by Kelly Brewer
Mooney was not impressed. “A 500,000 seat venue is gonna need a larger peace-keeping contingent than that if something breaks.”
Dock continued, “Not often they get to let those guys off the chain. Gotta see some action sometime or you’ll lose your sharpness. Those kids have been training since they were… kids! They want to flex their collective muscle. Let ’em drill. They also watched that primer on how to administer Hadjii’s Get-Well Hash. We’ll get the rest of those drug dealers before it’s over.”
He paused, then forged ahead, taking a humorous jab at the detective.
“Hey! Maybe on Neptune we will see some hot alien action! Huh? I knew it! I knew we were not alone, there were just too many signs…” Dock trailed off.
Did Mooney catch his sarcasm about the officer’s alleged encounter with an alien? How do you make fun of someone who only recently began believing something existed that was not supposed to exist, but you knew existed years ago while you were pretending to think it did not exist? And even if you handled all the inflections perfectly, would this hard-ass crack a smile… or get suspicious?
Move on, son, quickly.
They were listening closely, apprising his uncharacteristic openness. What happened to playing it close to the vest? Shut up, or you’ll give something away.
“Gentlemen, need anything? No? Ok, I’m gonna go have a Bloody Mary and jump a million miles…Ta-Ta!”
Turning abruptly and tip-toeing into the gyro elevator, the aged provocateur ascended the lift to his living quarters, watching them as he rose.
He left the two officials to draw their own conclusions.
An excited Ro-man servant handed him his preferred drink when he stepped into the command center. He sipped it, dropped it, glass and all, with a disgusted look, and mixed one himself. That robot reject would soon be scrap.
A small Ro-man contingent followed him expectantly into his bedroom area. Were they feeling neglected since his new babies had arrived? Was android jealousy possible? They stopped when he pouted at them and closed the door in their blinking faces.
“Almost time to take out the garbage,” he muttered, turning into the arms of his new robot lovers.
The new babies gathered around him. These babies were much more intuitive than his timid Ro-mans. These androids could be synthesized seamlessly into his intricate plan of aggressive conquest. If done properly, he could seize his prize without a word of protest from humanity.
This group of androids possessed the closest thing to A.I. he had ever experienced. They would help him subdue the lower class. The aliens would be his covert army and give him power over the life and death of the ruling class. A powerful senator had obviously run into one of them recently. Dock clicked his tongue sympathetically.
Rule the head and the ass will follow.
His heart rate rose.
“Gaia.baby… bring blood.”
She gently took his hand and led him to where they had staged in the spacious, tiled bathroom.
He stepped up onto a heavy, marble table the babies had moved near a drain. Bots, he revered, will do manual labor, whereas a pampered human female would only lift her powdered nose in protest. He instilled grit in his machine lovers. “Love is work.”
The sauna door was open and a sun-colored light shone through the mist hanging in the large mirrored bathing suite. The mist reminded him to check his alien neurologic shielding in case one of those damn things was floating about. He nervously ran a quick diagnostic. Yep, shield operating at 100%.
Gina.bot winked at him.
The bots brought in large potted plants and small trees, placing them just so, adding an earthy, primordial feel. Slow, randomly flashing strobes under the mist cast shifting, diffused shadows. It reminded him of a scene from an old black-and-white movie he had watched as a child.
Gina.bot was very creative without being directed. She had access to his memories via the Skin-gineers’ expensive memory maps they had drawn from him and implanted into her. That painful process had paid off. He did love her. She read his mind.
It felt akin to loving oneself.
She handed him the hot, two-gallon bag of donated blood after his clothing fell to the floor. He clutched it to his groin, and the Virgin-nauts gathered under him in obedient anticipation.
The plan did not really matter to them. Whatever.
In their algorithm, Dock was God. Oh! The Skin-gineers really had him sorted out!
The heat on his skin caused him to stir, then rise. He had memorized a short incantation. Breathing shallow, he began…
“Let this family be as one, with this sacrifice. Let the skies be filled with eyes, let all who oppose us die, let my dominion rise.
I take the secret name of Uranus Varuna.
(Uranus Varuna), they repeated.
“I am U V Light!”
Damn, he would have some black lights installed in this white room without curtains for the next ceremony. That would be truly coolish.
(You are U V Light)
“For I will be a Father to east and west.”
(East, West)
“And my dominion shall span north and south.”
(North, South)
Gina already had them synchronized, without being told. Wonderful! He became even more aroused.
“Aphrodite, the most beautiful goddess, was born from Father Uranus’ severed genitals.
So shall you be born, my beauties, my wives, my sisters, my eyes, my ears, weapons, lovers, and spies.
Men shall bow to UV Light, for I will soon crack the skies.
The gods of old shall, by me, birth.
For I have swallowed the Titans of Earth.
You are my secret sword and plow,
Only Time is my cruel enemy… now.”
He gazed down piously upon his subjects’ expectant, rapturous, clear, constructed faces.
Gina.baby.bot saw her cue. With a glint of razor-sharp steel, she slashed open the bag, careful not to cut the real thing. Hot, symbolic blood gushed down in a shower of symbolic, life-giving essence. Wanting, willing vessels, symbolic of future conquests, bathed in red gore, symbolizing submission to a benevolent overlord.
