Planet Fever

by Stier Jr. , Peter

  “Filing a declaration of war against the New (and Improved) Interstellar Syndicate at this point is akin to riding into battle on a mule and wielding nothing but a fork against a Roman legion.”

  “I don’t even have a mule,” Ed mumbled, “and Moroni must’ve been in the same boat as me.”

  “Eh?” EZ said, then took another snort of snuff.

  On top of the mountain, Fillono stood out by some picnic tables, showing students how to properly expose for a 16mm Bolex camera as Ed and EZ approached. His animated expressiveness and charged-up excitement inspired those students, and for a glimmer of a moment Ed felt the exuberance, which was short-lived, for the vastness of the Rocky Mountains brought back perspective: this mountain range was very big, and it was just a small part of a planet that was very, very big, which was part of a very, very, very big galaxy, and so on … and the N(aI)IS allegedly controlled most of it.

  Even if what Woods had explained were true, and Eddie in fact held an incredible responsibility and power, did he really care?

  Certainly, he thought he wanted to fight, out of some loosely cobbled-together sense of duty and rebelliousness (as well as to perhaps impress Mona)…. But who really gave a shit if some bastards wanted to take over the entire show? Could it be any worse than it was now? Maybe, after all was said and done, that’s the way the cookie had crumbled in Atoz’ “grand Universal experiment.” In attempting to make beings with free will who created their own realities, Atoz’ venture had resulted in the very thing that was happening—people bailing out on him or selling out for the easy reward, or not giving a damn either way.

  If almost every single other “Reality Author” had ceded control to the bastards, did a drunk hack like Edward Bikaver actually stand a chance? Eddie thought about it: most of the Universe would rather follow a narcissistic control freak like Phos and his gang, than a free-thinking, freewheeling “outside the box” Creator. Maybe Phos would just grant Eddie his own “ideal” existence, like the one given to Fillono, who seemed content, happy, and living his dream, even if it was, quite possibly, a delusion. That wasn’t such a bad deal, right?

  That is, if that was the deal, and Fillono had in fact made it. Eddie didn’t know for certain yet, but he and EZ were about to find out.

  “EDDIE. EZ. You must-a-trust me. I am not sure what kind of-a-deal I make, but the Colonel, he-a-promise me that what he is doing is for the greater good. I am no getting younger, and he-a-give me free reign of this two mountains. I can-a-run the place how I want, and teach the youth to be better people and artists. This makes the world-a-better, no? I get to make ongoing films all-a-day and night. I tell you all of this.”

  These are the thoughts that passed through Eddie’s mind: Who could argue with Fillono’s logic? He owned an old ski resort and had the opportunity to convert it into a utopia. He was teaching students how to share their creative expression. But, was he merely under the impression that he was making films? Or, instead, had someone duped him into acting as a surveillance mechanism to capture footage of the creative minds? Minds that Phos and his constituents wanted to control, manipulate, exploit and erase? If so, Fillono probably wasn’t aware of those little details. He was an artist who had found his home.

  “But didn’t you wonder why the military would have such a vested interest in setting up shop with you, why big capital would want to dump money into this venture? I’m speaking just from an economics viewpoint,” EZ said.

  “Yes. And I asked him. And he-a-tell me. He is part of a team that is meant to protect the planet from, what can I say, Inter-dimensional Raiders. This place is also a base. He is-a-training Astral Monks who are going to counterattack the alien enemy. I make a fictional film about it, you not remember, EZ?”

  “I remember,” EZ said.

  Eddie had read a review about it in one of those Independent Film rags, and the reviewer was one of those Eastern Establishment Elites from NY who Ed surmised had grown up spoiled enough to be able to see every movie that came out, but too uninspired to make any movies of value himself. The pompous critic tore into Fillono’s film, Stand of the Astral Monks, deeming the movie “Camp, schlock and cheese tramped up in the guise of Art Cinema. Pointlessly listless, over-the-top and whatever the message of the film is (if there is one) I think the one guy on enough LSD to send a horse through time probably appreciates the effort. No dice.”(He rated the films with “dice” or “no dice,” with either a picture of a die at the end of the review or a picture of a die crossed out). “What an asshole,” Eddie said after reading the review.

