  He clicked off before Marky had a chance to answer.

  Marky was sniffing the crack beneath the door that sometimes opened to the outside when Trisa’s voice came to him. “Marky! Wake up, Marky!”

  He was already awake. Trisa sounded scared. Why did Trisa sound scared? Trisa was brave.

  “You’re brave, too, Marky. That’s why we need your help. Now, before it’s too late.”

  His help? Did Trisa have to take a test? Marky wasn’t sure if he could help Trisa with one of her tests. Her tests were hard. Complicated. Building things out of wires and modules. Digging trenches. Tracking spaceships. Loading weapons. She never made cats. Never played with Lego.