He, too, would transcend with the help of the babies and his strange, angry allies.
He, too, would transcend…
…and rise above the insanity of (his) humanity.
CHAPTER 82
The dream
Kyle’s body felt dense and heavy. He tingled in places that had never tingled before. It was the opposite feeling from on stage a few hours earlier. That was some strong wine.
He needed to sit down. Mercy held him up. He was exhausted. Then Angel found them. He always knew.
Mercy got an irate call from her father just then. She had to go deal with a sudden problem aboard her father’s freighter. She kissed Kyle and made Angel promise he would get him to bed. She would be right back.
With the guards help, Angel took him directly to his vessel. It was closer and he did not think Kyle could make it across the airfield to Dock’s ship. Angel kept one hand on his friend, trying not to look like he was supporting him. Kyle’s eyes were half-lidded and he was mumbling about his great crew, the wine, transcending, the wedding, aliens, the looming Neptune show, Mercy, kids, Moore did so good, no Uranus attack, suspicions about Dock, and how he appreciated Angel for being there before he needed him.
“I don’t remember ever you talking so much. Are you sure you don’t have something more than wine, my friend?”
“No, no, no… just wine… and a brownie, to soak up the wine. I’m just really tired, need to lay down. Where’s Mercy? Tell me, have you seen her?”
“She’s fine. With her friends, taking care of last-minute details. She’s so excited about the wedding! I think you must have a good woman there. She is smart, sweet, an
d strong. And very pretty. Sorry, if you change your mind on this one, see, I will have to step up to take your place, I’m afraid.” Angel was truly sorry.
He was married.
Kyle did not hear the compliment. They made it to his bunk aboard his friend’s transport and he fell asleep before his head hit the pillow. Angel helped him down, then took his boots off and put a blanket over him.
“Rest well, my friend. I will be nearby.”
He paused at the door, speaking to his sleeping friend. “You have the weight of the galaxy on you. I see it, see? I feel it too. You are a good man and, see? I am your friend, I will help you,” he promised the unconscious space rocker. Turning off the light he gently closed the door.
Kyle dreamed all night. A very strange dream that seemed very real. So real, he could remember all of it the next day. Even more strange, the wet-net recording was blank when he checked it the following morning, making the dream only a memory.
He dreamed he was on a large, dilapidated old houseboat floating down a still, backwater bayou on Earth. One corner of the boat drafted lower in the water than the others. He was hiding in the buggy, cobwebbed rafters from something that had come aboard the rotten vessel.
A friend accompanied him that he did not recognize, but he was glad he was there. They were both afraid. Behind a pile of trash on the floor at the far end of the room, an intense glow could be seen up through holes in the ceiling big enough to fly through.
Below, guttural, hissing-snorting, sliding sounds crept under them with an unnatural, sawing gait. Four foul creatures were drawn to the glowering glow below them. They lurched into sight, twisting and clawing. The entities drew near, all different in appearance but equally fearsome.
One twisted through the air, just below Kyle’s feet, roiling above the uneven floor. Two were stuck together, fighting with each other, dominance dogs slithering forward between bites. Another sliming blob followed, dragging something, a bowl or helmet, in its tangled trail of entrails and seaweed. As it got closer to the garish glow, it excitedly sped up, flopping and sucking across the rotten, algae-covered deck, releasing the helmet in a forgotten twirl of tentacle.
The oozy, grating, hovering dirt-beast stopped and folded excitedly above the unseen object. It’s piercing, diamond-white gaze was transfixed on the glow beneath it. It writhed and swirled in the green air as if using the air-light to support its weight. Its body parts seemed solid, then would mix back into a formless, crumbling brown-red dirt ball surrounded by vapor.
When the other three clambered over the low trash pile and gazed upon the object, they froze and began pulsating globules of flesh out of warty, semi-opaque skin. The huffing and farting slabs of rot-wet meat quickly fouled the air. The rapidly rising stench became unbearable in the small, dry-rotted attic.
Kyle tensed, afraid. Mixed with dead stink, his anxiety created a burbling sickness. He felt his stiff legs cramp in the attic, and in his sleep. He realized then he was dreaming. Whatever was in that brownie had opened him up to receive this… vision, which he felt he was sharing with his unfamiliar friend next to him.
He could not move his real body. The vision held him captive and helpless.
He couldn’t move his real body, but was able to massage his dream legs a little. When he reached down to his calf and stifled a gag, he noticed a faint sparkle in the bowl left behind by the grotesque, bulging and deflating seaweed fart monsters. The “bowl” was half of a basketball-sized walnut shell.
Inside lay a tiny person.
He got binocular vision suddenly and looked closer. It was a girl or woman. She was obviously ill, as she lay small and motionless, curled in the bottom of the shell.
Somehow, he knew he would save her.
How could he move without being heard? How had he gotten there in the first place? Why did this dream feel so real? He looked at his friend, who knew what he was thinking. They had to be extremely quiet. Both nodded in agreement, then began to gently float upwards, then sideways towards a large hole in the ceiling, behind the throbbing creatures.
