“You’re about to find out.”
“I should care?” he says.
“Just a tour. A one-on-one tour and well paid for.”
“Okay. What’s with the retrievable deposit thing?”
I indicate not yet and say, “Took centuries to create this.” I pat the Fragger carriage. “Keep in mind these are destructive and that the central issue was ensuring no one could turn a tool into a weapon—no matter what. Industry and commerce had to wait until we resolved that. Which is why it took so extended a time. The mining side was devised some centuries ago.”
“You people take the cake. How long has your economy been nickel and dime? How long has poverty been rampant, Once-Other?”
“I don’t know about the widespread poverty, the nickels nor the dimes, but Freedom and Rights have been rampant ever since our independence from Earth-Born. As you obviously have down cold, Peter.”
“Whatever. So you got this weapon. How’s this work?”
“It’s not a...”
“Yeah. Sure. How?”
“First the deposit,” I demand.
“Wha...come on explain.”
“I want to outline a damn important concept. Afterward, we blast.”
“Explain!” he says.
“No. Let’s take a few basics of your EB education and drop them into the cage.”
“Like what? Why?”
“To assist in understanding. You can collect them on the way up again. Okay?”
“Once-Other!”
“Now-now Peter. Take everything you understand of atoms, protons, electrons and neutrons and place them in yonder cage as though making a credit deposit to a Nomadi.”
He turns to the cage and all I perceive is a thought-motion crossing his face.
“Thank you,” I acknowledge and parry the questions sprouting like tufts of rare desert grass. “Now. We of Here-Born consider matter, anything physical, was a wavelength fixed between two tiny particles—both of which were points to begin with. Each one smaller than an atom. But other forms of matter exist and these are simply solid...no particles involved.
Rock groans in anguish. We both glance across. Peter holds his breath.
I add. “So in one form solids came from tiny particles when they pulled closer together reducing the wavelength and distance close to zero—and they stuck together—like the opposite poles of magnets do.
“Now. Our Fragger converts solids formed from particles back into wavelengths and the original distance reassert itself. Others refer to this last as an explosion. But with pure solids, those not formed by particles joining, we get an implosion leaving just the original space there. Did I say that so you got it?”
“I kinda get...kinda not. Have you seen those wavelengths your theory assumes?”
“No, but we can measure them.”
“Then your theory is as much a theory as you claim ours is,” he says.
“Well yes, Peter.”
He grins without warmth, steps in front of the Fragger and examines the complete unit. After a few moments he glances over his shoulder at the wall of rock. “Looks like a huge spoon was used to scoop the rock out leaving those arches in place as natural support. There are no signs of drilling to bed explosives. How’s this work?”
“On Earth-Born you play with atoms and can now blow up the whole planet. Right?”
I wait and he nods yes.
“What took so long were our endeavors in self-defense—we never release anything as a weapon or could be changed into one until we’ve developed an active defense.”
“Good idea,” he says. “But why?”
“Every weapon ever created ends up being used against its creator. How stupid do you have to be not to figure that’s coming?”
He glares coldly at me.
“So Peter, our laws prohibit the making of anything that can be turned into a weapon without first designing and manufacturing a defense against it. This is in our Constitution and Bill of Rights.”
I fold my arms and grin.
“You sure sneaked that one in,” he says.
“I sure did. You see, the Here-Born Constitution and Bill of Rights have value.”
“You’re pushing it. How’s this work?”
“We shoot energy into an object as reversing waves or…as a negative-solid of an existing solid,” I reply.
“As what?” he asks.
“With particles, matter becomes liquid. Liquid turns gaseous. Gas becomes light waves an explosion results during which the original wavelengths once again manifest...to give you the short explanation. Negative solid vanishes solid.”
“This is a weapon,” he says.
“This one only works when mining for gold.”
Peter smiles but not because he believes me.