  Sounds like Fillono’s fallen for the same rube bait song-n-dance I was given by Götzefalsch: the enemy was trying to sucker me into believing that they are the good guys, and we all are in this together fighting some other real bad guys, thought Eddie.

  Fillono looked around, scoping the area. He crouched down a little and spoke in a more hushed tone: “Guys, things are-a-not what they seem like they are. Crazy things are going on, too crazy to talk about in the same-a-way we talk about the weather or sports. Crazy things. So crazy, that if you talk about them like you are-a-serious you will be called crazy. So we use art and poetry and music and literature and film and photography to talk about the stuff.”

  EZ took a pinch of snuff and snorted. “Boss, I feel ya. But you’re telling me that this Colonel cat took you behind closed doors, told you all about some secret, trans-dimensional cabal invading our turf, asked you to work with him to help out, and slid a briefcase full of cash across the table to you?”

  “I know, I know. It all sounds impossible and fantastic. But this is-a-the case. He wanted me also to-a-help find Moroni, because he was getting more-a-dangerous, and he also owed the Colonel money. But I cannot tell anymore about it. I am sworn to-a-secrecy.”

  Eddie and EZ exchanged glances.

  “Why did I end up getting black-bagged by him, interrogated then tossed into the loony bin? Come on, old pal. The guy has a third-eye that appears out of nowhere on his forehead. He’s one of them. None of this makes any sense.”

  Fillono just shrugged his shoulders, raised an eyebrow, and shook his head. “It does make-a-sense, but not how-a-you think it should. I-a-cannot say any more.”

  The three stood there for a few moments, then a team of students swarmed around them with their sputtering Bolex wind-up cameras.

  “Maybe you two need-a-to go on mountain bike ride. To clear your heads. Take a new trail we made called ‘Brave New Trail’ to-a-the end, then a little pathway to the north of trail that is very unused. Very scenic.”

  EZ shook his head and pshawed.

  Eddie said, “Man, this is no time for bike riding. This is some serious shit.”

  Fillono approached them and placed a hand on each of their shoulder. He looked them both in the eyes and said, “Take-a-the ride. Trust me.”

  “YOU WORKING on anything?” Lisa, the mountaintop librarian asked. The library also acted as a bike rental shop in the warm months, ski rental shop in the winter.

  Ed shrugged his shoulders. “I’m writing a reality piece, All That There Is For Now, which is essentially about what’s up. It’s an addendum to My Book of Life, which is part of a larger work-in-progress, called Planet Fever.”

  “And how’s that going?”

  “Shitty, I’m all out of ideas. If I don’t finish, the universe—as we know it—will cease to exist, and will be replaced by a cheap, shoddy and uninspired imitation of it.”

  She smiled. “I hate when that happens. I hope you finish. Now, what can I get you fellas?”

  EZ leaned over the counter. “May we check out two trail bikes, ma’am? Preferably ones with shock absorbers, please.”

  “You are such a gentleman, Ezekiel Buckminster. ‘Twould be my pleasure, sir.” She smiled.

  EZ blushed.

  I sensed—I mean Eddie sensed a sweet romantic charge between the two as they stood there beaming at one another for a moment. Then she turned to go get the bicycles.

&nbs
p; “Cool chick,” Eddie said.

  EZ nodded. “Yeah. Real cool chick.”

  The “Brave New Trail” was a long mountain bike trail that traversed its way along the backside of the resort, zigzagging its way down to the bottom and near what EZ called “off limits” turf.

  It had been a while since Ed had ridden a bike, so he had to re-acclimate himself with all the gears.

  “Remember to lean back if you get going too fast. And use the back brake first before you ease in the front one. Otherwise….”

  “Otherwise I know—I’ll go over the handlebars. Trust me, I’ve learned that one the hard way.”

  Once they got comfortable on their rides, they made their way down the path. The trail rolled and wound in and out of the forest. They coasted over a few little bridges, traversed across ski runs, and dashed around berms. Eddie was getting high from the mountain air brushing against his face and the exhilaration of the ride. The flickering silver light in and out of the trees enhanced the experience.

