Once-Other

by Lawrence M. Nysschens

  The doors swing closed. The night is cold as always. The moon is high. Sand drifts as crosswinds fight for possession of each grain.

  Hellbent’s four wheels leave sand as I crest the last dune and accelerate down windward. Looking ahead I note something odd and troubling. Usually well lit, tonight home is a dark patch upon a pale, moonlit desert.

  Where are the nightlights?

  Did they all die at the same time?

  Heart pounding, I pull up the driveway and let her idle with the headlights on taking a few moments to admire the house despite the tight fist in my stomach urging me to investigate immediately.

  CHAPTER 22

  Of Home And Deidre’s Weapons

  Home is similar in design to the Mall but her roof curls low down the outside walls. Chutes in its overhang allow hot air and wind driven sand to escape upwards. Fraggers installed in the roof remove piles of sand at the press of Nomadi button.

  Forcing myself to ignore the nightlights, I conduct a standard inspection of the exterior and find sand piled up against the eastern wall in particular—it was a southeasterly blower.

  I clear most away with a hand-held domestic Fragger. While sweeping up the remains with an ancient straw broom I chuckle at the diverse technologies of a handheld Fragger and a handheld broom. At the last window, I freeze as though bereft of life. On a glass pane, are two oily palm prints with a smudge between them?

  Images of Jiplee, lifeless in the desert flash alive. I glance about, nothing moves and no sounds caress my hearing. I check but find no vehicle tracks nor footprints thanks to the wind.

  A somewhat frantic search at the front door yields an empty mailbox and parcel receptacle. The door mounted communications recorder is blank. I pause, take several deep breaths and now it’s time to inspect the nightlights...I can wait no longer.

  Removing a flashlight from Hellbent’s toolbox I shine it along the eaves and my heart stops—every light bulb has been smashed. This has never happened before. Did someone do this deliberately? I stroke arm hairs stiffened by a now racing heart—they calm, lie down and settle as does my heart.

  I park in the garage, check her over and nod satisfied at duty done but still shake inwardly at what I’d seen outside.

  Inside, the door lock clicks closed behind me and Once-Other the worrier comes fully alive.

  Maggie was the one who delayed my departure. Did she do it intentionally? Was it planned? Worse. Has she been compromised as many of our politicians have been? I struggle but manage to contact a more logical self...and it’s no. I have known her too long. She obviously more than likes me.

  “This is so Once-Other,” she had said on her first visit here. Still she...no. I control a rampant heart-n-mind and glance about.

  Modest furniture leans towards useful rather than decorative. Walls glow a pastel blue, overhead pale-white ceilings smile at one. The kitchen stands alone dominated by a chromed antique coffee maker—my pride and joy. In the lounge, lighting focuses on my favorite chair, Della Comfort.

  Tonight the green indicator light on the comm-link flashes. I’m drawn to it like a moth to candlelight. But the level meter demands attention first, it’s glowing red.

  After a quick inspection, I discover that my house has tilted three degrees off kilter, which may keep me awake all night being that I am sensitive to tilt.

  Eager to get back to my messages, I rush into the Configuration Room and open the control cabinet doors. The screen displays a narrow keel descending two-hundred and a few more sand-paces beneath the ten sand-paces deep foundation.

  Two horizontal wing stabilizers mounted midway down help keep home true in the strongest of sandstorms. They are twice as long as the house is wide.

  On Here-Born digging into sand is no way to attempt laying down a foundation upon which to erect a building. Sand runs back as water does. Instead, Fraggers are used. Placed at strategic points they fire into sand creating the trenches into which are lowered foundation keels and all other required parts.

  These are special Fraggers similar to the ones provided on vehicles of all types. When fired they vanish sand and harden the new surfaces. What is then lowered into such or driven out of such must do so fast and accurately. Melted-n-then-solidified sand does not wait for the tardy before breaking up once again.

  I correct the settings and enable manual mode. The house rocks-n-shakes as the level indicator drifts back-n-forth. Once centered, I set it back to auto-mode, which has limitations and head for the lounge pondering on what caused it to tilt.

