by Hank Davis
Wellington smiled. “I would be delighted.”
He extended his arm to her, and with his peculiar wireless control slung over his shoulder and her Confounder resting on her shoulder, the two walked into the night, leaving fresh tracks in the gathering snow around them.
Another scream from Scrooge’s apartments cut through the night.
“Merry Christmas, Eliza.”
“Merry Christmas, Welly.”
INTRODUCTION
WORMHOLE MAGIC
HERE’S A SPRIGHTLY NARRATIVE of a distant future which has forgotten about Christmas and that fellow named Kris. But Kris hasn’t forgotten, and if he has to go to the Moon to revive the tradition, well . . . who’s to say that those reindeer can’t go anywhere?
MARIANNE PLUMRIDGE is an Australian-born artist and writer who lives in Rhode Island, USA, with her husband, illustrator Bob Eggleton. In the last few years, Marianne has returned to her fine art roots by refining her oil painting techniques. As well as painting natural subjects, Marianne has combined birds and robots into an ongoing series of “technology lost in nature” paintings that include quirky tin toy robot adventures, to great acclaim. Her other continuing themes of cosmic whales and pointy rocket-ship paintings still enjoy success and popular favor. The results can be found online at: “Daub du Jour”—http://daubdujour.blogspot.com/
Marianne has published fiction, articles and essays in magazines and anthoogies, and also writes book reviews and notes on her second blog, “Muse du Jour”—http://musedujour.blogspot.com/ Currently, she is writing the text for a book called Bob Eggleton’s Ice Age America for Impossible Dreams Press, in collaboration with her husband. It will feature essays and epic artwork and visions of prehistoric peoples, megafauna, and flora . . . and especially mammoths and mastodons. Meanwhile, Marianne and Bob’s first collaboration as writer and artist, a children’s picture book called If Dinosaurs Lived in My Town, will be released in November 2013 from Sky Pony Press.
WORMHOLE MAGIC
by Marrianne Plumridge
“GEEZ, WILL. You’ve been there, what, three months now?” Jen began.
Three months on the Moon, she meant. On my own, nominally in charge of Earthwatch Prime Station, and feeling rather like a superfluous janitor on a fully self-maintained automated space frigate rather than a paid intern with a momentous responsibility. And I’d never fully taken into account how lonely it would be out here. No one to talk to except by vid-screen, like I was doing now.
“. . . and you still haven’t decided on a topic for your Astrogation Thesis. Professor Jordan mentioned that a couple of days ago. In fact, he’s been mentioning it a lot lately.” Her face dissolved into a disapproving pout.
Professor Jordan harrumphs about that dangling thesis topic every time he sends a data burst—thankfully, only once a week. Whenever he prefaces a sentence with, “Now then, William, it’s time to make a decision . . .” I know I’m going to hear the usual lecture on my future, career, commitment, and profitability, even though I know it by heart. I didn’t want to hear a similar lecture from Jen. Even with her talking on the vid-com from the beacon point space station half a light beyond the orbit of Pluto, there were other things I wanted to hear her saying.
“I’ve got nine more months to think about it, Jen,” I said.
“You’re supposed to be working on it by now . . .” She emphasized with a roll of her eyes. “You’ve lost three months already. Then it’ll be three more months, and three more after that, and then you’ll only have three more months to cobble it together. The way to do something is to actually get busy and do it.” I’d heard her say that before—it’s one of her mottos, I think—and she was trying to be very serious with me, but she doesn’t really do stern and serious well. She always seems on the verge of laughing. It’s probably the dimples that do it. The first time she smiled at me, I’d lost all track of the conversation for about five minutes and missed out on a crucial piece of a spatial physics lesson she was imparting. I’d learned, since then, to record all of our conversations.
“You’re there by yourself, without any distractions—” she continued.