  Better than any drug. Better than booze.

  At the bottom of the mountain, the trail opened into a lush valley inhabited by an old chair lift and a few picnic tables. EZ rode around the perimeter, searching for the inconspicuous trail Fillono had mentioned.

  “Like the boss said, here it is,” EZ said, and began riding the barely-visible trail encompassed by tall grass.

  Eddie followed him, and after pedaling though the valley at a casual pace for about ten minutes they came to an old barbed-wire fence with a sign that said Private Property: No Trespassing.

  EZ dismounted from his bike and said, “Private Property? That makes no sense. I know for a fact this is the military property. And they just got this rickety ‘ol fence with this sign?”

  “Maybe they’re trying to be more low key,” Eddie said.

  EZ lowered his bike into the grass. “Let’s check it out.”

  Eddie followed EZ to the fence, and they climbed up and over to the other side.

  THEY WALKED through the tall grass and Ed took stock of the huge mountains surrounding them, the deep blue skies with the interlude of a silvery-white cloud blocking the sun every now and then, and the fresh mountain breeze blowing through the trees.

  After a half-mile or so, EZ stopped walking. He turned his head this way and that, with his ears perked up, listening.

  “You hear that?” he asked.

  Through the grassy breeze and the cicadas and random bird, there it was: a low, droning hum. Yes, indeed Eddie heard it. He nodded.

  “It’s real low, and pulsating.” EZ continued walking.

  They walked and the low, pulsating hum became more pronounced. Whatever emitted this hum was either generating or receiving a tremendous amount of power. Ed knew this because as they got closer the hair on his arms stood up and something akin to static electricity permeated around his skin, hair and teeth; and because EZ told him this was a sign of something emitting or receiving a tremendous amount of power.

  The closer they got, the greater the hum, until they came upon it: a satellite dish about as wide as a Volkswagen Bus next to a small transmission tower, which was loosely disguised as a tree. EZ examined the configuration and found more mini-satellite dishes on the tree/tower, pointed back at the direction from which they came. He then examined the dish, and visually traced it to where it was pointed to, which was toward the top of an adjacent peak.

  “Up there.” He pointed. “That’s where this dish is receiving its signal, and it looks like it’s relaying it back toward the chair lift. I’m willing to bet the lift acts as a cable relay also. Million Dollar Pyramid inquiry: who is relaying what from where to where and why?”

  “It’s gotta be military,” Eddie said.

  EZ shook his head. “Naw, man. Military does it in a controlled, tight way. This would be like stumbling upon a Navy sub just parked on the beach in some remote beach in northern Cali. Ain’t gonna happen. This has to be some covert shit, because they’re hiding it plain site, and who would think that something this big and important would just be out here unguarded with just a janky barbed-wire fence and a rusty keep out sign?”

  Ed caught EZ’s drift: most people, if they wandered to here for whatever reason, which would most likely be some lost hikers or, in the winter, a lost skier, wouldn’t think twice about this. If they gave it any thought, they’d just think the guy that owned this property really took his satellite TV seriously.

  “But isn’t this military property?” Ed asked.

  EZ kept his gaze on the dish and the tower, shaking his head. “Supposedly. But how do we know that? Maybe this is some ‘off the books’ military operation Col. West cooked up, kind of like that Iran/Contra jive a few years back. Them black-ops types like to do it that way, work with legit businesses as cover, and use them, without the other channels in government, or even in their own military branch, any wiser. Shit, maybe he just told Fillono this is military property. Why wouldn’t Fillono believe him? He is, after all, a bonafide military Colonel.”

  Ed listened and nodded his head. The low, pulsating hum was rather soothing, and Ed caught himself zoning out a few times. His eyes wandered to the top of the mountain, where there was a giant satellite dish pointing up to the sky, directly at the daytime full moon. Where had he seen that image before?

  Mona’s painting….

  “Gotta check it out.” EZ snapped Eddie out of his rumination.

  “Huh?”