I open a metal cabinet mounted on the side of the carriage, remove ear protection headphones and hand a set to Peter without a word, climb on board and he follows.
I power-up the Fragger.
“What’s this?” he asks holding up the headphones. “To protect our ears?”
I nod yes.
“This can be used as a weapon,” he says.
“You can cause ear damage down here. Out in the open? No.”
“Yeah. But Fraggers will destroy buildings. Same as rocks Once-Other.”
“Yes. This kind of rock for this Fragger—none other. No gold and it won’t work.”
“Okay. Got that. Not a weapon. How do you get the ice-cream scoop effect?”
I glance his way and note he does not expect me to believe he thinks it is not a weapon. “Vectors that curve the blasting paths,” I reply.
“Your Ultimate Weapon of Mass Destruction!” he insists.
Which brings Step Three into play. By denial, we get tourists to believe Fraggers are our Ultimate Weapon of Mass Destruction. And it’s time to prove it.
“Well, Peter. Time to demonstrate.”
“Aren’t we a little close here?” he says glancing back-n-forth between Level wall and Fragger unit.
I ignore his question and point over my shoulder. “These two electronic storage units are critical. You understand?” He shakes his head.
“Okay. They provide power in exact quantities and qualities.”
“Sounds over complicated,” he says, glancing back-n-forth from our position to the cage, apparently estimating distance.
“Too little or too much power and nothing happens.”
He grins coldly. “Ultimate Weapon of Mass Destruction. Right here. Right?”
With yet another tourist I ask, “What makes this a weapon? Power high?”
He shudders with excitement and hollers, “Excessive, vast quantities of. Ya-ha!”
I point. “Okay. Up here and we have Full Power.”
I hold my fist above the fire button. He dives out his seat, lands on the carriage deck and rolls off the edge. Hits the Level floor hard, curls into a protective ball and our eyes meet just as I slam my fist down.
The barky-bark of a miniature dog alights upon our eardrums.
Moving with the abrupt, jerky motions of the truly angered he uncurls, stands up, brushes his suit off, adjusts cooling lower, clambers back up, sits down and folds his arms.
“Now. Any damage? A single pebble lying on the floor?”
“I’m not amused by your antics Once-Other. In fact, you are violating my Right to Happiness. I’ll be reporting your unnecessary and cruel behavior.”
He deliberately looks away from me, pulls a facial tissue from a pocket and blows his nose as loudly as a sandstorm alarm at full howl. Coming from out the dark the sound of tiny feet running across rock informs us all rodents within several miles are frantically scurrying for safety.
I tap his shoulder; he turns eyes hard as Rocklands black-rock to me.
“Well Peter! Report me for having a poor sense of humor if you must. Perhaps you can get me arrested for violating your Right to Happiness with humor. Maybe not.”
Daggers fire out his ey
es. “Let’s do this,” he growls.
I adjust the settings slide over and indicate for him to assume the Operator’s seat. He moves over, makes a fist and slams it down hard and fast.
CHAPTER 16
Of A Collect-N-Grind’s Dangers
The Fragger winds up filling the Level with the bone shaking beat of a massive bass drum. Violins screech in agonized protest as the electronic storage units let loose a groan as though outraged at being wakened.
Streaks of energy fire out the Fragger’s guns and strike the Level wall. Rock bubbles, liquefies, hisses and white clouds billow. Flat ten finger wide sheets of rainbows fire in all directions. A searing flash blinds and a rock-shaking thunderclap almost deafens. An instant of silence and rock fragments clatter to the Level floor forming a half circle around the explosion point.
Dust chokes and we both cough.
I recover first. “There you go, as easy as falling down after drinking too much.”
“Okay. That was impressive. Now what?”
“First off...a Fragger’s power can be set anywhere from so gentle matter dissolves like sugar stirred into coffee or all the way up to ripping solid rock to shreds. Now we examine what we have.”
He twists his lower lip, shakes his head no but says, “Okay.”
