Once-Other

by Lawrence M. Nysschens

  “Peter. Neatness is partly tidiness but more so wholeness. Pride from honor and....”

  “Who cares?” he snarls yanks his arm free and covers his eyes with both hands as though fending off reality. After a slow heartbeat, his hands swing open like shutters do.

  Flames leap out them, turn into glowing pincers, slam into me and lock on. I try to wrestle free but am unable to move. I focus my awareness inwards and scan for their point of contact, the point of paralysis.

  All clear inside my head and within my upper torso. But there in the pit of my stomach attached left and right of center, the virtual pincers. I grab them with my inner-self and pull. An explosion erupts.

  I stagger backward as the pincers rush about, jackhammers racing along nerve ends. I scream. They mount upon and ride my scream but in the instant sound exits my mouth they vanish and so too sound.

  I glance around...still just the two of us here.

  I focus on the refrigerator and head for it, legs leaden. Hands shaking, I pour water, add ice and glance over my shoulder. Peter had not followed. Instead, he stands with his back to me, hands on hips looking across at the Mall.

  I fear this EB may be dangerous.

  No! Wait.

  Are there any Desert Drivers close? They have the skills to do this. If it is one or more waging a mind-to-mind war against me I must find out who and why. A quick scan of the crowd and beyond comes up empty.

  I examine Peter once again—still nothing.

  After brief though careful consideration, it comes to me that this Peter Wernt seems much like certain students from my earlier life. Slow to start but likely quick to the finish. Unlike them, he possesses a strange and mesmerizing power. On the other hand, if he does not—is there truly something wrong with me?

  Only time will tell.

  I head over, hand him some water and speak as does a teacher of young children. “Some details for you. Due to fingers not lining up there’s no inherent Neatness. None! Out here, we pay extra for Neatness. Human beings, those ingrained with sloth, find it all too easy to be sloppy. Sloppy is many. Neatness is one.” I spread my arms appealing for understanding.

  He snorts. “I am not a child Once-Other. Don’t speak to me that way.”

  And he sulks like one.

  Switching to a brisk tone, I point from legs to heads, to torsos, to a row of arms suspended high overhead. “Focus on those arms. Alright. Now. In general, arms are always straight except for—hey? Are you there arm...trying to ruin my reputation?”

  It snaps back into line obedient-n-all.

  I glance at Peter and wait but get no response.

  “Now moving on, Peter? I told that arm to get back in line and bang-zip—in line, neat-n-all. Damn fine altogether. But Ohh! Please don’t ask how it heard me. We’ve tried to find out but failed.”

  “The story of Here-Born, Once-Other. The full, complete, unabridged version.”

  I turn away and walk off talking fast in a low voice—he follows leaning forward, ears cocked to my every word.

  “Fingers! They point everywhere and wiggle-wiggle they’ll go. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle! No Neatness with those damn fingers. How big a bad we talking here? Sure tarnishes a vendor’s name, one-two-three and altogether. I had a sound name before, but now...well,” and I nod at the parts surrounding us.

  “I kinda like how they wiggle,” he says.

  I shrug his words off and hurry him across the floor until arms, legs, torsos and heads surround us. Let’s see how he deals with this. Well damn! He remains cold of disposition, close to frigid.

  I pull him clear of the pre-owned. He shakes my hand off and walks away. Bumps into an arm and lurches, bangs his head against a foot and totters there. Perhaps a crack in the armor?

  I grab his sleeve and steady him.

  In his eyes, thanks blink for but an instant.

  I scoot in between the tent wall and a row of hanging arms. Hurry to the opposite end, exit and turn to Peter, who had followed. Keeping him trapped between stock and wall I say, “Note the arms hanging nice clean and neat right above my head...wha-what did you say?”

  He pushes his way out waving his arms as though dispersing flies, stops mid-wave with his arms held up, looks me in the eye, drops his arms and says, “The décor.”

  A cold hand crushes my reasoning.

  Is this one privy to the notion that all this talk of pre-owned parts and our Rights is merely a crowbar applied to open a resistive mind? This will be challenging if he’s actually caught on this quickly.