Well, actually, I’m talking with a major distraction right now, I thought, but didn’t say. A very pleasant distraction, of course. On my wall screen, Jen was perched in her command chair with legs and arms woven into one of those elegant knots only dancers or yoga masters seemed to achieve with any ease. Her long red-brown hair was tumbled haphazardly on top of her head and skewered there with what looked to be one of those very expensive light scribes for writing on virtual 3D panels. A data lens covered her right eye, but the other was its usual grey/green. I wiped a hand over my mouth to hide the goofy smile that always seemed to creep up whenever we talked. Today, she looked adorable. I found myself fascinated by her socks: rubber-soled to avoid static, but the resemblance to practicality ended there. They were a fluffy hot pink, animated by the near constant movement of her toes inside them. Keep on distracting me, please. But I didn’t know how she would react if I said that aloud. Not yet, anyway.
So, I mentioned other distractions. “Actually, there are plenty of distractions. You should see the stuff stored here—masses upon masses of it. They must have wanted to keep some of history locally intact for future use so they hauled it up from Earth and stashed it here. Really fascinating antiques and artifacts covering . . . oh, centuries.”
“Well . . . yeah,” she said with a wistful sigh. We had talked before about some of the items I’d come across. Like most of us, she has a craving for all things “Earth,” and she was a rapt audience when I waxed lyrical about my “finds.”
And, even with the massive distance between us, I’d much rather talk to her than the Professor. She’s much prettier and funnier than he. Jen’s also a lot smarter than I am and knows exactly what she wants out of life. Professor Jordan adores her for that fact alone. (Of course, I can think of other reasons to adore her.) Several times a day I silently thank the Professor for assigning her to be my tutor six months ago. And believe me, I’ve been availing myself of every opportunity to get ahead—one way or another. Aside from being my tutor, Jen is also a fellow classmate at Gaia U.—studying for her astrogation thesis. The only difference is she knows exactly what to write for hers.
“I’ve got to go now, Will. Did my explanation of how the uncertainty principle affects navigation through wormholes help?”
Actually, I’d been paying more attention to her eyes, in spite of the data lens, and thinking of the laughter hiding in their depths. As usual, I’d recorded her explanations and would play it back later when I could keep my mind on the math.
“Sure it did, Jen. I’ll try the exercise again,” I said. Then thought maybe I could call her again tomorrow, so I added, “I’ll call if I get stuck.”
“Call whenever you need help, Will. If I’m out, the recorder will get it.” She smiled and clicked off. Still bemused by the brief flash of her dimples, I hoped that I’d never get the recorder again. Ever.
I meant what I said to Jen, honest. But first I wanted to take another look at those things I found in Section C yesterday. I supposed the novelty of looking at ancient artifacts which actually originated on Earth would wear off soon enough, but I was enjoying exploring the outpost’s treasures. Not to mention walking on the Moon’s surface and looking up at the Earth. How many people had a chance to actually see ancestral Earth, and not just a vid of it?
Section C was filled floor to very high ceiling with endless multitudes of old plascrete crates. And I was having a perfectly fine afternoon, randomly poking into some of them until I got to a large area of crates full of something called “books.” At least that was what the label on the crate at hand read. I popped the cryo-seal and took off the top. The contents were blocky and short, and stacked neatly inside. They smelled kind of musty though. Old, like the inside of well used space suits—only cleaner somehow. A moment of consideration and heavy thinking produced a solution to my puzzlement:
these were paper products. I shivered in distaste, and nearly dropped the one I was holding. It fanned open. Bound sheets of fine white stuff, neatly covered with tiny text, flapped back at me. I fingered one in awe: these were once part of a living tree. Paper manufacture was one of a myriad of things that ultimately caused the creation of this outpost, Earthwatch Prime, in the first place. I felt like I was touching the distant chaotic past.
I must tell Jen about this, I thought.
As I carefully replaced the artifact in its receptacle, a splurge of color caught my eye. I gingerly plucked another blocky volume from the crate and inspected it. There was a small inset picture, but it didn’t look real. Painted perhaps? They did things like that back then, or so I’m told.The little “painting” was primarily dark blue with white speckled all over it. Damage? Ash? I gently wiped a forefinger over it, but it didn’t come off, and the surface was not pitted. It must really be part of the picture, I surmised. There was a structure with a sharply inclined roof, all lit up from inside, and something long in the sky behind it. I looked at it for a long time, but couldn’t make believable sense of it, so I turned my attention to the label. The script was so ornate, that it was even more difficult to fathom. After some minutes, I managed to decipher “T’was The Night Before Christmas”.