We cross to the other side.
He kneels, touches a pebble and snatches his finger away. “Yeow! That’s hot.”
“Well...you know...an explosion...heat.”
Muttering unpleasantly under his breath, he removes a Nomadi extension aerial from a hip pouch, extends it, flips some fragments over and gasps. He leans forward and reaches further into the half circle, turns another over...and I sense his puzzlement. He does one more then moves around the debris to the rock wall where the explosion occurred.
He turns several over, pauses deep in thought and says, “The rocks over on the outer edge show a high quantity of gold. Closer to the blast point here less color is visible. Do the fragments here at the point of the explosion have color deeper inside?”
“No. Not at all.” I pause and after a brief silence he reluctantly waves for me to continue. “We tune our damn fine Fragger to gold-bearing rock not merely plain old rock. The more gold in it the greater the reversal, the larger an explosion, the further pieces fly.”
He nods in an absent-minded fashion, taps the small ice-cream scoop shaped balcony our Fragger blast made and says, “Your Here-Born theory at play?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm!” he says and slaps his leg with the aerial.
He glances down the Level, walks to the outer edge of fragments, turns to me and says, “You said this mine is played out...look at the outer pieces here. Real rich! On Earth this is almost virgin.”
“Not by our standards of gold per cubic sand-pace.”
Judging by his expression, I had removed or shifted a stone within his Foundation. But he hardens his demeanor and says, “Yeah. Now?”
“Now we collect-n-grind,” and I head towards the cage.
He takes a step backward as the crusher screws kick alive with a metallic snarl. I motion for him to move further back. He does so keeping a careful eye on the gaping mouth.
I steer towards the rubble.
He skips around in front and walks backward watching the screws whirl, eyes wide, a wild excitement rushing about his face.
Horrified, I halt the collect-n-grind. “That’s damn awful dangerous. One slip and you will be drawn in...to become very second hand indeed. Please step aside. I’m not mincing words here.”
“Not funny,” he says and though not wanting to, does so.
I wait to ensure he remains clear and set off again. He steps further away as the mouth ingests fragments with loud bites followed by a rumbling thunder as crushing and grinding kicks alive.
I shout over the cacophony, “Okay. I’m about to do something damn dangerous. Keep back, don’t approach. No matter what happens—stay clear.”
“Why?” he asks.
“No one making a mistake doing this lived to share the error of their ways.”
He backs up further and waves me on.
I lean in mere fingers distant from the intake screws searching for the catch-lip indicator. A faint green light confirms sensors are on and the gap from rim to floor reads correctly.
I check on Peter; he watches me intently. “Any issue with the clearance and the lip will snag and dig in. The mouth then lurches up and swings about, a hungry monster looking for a quick meal.”
“Got it,” he replies and backs away tapping his chin with the empty Quaaseon canister.
I turn back to the crusher screws and in that instant Peter slips and stumbles. The metallic ring of his empty Quaaseon canister bouncing along rock penetrates the deep rumble of the collect-n-grind. I step clear of the mouth and glance over my shoulder. The canister bounces towards my feet.
Peter lands in a pile of legs and arms. He leaps up, and I note he is more agile than I’d thought. Uncertain, confused, he shuffles his feet back-n-forth. He decides, spins on his heel and sprints for the sole safe place...the waiting cage.
My boot arcs downwards until mere fractions of a finger above the bouncing canister, and contact. My leg shoots out from under me and my foot heads for the intake screws.
Peter glances over his shoulder and accelerates harder.
His raspy breathing loud in the confines.
I glance down and then back at Peter.
He’s already in the cage pressing the button, his face drawn tight across his cheekbones, his eyes lit by an unholy glow.
I fall down—my head-n-torso shake-n-jerk something awful. My screams fill the Level to echo against uncaring face-rock.