  The wind of my journey had not seemed significant enough. Had a ball rock shifted below sand? Did a new water vein pushing upwards cause an upheaval? A sudden hard gust perhaps? I shrug concerns aside as Karrell’s recorded message fills my mind with cheer.

  “Hi, Dad. Miss you a whole bunch. Now don’t you worry about me. I’m okay out here with Mom and—she says hi by-the-by.”

  He sounds cheerful enough but an undertone lurks. I make myself comfortable on Della Comfort, complete popping the popcorn, close my eyes and allow his voice to engulf me.

  “So Dad. I am after all earlier protests a child of habit. This I know for sure. Every night I take a walk before sunset as we three used to. I can’t help myself...it’s not the same without you, though.” His mother says something in the background but without connecting it to the comm-link.

  “Okay, Mom—hangdog-garb. You know what Dad? She never said anything about why she left with Bordt Nettler...your friend. I figure that it’s ex-friend now. Mom? I got that.” Her stringent tone provides no words nor concepts, but her attitude and aggravating disposition hit loud and clear.

  “I won’t tell him, Mom. Okay?”

  Silence for a minute.

  Then speaking faster, he says, “As I was saying...the other day Mom had a visit from some EB guy and a couple of Poip...I couldn’t pick up any details. When she spoke to me later she said damn you even more. Also that I’ll soon find out what it means to be the son of someone like you and mumbled how it should have been a life sentence.”

  Her snarl cuts in again without concepts reaching the system.

  “Oh?” Karrell says. “You meant don’t tell Dad that. Oh? Oops.”

  She connects and says, “I’m not a fool Karrell. You did that deliberately!”

  “Can I do this call now?” Karrell snaps back at her making me proud of him.

  “This isn’t the end of this,” she says and silence.

  I sigh as the decayed flotsam-n-jetsam of a wrecked marriage surfaces. Each piece composed of unspoken threats declaring that none dared do or say anything to upset her as consequences would be far too dire. So awful in fact, no one could actually imagine the horror and emotional pain about to descend upon one.

  My heart races driven by times best left to cool a while longer. Karrell’s voice returns.

  “I’m fine Dad, don’t worry.” And there’s an adult chuckle mingled in his words.

  I pause playback.

  What would an EB and Poip want with Deidre?

  No cause comes to mind.

  I hit play.

  “So hey Dad. Doing pretty good at school these days. Been burning the eLibrary late at night.” Deidre’s voice cuts in with no words nor concepts once again.

  I wait.

  Dejected Karrell says, “Well, Mom just said calls cost money and money doesn’t grow on a Crier’s back. Goodnight. Hope to communicate direct next time. Bye.”

  Home grows silent and cold as the lights start their shutdown. I curl up on Della Comfort yearning for Karrell’s love and happy countenance.

  How I miss him.

  CHAPTER 23

  Of Danger And Confession

  Mother wind, the designer, the road builder, the manipulator, brings death second only to Brother Sun. She’ll often flit across sand brushing lips along her baby while whispering a mother’s secret love. A playful twinkle in her eyes she scoops sand into pockets of her own design.

  If temperatures c
hange and she’s rendered uncertain of direction, she pauses and thus sheds her collection gently.

  But when she drives with a raging heart and stops suddenly she’ll fling back to this erg, this dune-sea named Here-Born, every grain with a violence no mere human can survive.

  Mountainous dunes rise upon sand and beneath each lie the bones of many an unwary traveler.

  ***

  Although the wind sleeps late this morning the sun awakened on time.

  A glance out the window reveals a desert quiet and tranquil with not a dust devil in sight. Perhaps I imagine it but if not, the real crunch of sand permeates my toothpaste. I gag a bit, spit out before a proper brushing, rinse and call oral hygiene done.

  My next morning action? To brew a perfect cup of coffee.

  I fill the paper filter to the top with four heaped spoons of freshly ground bean—the darker the bean the better. One mug of water goes in and she is set to brew.