  And worse! I have no choice but to continue my search for his thoughts. Without them, I’ve no way of measuring the impact of my campaign.

  I swallow a sand roughened fear and continue. “Oh...the décor,” I say taking an additional physical and mental step backward at the abrupt change of focus. Then with self-control in hand, I turn and head off for the opposite end of my store.

  He paces me. “Yeah. Who contrived this? Not sure that’s the right word.”

  “I did,” I reply feeling accused of something. “You like what I’ve done?”

  “Not even faintly. Yetch.”

  “I do,” and pointing add, “Note those magnificent blue-gray Arzerns looking down hungry like at my Criers.”

  “What’s with you guys and the gore and the predators?” he asks.

  “Well...look at those cacti plants,” I say stopping up.

  He looks shrugs indifference and turns away.

  “No-no, Peter. Pay attention here—look again. Cacti grow straight up like tree trunks. Now. You’d best be careful of the blade arms growing out of them. Oh, how innocent they appear. But if you get too close they’ll lop your members off...and there you go, instantly dismembered.”

  “They move by themselves?” he gasps. “Like they’re alive?”

  “Damn right you are. Alive, hard as steel...sharper than a razor blade.”

  Outside a wind gusts and sand drifts by. I remind self to have Franciscoa clean up after I’ve gone to the Mall with Peter.

  Peter straightens his shoulders, stands taller and says, “Do you own everything here Once-Other?”

  “Wha...ah?” I gasp then collect self. “Has nothing to do with anything. Let’s stay with the tour, far more relevant. Oh? You don’t think so. Well! Get this good...survival out here on Here-Born requires knowledge and competency. Knowledge and competency! Damn large amounts of competence in particular. On the other hand—who owns what is private info and second only to never revealing our real names.”

  He leans forward. “I hear you don’t tell...why?”

  “This is not part of a tour,” I reply stiffly. “Now. Moving on....”

  But my train of thought abruptly vanishes down a dark tunnel. I chase after it. Stop up and look around—darkness surrounds into which my thoughts have gone AWOL. I rub my eyes and search the dark. A distant white spot. I lean closer. Clouds of light appear. I make to turn but am unable to move.

  Another motion attracts my attention and I glance there.

  It is Peter.

  In a slow, graceful fashion, he reaches out and pulls at a pre-owned finger as though flushing, grins and says, “Do we need to do this? Do you have to hide your name and ownership details? Come on. Do you own everything?”

  My mouth and vocal chords attempt an involuntary response then freeze upon my Foundation’s command. I collect self, placate a quivering jaw wishing to stutter purposefully, and examine Peter.

  He scrutinizes me in return. After a comprehensive mutual inspection during which nothing untoward leaped to view, I list what I’ve learned of him thus far without mind-to-mind.

  He suffers weird rages, his thoughts are wholly blocked, his interests stretch beyond the norm and for an unknown reason he paid four times the costs of a tour.

  Was that just to be with me? A chill suddenly shudders through me. I swallow it and consider Peter further.

  Now. He possesses a commanding power...no wait...maybe there’s something wrong with
me. Perhaps I have a condition which now begs attention. I’ve enough poison residue within me that reactivates at irregular intervals. I also tend to brush aside signs of illness.

  I end my searching for reasons, pause and collect self. Calm returns and I decide to address possible health issues but later.

  “The ownership is?” Peter says.

  “Not part of a tour,” I reply. “So moving on and please listen up—this is important. Alright then. You’ve been told the Rocklands is damn hot enough to melt the soles of your boots. Wait! Listen! Cactus-blades dismember in the blink of an eye. Cacti themselves grow out of holes or gaps in the Rocklands and appear to be innocent to the uninformed.”

  “Yeah. Whatever.”

  I nod grimly. “No whatever here. Pay attention, please. Okay! You’re on the Rocklands, the soles of your boots are melting, smoking, bursting into flames even. Bang—your attention is captured by all that unwanted activity around your feet. People walk on them you know. Kind of important they should be in good shape and not half cooked-n-all!”