  “We gotta get up on top of that mountain and see what the gig is up there. My cash is down on that being the primary hook-up, where the main signal is received and/or transmitted. If I nab some of my equipment, come back and hike up that mountain, I might be able to crack this cipher. You feeling me?”

  “EZ.”

  “Yeah young blood?”

  Ed took off his backpack and took out his notebook and a pen. He began to write, then stopped. He tossed the pen back into the pack, fumbled around then brandished a stubby pencil, worn down almost to the eraser, which was also almost completely worn down.

  “I feel you,” Eddie said, and wrote: I guarantee our conversation is being monitored.

  EZ turned his attention away from the dish and focused on Ed. He nodded after he read what Eddie had written.

  Eddie said, “I’m beat, man. I think I need to go home, figure out this thing with Mona, and sort all this other shit out.” As he said that, he scribbled: but I gotta plan, and it involves you and me splitting up.

  EZ slowly nodded his head. “I feel you.”

  “I don’t think I can handle all this pressure right now. With the book. With all this ‘saving the universe’ stuff … I just need some time.” He wrote: it involves me handing myself, and my work, over to the bastards.

  “Yeah, this shit is pretty crazy,” EZ said. He gestured for Eddie to hand him the pencil and notebook, then wrote: Hand yourself over? And the book? Are you crazy?

  “You bet,” Eddie said. He took the notebook and pencil. I am going to write out the plan, then you will read it, then I will erase it. But it must be timed perfectly.

  EZ didn’t say it or write it, but Ed intuited what he was thinking: shiiiiit.

  EZ took out his snuff, pinched some between his thumb and forefinger, and sniffed it. He offered Ed the tin. Ed took it and imitated EZ, but his attempt wasn’t nearly as graceful as EZ’s sniff. His eyes watered, he didn’t know whether to sneeze, cough, bellow, bark, cry or yell, and his face contorted into an absurd, abstracted look of a man who has just sniffed a vile dog fart.

  EZ doubled over in laughter.

  THEY WALKED back to the fence, hopped over and mounted their bikes. When they got back to the chairlift, EZ walked around the base of it, examining every detail. Then he pointed to the top.

  “There it is. The receiver dish.”

  Sure enough, there it was, perched atop the chairlift terminal. So EZ was right: the chairlift itself acted as a signal-relay for some reason or another. And he had never been clued in to it,
even though he was supposedly the head engineer of the entire place. How had he missed that?

  They hooked their bikes onto the chairlift for the ride up.

  “Miss your lady, eh?” EZ asked.

  “Yeah. Well, I suppose she’s my lady. Or at least she’s a good actress playing my lady. I don’t know. But I think I like having her around. Maybe she’ll inspire me,” Eddie said, jotting down his plan.

  The chair whirred up the mountain.

  “Maybe I’ll bring her by one of these days. We can double date,” Eddie said as he finished writing. He handed the notebook for EZ to examine.

  EZ read and nodded his head. “You talkin’ about me and….”

  “You and that Lisa librarian girl. Come on, I sensed a vibe there.”

  “You’re too much.” He finished reading and handed the book back to Eddie.

  “Ask her for coffee. See what she says.”

  “Finish this book of yours.”

  “I will.” Eddie said, then erased everything he had just written. “Maybe when I get off of this mountain and back home to L.A.”

  “All right then, I will ask her out.”

  That is how that conversation ended. They took the rest of the ride up the lift in silence. Upon returning their bikes, EZ asked Lisa out for lunch and she accepted. Then Eddie and EZ each caught an alpine-slide back down to the village.

  THE NEXT morning, Fillono, EZ and Ed were seated at the Shelley Cafe, a small literature and horror movie-themed cafe at the base of the mountain in the main village.

  “Well, Fred. It certainly has been an eye-opening experience. Thanks a lot for your hospitality.”

  Fillono sipped from his little espresso cup, Ed followed suit and so did EZ. The scene was rather cozy and charming. EZ wore a large cowboy hat and aviator shades and was examining all the technology around in a different light. There were hundreds of those tiny satellite dishes scattered about everywhere, and what looked like tiny transmission towers, but in the guise of bric-a-brac artwork, fence-posts, sculptures, and just plain antennae.