CHAPTER 17
Of Speed And Consequences
Our eyes hold as Peter tosses the headphones to the Level floor, the cage door hisses, slides closed and it’s adieu to Peter the Tourist. I get up, dust myself off, sigh, walk a circle and smile.
Now! How do I happen to be standing upright and unconcerned when but moments ago my leg was being devoured by the collect-n-grind?
Well! A part of me likes to show off.
First off, I deliberately stepped towards the metallic canister. At the faintest hint of contact, I lay myself down upon the Level floor in a rapid fashion. I flapped my arms as though my leg was being devoured with mechanical dedication—my leg hidden from Peter’s view by the collect-n-grind.
I yelled and screamed like my favorite rock star Malstrado the Rat. All the while, I admired Wernt’s dynamic running style and the resonance of his howling. It appears he was athletic during his more youthful days and perhaps has a trophy or two.
I quickly checked the distance from my foot to the intake screws.
Peter continued accelerating with short, powerful strides. After an additional six, he glanced over his shoulder and on his face shone a desperation strange to behold. It spoke to me in terms of painful fear and triumphant glee.
His attention back ahead and still accelerating he broke into a medium stride and moments later into a full-length one.
I screamed louder as though my leg was in its final throes, courtesy of the collect-n-grind’s voracious appetite. Peter leaped into the cage and slammed his palm against the Sand-Level button. Our eyes met as the doors hissed closed.
In his was a strange and ugly satisfaction.
The cage door fully closed, Once-Other chuckled, stood up and brushed rock fragments off and questions roused themselves from a light slumber.
Did Peter actually slip, stumble and fall? Was dropping the canister an accident? Alas, no thoughts, no answers. Where-oh-where are his? Does he have an agenda? Yes. But what? Why did he run away? Fear? Guilt?
Or...are one-n-all modern day EB’s hopelessly lost and utterly detached from responsibility they’ll flee all mistakes...the inevitable pointing-finger, pointing?
Do they have any clue of how personal strength grows when one stands true and announces one did it him or h
erself...especially when failure is distinct yet one is willing to have learned a lesson? And perhaps had to face ridicule.
Sadly, it appears Peter is done with this tour and I’ll never discover what his presence on Here-Born was about, nor get my questions answered. I’ll soon have to face Madsen and explain why and how I’d lost yet another tourist. He’s of no tender a disposition when failure’s involved.
With myself, though, I am angry. I’d pushed Peter hard mistaking his unpleasantness for strength of will and mind.
How wrong I was. I should have known better.
But it’s time to clean up and so regrets are laid aside.
I complete the crushing action, reverse the collect-n-grind, ensure it docks cleanly, shut it down and silence returns. I remove the headphones and hang them on a hook.
The hiss of sand slithering through cracks and falling to the Level floor echoes softly around me. Moments later, the hum of the cage descending rattles alive. After endless minutes, the doors slide open to reveal the Curator and fifteen tourists. His face painted with concern relaxes when he notes I am okay.
“Your tourist Once-Other. Wow. He arrived above sand all alive with fear and mental storms in abundance. He sprinted across the foyer and vanished one-two-three altogether. He has a strange almost professional running style. You okay?”
I thank him, impart assurances and wait as the noisy tourists disembark. He thanks me for the lights being on as some of his group are quite quaking with fear.
“Is Madsen above?” I ask.
“He’s gone,” he says and chuckles his understanding.
The tourist’s thoughts crowd in on me. A young Asian lady dressed in white silk slacks and shirt and hiking boots appears to possess a certain degree of self-control.
I smile and nod to her.
Her lips return my smile reflecting another one in her eyes.
The man walking behind her, dressed in a red-n-black checkered fan-n-fit suit, seems like in mind to her. But his thoughts reveal a desire to conquer her and include plans to do so later. He glances my way and assumes I’m competition.
I nod to him. He glares in return and I name him Mister Conqueror but consider her a Lady.
Several children rush to the collect-n-grind and examine the intake screws.
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