  “You exaggerate. How come the rocks are that hot—if that’s true?”

  I smile, surprised he’s listening. “Excellent question. Even though the visible rock lies low and mostly flat, beneath the surface much of it descends to the molten core.”

  He nods and says, “Okay. Makes sense. What about daily customers? How are they handled when you’re on a tour? Does Franciscoa cover for you?”

  My jaw drops figuratively in invitation to any virtual flies chancing on by. “You know his name?” I ask hard pressed to sound calm.

  But reason prevails. “Ah well...ignore that...he meets a lot of tourists. Now I understand...you’re interested in more than a one-on-one tour.” I check him over once more still worried about what is really going on.

  Now Peter seems at moments able to control circumstances as well as what I do or say. If he is doing so, so much personal power is stunning to behold. On the other hand, if I’m suffering from something—it and old poison still present could be causing my loss of control. This can happen when lack of sleep and continued stress takes hold of one who has residual Crier poison within.

  I take a deep breath, calm my heart, brace up my Foundation, my techniques and inspect his fan-n-fit again but other than the bulge under his armpit, all is good.

  Good—all but for his thoughts!

  Once again I reach out to access his mind but find it still dark, still impenetrable. I’m shut out as we of Here-Born can do. I try circumventing any drug present, but the same thing blocks me once again.

  I attempt alternative protocols to the same worthless result. I sigh, withdraw, zero in on some cacti and head towards them. “Please, just for now listen up. With one’s attention stuck on his feet it’s all too easy to miscalculate the distance to a cactus let alone the length of its blade-arms.”

  His face assumes a thick coating of whatever.

  “And one-two-three you’re semi-dismembered. Careful there!” I pull him back just as a blade arm swings at him.

  He gulps and turns his cooling down. “Okay. Yeah. Heh-heh. That was close! Damn fine important as you’d say. Is everything in here yours? Are you the sole owner?”

  I ignore his ill-mannered and persistent question. “So! You’ve now learned a little something about desert survival.” I turn away and walk off.

  At my table, I pour two glasses of cold water. A glance over my shoulder finds him staring out the entrance again, his mouth a thin hard line.

  I lean over and check outside.

  No one is about.

  I sip water.

  He continues his watch upon the desert.

  Is he searching for something, someone? I wave him over.

  He ignores me.

  I point at my stock. “I’ve got one or two undamaged heads you could choose from and use if the fancy tickles you.”

  He takes a backward step, holds a hand up as a stop signal, covers his mouth and takes another step back his face ashen.

  I head over. “Drink well,” I say as I hand him a glass. “You should buy a head and take it back to your hotel. No? Oh. Think it through. You can replace your current one...after lopping it off...with help of course.” He staggers as from a blow.

  I press onwards crowbar inserted, hoping to break in. “Peter. Peter. Think, please! The family back home will be damn surprised. Look. I’ll make a good price for you, you know, seeing as you don’t need one right now.”

  “No!” he snarls.

  “Oh? Okay. But go ahead think it over.”

  “Just the tour Once-Other.”

  If not a sale—then what?

  Peter shakes his hands as though they are wet and then caresses that bulge.

  “You alright?” I ask.

  “Stupid questions irritate me,” he says.

  “What’s the bulge?” I ask.

  “Bulge?” he says pretending innocence.

  “Under your arm.”

  “Nothing. Why you asking?”

  “Curious,” I reply.

  What an interesting no answer.

  But. Why does he need to hide what it is?

  Is it dangerous or just a typical power pack for his fan-n-fit?

  On the other hand, does it house the electronics that block access to his mind?

  Nothing comes to my mind and damn!

  He turns away his eyelids ticking faster than before.

  Wait, I advise myself for once I do get at his mind all will be clear as our sky.

  Now if Peter were of Here-Born, I would tackle him down to the floor and investigate that bulge.

  I should not and would not do that with an EB—their Happiness entitlements forbid such direct physical inquiries. Poip mostly react to such actions as a violation of EB’s Right to Happiness.