“Who, or what, is Christmas?” I mused aloud.
I had my hand on the edge of the book ready to open the cover to find out, when a klaxon alarm sounded overhead. A very loud klaxon alarm. It nearly deafened me. The voice of the main computer was even louder still.
“INTRUDER ALERT! INTRUDER ALERT! MAIN AIRLOCK! INTRUDER ALERT!”
It took a bare second to put the book back into its crate and seal it in. Taking a deep breath, I yelled into the air. ‘Turn the alarm off, you stupid computer! I’m the only one here, for Earth’s sake! You’ve got my attention!” By then, I was running for the station control room, via the weapons locker, and to the main airlock. All the while, my mind was feverishly turning over worst-case scenarios. Had the supply ship turned up a month early? Was someone shipwrecked on the Moon’s surface outside the station? Raiders?
“Computer, scan occupants of airlock. Keep it sealed! Give me details.” I puffed out loud. Damn, I’ve gotta get more exercise.
“ONE HUMANOID BIPED AND NINE SMALLER QUADRAPEDS. THE VEHICLE OUTSIDE THE AIRLOCK IS OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN AND CONTAINS AN UNIDENTIFIABLE POWER SOURCE. THERE ARE INTER-DIMENSIONAL IRREGULARITIES.”
Oh, great! Pity the Computer couldn’t understand sarcasm, or I’d let fly with a few choice witticisms. Its description told me bloody little. Could it be Scumvrates—aliens from the Orion Sector? I’ve never been able pronounce even the phonetic version of their race name, and gave up long after a general lack of ethics was found in some of their most flamboyant representatives by the Central Gov. on Gaia. Some journalistic wag had dubbed them Scumvrates in an editorial some years ago and it had stuck. Still, I was glad to have grabbed a plasma rifle instead of the skimpier stunner. Those reptilian rats were a bugger to knock out. The biped puzzled me, though: irony curled my lip, and I wondered if they’d brought an interpreter along with them. Sure, they like to be polite when they trash a place on a grab and run operation. Earthwatch was an official “ark” site and protected by all the worlds in the commonwealth. Those Scumvrate bastards were just looking for trouble, and they were really, really going to find it.
I finally came to a slithering halt before the airlock door. Something big was blocking the window of the inner hatch, and an ominous pounding from the other side of it reached my ears.
“Okay, Computer. Close and seal the Ready Room behind me.” I dragged a heavy maintenance trolley out of its locker and shoved it in front of one of the more vulnerable work consoles, not sure if I was trying to protect it or me as I squatted behind it. I took a deep breath and hefted the rifle to the ready over my makeshift barricade. “Open the inner airlock door.”
Assorted hisses and clangs announced that my orders were being obeyed. Last of all, the airlock door “fzzzzzzzztd” open.
A big red something snarled in the opening. “Well, it’s about time!” Nine small furry heads with sticks on top framed the doorway around it, bad-tempered curiosity written on every face. One seemed to be in ill health, as its nose was demonstrably red.
Well, they weren’t Scumvrates. Not even a close second. What filled the airlock was absolutely ludicrous. The giant in the red coat and trousers, and the silly hat—all trimmed in fluffy white stuff—was human. Tall, weighed about three hundred pounds, and grumpy as hell. Worse, he spotted me. I suppose he couldn’t help it really: I’d stupidly risen from the barricade and stood transfixed with my mouth hanging open. Was this some kind of joke?
“You!” The red and white individual bellowed, advancing on me. He brushed my rifle aside, and reached over both trolley and console and grabbed me by the suit-front. I felt myself lifted up off the floor until I stood on tippy toes. Obviously, the in-house contrived Earthlike gravity meant as much to him as a spacesuit did. This close, yes he was definitely human: an iron grip, burly hands, biceps of steel, chubby red cheeks, long white beard, blazing angry eyes, smelling of candy.