The four beasts grappled and gloated over the trash pile, surrounding the glowing object. They seemed to be worship-feeding off of it. Absolute primordial stench permeated the air and walls. A low-hanging, poisonous gas emanating from the writhing dirt pile with eyes threatened to relieve him of his senses.
His friend seemed unaffected.
Not breathing, and dropping down soundlessly through the tattered ceiling, Kyle and his companion drifted facedown, just above the floor. Inching forward, Kyle reached out and picked up the walnut shell. Desperate for air, he clutched the wet shell to his chest and motioned to his friend to back away. The friend grabbed his heel and pulled him out the door of the boat quickly.
Once out of the boat and gasping for air, they turned and surged away over the black water and into the night. Flying fast and low by moonlight, Kyle glanced down into the shell. A large, wicked talon of some evil bird lay next to the sick girl. He knew it was harming her. Flicking it out of the shell into the water, he saw her breathe and it gave him hope.
They landed on a glowing, moonlit white-sand beach, relieved to be in the open air. The little person began to shine and stretch and was suddenly a full grown woman, a ragged blue princess standing before them. She was Mercy, but different. Thirteen small orbs encircled her like moons around a planet.
Kyle loved her. And she loved him. The dreamer was aroused in his real body, wondering if the vision would stay.
He was about to say something when a look of fear crossed her gaunt features. She kissed him quickly, lightly, then vanished in an explosion of sparkling, blue fireworks.
His friend shouted an alarm. Kyle turned to see the folding red-dirt creature hissing angrily towards them high above the river, eyes gleaming white hot. Its lower half was a tornado propelling it forward.
With fresh air in his lungs, Kyle was no longer afraid. Leaping into the air, he flew directly at the creature with all his might, lifting a rooster tail of foaming water behind him. Face-to-face with the unyielding menace, they collided. The impact caused Kyle to bolt in his sleep, startling him awake.
He sat up, heart pounding, listening for the hissing creature, but all was quiet in the room.
The strangest dream of his life shocked him. A sickly, sweet smell faded along with his angst.
He was being warned.
Neptune, with her thirteen moons, would be the battleground.
And Mercy’s life was in danger.
He had two days to make his plans.
CHAPTER 83
Steve and the aliens
Ship doctors informed Detective Mooney that torture victim Steve Lathrop had semi-awakened, two days after being nearly burned alive by… something. He was in and out of consciousness. Whatever the policeman was going to do, he better be about it. He jetted over to the Uranian military hospital where Lathrop had been transferred under armed guard.
Hadjii had dark-mailed a report on what he knew about the man’s background. The detective learned that Happy-stil had been created as a cure, but Steve had somehow weaponized it. Kyle had brought him a packet of antidote fresh off the presses that morning.
When he arrived, a nurse handed him the toxicology report from Detective Grisholm’s autopsy. A revolting level of the drug in his system had driven Grisholm mad. Grisholm was always stone cold sober. He rarely ate an aspirin. He thought drinking alcohol in a vacuum sucked.
Something had spiked him. Hard.
Who? Lathrop had never crossed paths with Grisholm. Ostensibly, then, Steve’s accomplice was on-site and injected death into his partner. Add the other 89 victims that overdosed during the Jupiter show, and the 112 after in hospitals, and the bodies were piling up. They were running out of room and ideas.
His friend deserved better. Grisholm had made a difference out here for people. Lathrop, on the o
ther hand, was a typical drug-dealing dirt bag getting what he deserved. But Steve may yet serve humanity at this late hour, the detective told himself as he ran into ICU with the antidote.
Mooney found him weak and in withdrawals. The man was badly burned. Though his epidermis had mostly healed under a rejuvenator, the scarring ran deep. His body was tied into a tight ball, like he was trying to withdraw from this life. His entire body was drawn in on itself. It was little bigger than his head.
The doctor was frank. “He’s near death. His body has atrophied, not sure why. More antidote could kill him in his weakened condition. And you’re talking about adding stimulant to keep him awake.”
“He’s dead either way,” Mooney surmised.
“I’m not going to administer anything until I have more test results, or until someone else wants to take responsibility for his death. He’s been tortured. There are cuts all over his body. He’s suffered severe dehydration. Most vital systems have failed. And you want to continue the abuse by injecting more chemicals and asking him to relive his experience? Sign here. When he dies, you’re in the loop.”
The doctor had been frank. Mooney signed, then activated video drones floating above him and sat down. He needed as much information as quickly as possible before this wretch died. The immediate future of the human race hung upon it.
He nodded to the doctor, who nodded to the nurse, who injected methylphenidate. Ritalin.
Scarred eyelids cracked open, Steve stared at nothing from his hospital bed.
“Mr. Lathrop, I need information and I need it now. I think you can give us a clue to what we’re dealing with.”
Steve groaned deeply. “Am I… still alive?”
“Did you hear me, Steve? You can help us. You can help those you’ve hurt. You can help yourself. Take a morsel of redemption. Please…” Mooney started gently, but he was prepared to beat the son of a bitch to within an inch of his remaining life.