  Suddenly, a jarring scream rends the hot desert air and Peter jerks as though shot.

  I chuckle but in mind alone.

  He frowns a question at me.

  I continue to chuckle behind a straight face.

  His frown tightens as he raises both eyebrows.

  CHAPTER 11

  Of Symptoms, Happiness Entitlements, Poip And Toip

  Resisting the temptation to point with a pre-owned arm and its wiggling fingers, I instead gaze off toward the carousel from where the scream had come. Peter shades his eyes as they follow mine. I glance at his underarm. Hmm? Perhaps...I worry too much.

  He cocks an eyebrow in question.

  I tend to it. “Pay those screams no mind. There. Over there. No, there! On the carousel. Folks in fun mode and terrorized altogether. Now should someone lose, or damage a limb...good chance they’ll shop here. Yes. Competition is intense. But. This is an excellent position. I sure get lots of turnaround business. Heh-heh. Little joke you know. Turnaround?”

  He snorts in disgust and examines the showground.

  Beyond the carousel, the large purple-n-gold striped circus tent waits poised in silence for patrons and artists alike. To its left a lone hand clad in a dust covered cowboy outfit cleans a corral with a Fragger keeping a keen eye on some semi-broke horses huddled nervously in a corner.

  Further back eight SandRider acrobats practice jumping acts like horse riding performers do.

  My curiosity finds Maureen, a tall black-haired fortune teller dressed in shocking pink, as she walks by the locked stalls her hands held high, palms open. Even at this distance I enjoy her perfume, a mixture of honey-lemon and scent of flowers.

  She stops, turns on the spot, focuses on us, jerks as though struck, drops her hands and says, “Be careful Once-Other.”

  “Get on with it!” Peter snarls his face almost touching mine.

  I prattle out, “When you observe no Neatness you will know you are dealing with a particular type...a real bad person.”

  “I don’t get you. Figure I’ve paid an amateur or a con artist. You do refunds Once-Other?”

  “Okay...no. So now. Moving on...what the?” Somehow, a mighty hand flipp
ed a switch and turned the sun off. Vision gone I listen instead.

  Windborne sand brushes against the store sides. There are no voices; no engines revving nothing save for the smell of dry desert upon my senses. I shake my head but darkness clings like a virus bonded to its victim. I fumble about, a child lost in a dark tunnel.

  From out the surrounding blackness and speaking as though across a vast and black space Peter says, “Tell me Once-Other. Who were you before?”

  My mouth snaps open in instant response but once again, techniques from our Moment in Time kick alive, and I remain silent and immediately virtual clamps lock painfully onto my arms, legs and jaws. I send perception probes down into my body in search of their purpose. This time, they come alive and red patches of energy leap to view.

  I inspect them, but they reveal no data other than that they are located behind my eyes. A pulse turns on. Its beat quickens and sheets of energy wash over me like an ocean battering headlong against a dangerously steep beach.

  Red switches to gray, to green and back again.

  A pause as the colors gather into a ball suspended in the center of my head. The ball glows brighter and explodes throwing me sideways, but I manage to maintain my balance. I probe beyond the red to where clouds of white foam drift.

  I reach for them, but they dissolve and vanish.

  Warmth touches my eyelids. I blink, sunlight appears and Peter stands before me silently staring off northwards tapping a foot in that way of his.

  My eyes ache as though dipped in acid. I rub them and they burn with greater pain. I close them to little relief. A hand appears inside my head and circles. Sharp fingernails dig at my inner skull tearing like a dog searching for buried bones. I hold back the urge to scream.

  My arms snap in close, pinned at my sides.

  I struggle but am unable to move.

  Fear’s devilish voice whispers, “Others have mentioned similar daytime nightmares, Once-Other. Real horrors they are.”

  I know such nightmares invade seconds before the closing moments of life out here upon sand. There are deaths from heart attacks, strokes or a painless cancer with its peculiar sudden death syndrome. There are no symptoms, no warnings either and so a life vanishes without giving notice.