And he’d arrived without a spacesuit. So had his little friends. Damn. It briefly crossed my mind that I might be hallucinating . . . but this kind of realism was going a bit too far.
The red-clad one was yelling again. Remotely, I thought I’d better pay attention.
“. . . Where are they? Where did they go?”
“Wh . . . who? I’m the only one supposed to be here.” Despite the shaking he was giving me, I thought I’d managed that rather well.
“Not here, you blockhead! On Earth! The planet’s empty! Not one single soul is down there!” He shook me one more time, just to get the point across, then he let me go.
Rocking back and forward on my feet, trying to gain some balance, I just stared at him. He must be mad, or something. “Sir.” No sense in being disrespectful is there? “There hasn’t been a human living on Earth for the last two hundred years. Preservation policy forbids it.”
The intruder looked stricken. “Are you the only one left, then? You poor soul.” He then covered his eyes with his meaty hands and groaned. He appeared genuinely distressed. Warily, I reached out and tentatively patted the broad red expanse of his shoulder. Relieved that he didn’t seem like he was about to rip my hand off and slap me with the wet end, I patted a bit more firmly.
“A question woke me. I’ve slept far too long,” he murmured from behind his hands. “Too long.”
Feeling bold, I left my hand resting on his shoulder. “Sir, who are you?” I asked quietly. I certainly didn’t want to rile him up again.
The old man, if that is what he was, stared into my eyes for a very long moment, then at his own attire, and at his creature companions. Finally he turned back to me with infinite sadness in his eyes, and whispered. “You don’t know?”
I slowly shook my head.
The intruder wiped a hand across his eyes, and his shoulders sagged in defeat. “There have been many names for me over the eons, but you can call me Kris. I’m sorry to have been such a boor, but the silence down there was nigh deafening when I awoke. All I heard was someone asking “who, or what is Christmas?”
I very nearly choked. No! It couldn’t be! It was impossible. Wasn’t it? So was a human not requiring a spacesuit on the surface of the Moon. I didn’t even want to think about the creatures he’d brought with him. I was flabbergasted. “Sir? I asked that self-same question only minutes ago.”
The old man brightened visibly. “At least my internal direction finder is still working.”
Eons? The word and the meaning finally penetrated. Carefully taking the mental measurement of it, I repeated the word again aloud on a breath of air. “Eons . . .” Clearly, there was way more mystery here than met the eye, and I felt a sudden hunger to hear his story. I smiled weakly. “Perhaps you had better come inside, then. I guess I could use the
company.”
It probably seemed a foolish move, inviting the old guy into the station like that, but curiosity had me by the scruff of the neck and wasn’t about to let go. Inexplicably, a part of me felt like a naughty child feeling the first thrill of the unknown, and another felt like I was rolling in cotton candy.
“Computer. Unseal the Ready Room. Stand down from intruder alert.”
Kris beamed. “Well, thank you kindly, young man.” He reached back into the airlock and fetched out a rather large, lumpy red sack, and then shooed all the little creatures out into the spaciousness of the Ready Room proper. “Out you come, kiddies. It looks like we’ve been invited to supper. “
They didn’t look so fierce, now, in the full light. It seemed that what I’d taken to be sticks were actually branching, pointy, bony structures attached to their furry heads. If you got too close though, it was possible to lose an eye. I fervently hoped that the computer could convince the food synthesizer to produce something for them to eat. That might take some doing.
After I’d introduced myself, our little group proceeded up to the living areas on level two. As we strolled along, I noticed Kris admiring the walls of the corridors and the many technological fixtures with something akin to puzzled bewilderment. “You have an interesting . . . er, house . . . here, William,” he ventured finally. He appeared almost relieved when we reached the living quarters and oversized lounge area.
We took seats at the dining table while the little creatures, or reindeer as he called them, went off to investigate the furnishings. I winced, and hoped they wouldn’t chew on anything important or needful, like life-support or gravity grid cables.