  I wait next to her until every last drop snakes through the grounds. Add a measure of fresh cream—the final touch of excellence—no sugar or other flavors mar my coffee. Once ready, I carry the mug everywhere I go as tasks unfold and it empties.

  We of Here-Born use the time between six and ten in the morning as personal hours. In this fashion, we change our twenty-eight-hour day into twenty-four for the benefit of Earth-Born tourists and businessmen alike. We agreed to this for economic reasons not to bow to a politically correct demand.

  Due to clocks ticking on two worlds far apart, our calendar dates were once different but we have since synchronized. We were ten years ahead of Earth-Born at that time. No one recalls why or how this happened.

  Both worlds accepted the later dated year—ours.

  The correction took place at Midnight on New Year’s Day back in 3584. For us the year was 3584, for Earth-Born it was 3574. The agreement states days, weeks and years are the same for EB and us. This is possible because Here-Born has no seasons other than damn hot and damned hotter. Our one concession was this wasting of personal hours each morning.

  In the garage, I pull a tarp off an old four cylinder, air cooled motorcycle and gaze upon reliable and classic EB technology at its finest. They had been extinct over on EB until we of Here-Born resurrected them in pure desperation for a form of personal transport.

  Sipping coffee, I admire her lines for a few minutes and smile at the history of my work. Back when I began restoring and modifying this classic Bordt Nettler asked, and now that I think of it with a sneer Wernt would envy, “Why bother?”

  “Well, Bordt, damn fine and impressive altogether,” I replied. He sneered more-n-more and I never bothered explaining.

  That Deidre’s sneer harmonized with his should have come across as something of a clue. A clue to what was happening between them. But I wasn’t home often enough to expose it and was then gone to prison for three years and compounding all I’d asked Bordt to take care of Deidre and Karrell while I was imprisoned. Appears he did a sterling job, as Jenk would say.

  I wash and polish her frame, side covers, wheel rims and fuel tank. Done, I stand back, admire some more, salute her with the empty mug and with the four hours gone, obligations beckon.

  I lock the front door, glance up at the eaves and frown still confused over what caused all of the light bulbs to break. But I’m jolted fully alert by the roar of a SandMaster at full throttle. The same bent or holed tailpipe from yesterday whistles across sand. I push up against the front door and scan the horizon.

  Desert Drivers this close when I’m alone?

  Cold shivers cascade through me.

  I wait. Finally, the roar fades.

  I calm self and heart and curious to know more about last night’s visitor I set off to inspect the nose and hand prints. Turning the corner, I’m again brought up short. A fresh set of footprints leads to the same window and back into the desert.

  I kneel and examine them.

  They are of an ordinary boot worn by most, tourists included. My heartbeat uneven, I track their return over a small dune from where they head off into the distance and disappear. I wait listening but hear nothing further. Do they belong to the Desert Driver? No answer.

  Several minutes on, I walk back with one or two nervous glances over my shoulder. About to re-enter home I pause and ponder if I will need a handgun today.

  Like most Here-Born citizens I attend biannual training for we are all soldiers. So, I own a variety of weapons as do all citizens. Here no application nor a permit is required to purchase, to own, to carry—open or concealed. Our Founders were determined honest folk would never be legislated into being victims. I think the circumstances over.

  Though the footprints are strange and disturbing, there are no signs of ill intent other than the smashed light bulbs. Of those I have recently met, Wernt has been critical of me but he’s EB bound while Mister Conqueror has no way of finding me.

  I decide I do not need one, mount Hellbent, check her over and accelerate away.

  Hunched down behind her fairing I snick up each gear, snap her into fifth and then top. Racing along a flat-topped dune my speed sneaks up towards ninety-five mph. I hold the pace as we cut through the warm morning air spotted here and there by pockets of hotter air. I smile as the engine hums and purrs and allow thinking to wander over to Wernt and Karrell.

  About Wernt I worry—troubled by an inexplicably blocked mind. I’d tried accessing him in multiple ways with different styles and alternate protocols and failed. If all EB’s learn to do that, our campaign will falter and fail in the face of hidden thoughts—and goodbye Freedom.

  At least I’ve no need to get with Madsen about that bulge under Peter’s arm anymore. And Karrell? How is he doing? He sounded so unhappy despite the forced cheer in his voice. I can’t figure why his mother said he would regret being my son. What tragedy would bring about such a decision on his part?

  I am answerless.

  Also! Why did an EB tourist and Poip visit her?

  I’ve too many questions and too few answers.

  I’m awakened with a vengeance as the left front wheel slams into an empty Crier burrow. We lurch left. Arzern feathers fly as the handlebars twist in my grip and smack against the steering stops. Battling a tank-slapper I drop down two gears and accelerate.

  The rear wheels bite deep and the front-end lifts.

  I hit another burrow, launch into the air again and fly over the edge of the dune. Midflight I kick down a gear and as the tires touch sand I drop the clutch and bang the throttle full open. Hard acceleration smooths out the tank-slapper.

  I hold my attention a few feet ahead watching for soft sand or rock. I drive her harder in preparation for a race across the slack and the climb up the opposing slope.

  Wait! This dune is extremely steep. Why?

  I glance up.

  To my horror it’s not a dune but a capture-ditch I’m racing down. One quarter filled with CO2. To my right CO2 intake tunnels roar inducting the CO2—inviting it to become reformed. Is this to be my final error?

  The suction from the intake fans drag at me. I hunch down lower, steer left and open the throttle wider. The handlebars shudder as I fight the suction. Even my hardened palms cringe at the abuse.

  Hellbent’s wheels whine and swish across sand. I glance down. At current speeds and angle, I’ve no way of turning without tumbling head over wheels down the slope. I can but accelerate and hope to make it across the slack with a dead engine. Once engulfed by CO2 the engine will die—starved of oxygen.

  I drop a gear, twist the throttle fully open and hunch down out of the wind. The exhausts thrill to their task roaring a high RPM medley, the tires bite deeper.

  I steer further left away from the CO2 intake. Seconds later the scream of tortured metal shredding shatters Hellbent’s singing voice. I pull the clutch in to prevent the wheels from locking and freewheel ever faster-n-faster as the capture-ditch drops down steeper-n-steeper. At near vertical I take a deep breath in preparation for CO2’s ins
idious embrace.

  The thick yellow cloud leaps forward and wraps its deadly wisps around me stinging and bringing tears to my eyes. The bandana around my mouth and nose barely protects me from the CO2 that swirls about seeking to suffocate.

  With a thud, the suspension bottoms on sand. We bounce high and flip sideways. I leap clear, land feet first, tumble several times, come to my feet and sprint for the opposing slope bearing left to stay clear of the intakes.

  Hellbent tumbles by missing me by mere fingers.

  From the corner of an eye I watch her break apart as pieces fly in all directions like scattering flies.

  I reach the slope and charge upwards, boots slipping.

  My chest heaves begging for air.

  I pinch my nose closed.

  My heart beats thunder louder, threatening to burst through my chest.

  I trip on a tiny outcrop of rock and drop to all fours but keep climbing. Both lungs scream in agony. I glance to the crest—it is too far.

  Sand splashes my face and my legs turn to lead. Every cell screams for oxygen. Blood runs down my chin. I bite down harder but cannot hold back any longer. Still, I do for several seconds more and my mouth snaps open of its own accord. I breathe in and though foul it is mostly air.

  I sprawl flat on my face nose buried in sand, gasping and slide downwards. I dig hands and boots in, hold still and rest. Limb by limb my strength returns, my breathing settles and my heart calms.

  I crawl to and across the crest, drop flat and remain prone.

  In the distance terraced desert unfolds to a far Sand Lake Flats. The goldmine’s headframe is clearly visible towering above the Mall and silhouetted against a bright blue sky.

  Though I’m not close I am not too far. I have a long, tough walk to the freeway. I’ll get there but not with the ease of Jenk Nordt.

  I stand up, ensure I’m on firm sand, dust shirt and pants off, check my survival kit and Crier fan are good—they are. I take a deep breath, remove my bandana and shake sand out of it, and glance down to where Hellbent lies twisted and broken on her handlebars and saddle.