by Ted Blasche
“Gods preserve us all, you brought him here instead.” Farrell’s voice was a whisper of awe.
Kodi looked about him, an expression of wonderment on his face and Naria took his cheeks in her hands and kissed him on the forehead. “I did.” She enfolded Kodi in her arms, squeezing tight. “I did!”
“Mother, what …?” Kodi surfaced from her hug with a bemused smile, his gaze resting on Farrell.
Naria squeezed him again, laughing as he struggled to pull free. “I’ll explain in a moment. This is Farrell; he helped me get free of the collar.”
“Won’t they come after us?” Farrell asked.
Naria ran her fingers over Kodi’s hair, smiling as it sprang back. “They will, eventually. But first they have to get their tracking system back online.”
“You mean that thing?” Farrell nodded at the broken computer.
“Yes. In the meantime, we take what we can in order to start from scratch out here. And then we go quiet.”
“Quiet?”
“Stop using the magic. When we take something from there, a signature … a trace is visible to their equipment for a short time afterwards. If we take what we need now while they’re down, we can stop using the magic and they won’t be able to find us without coming here and searching person by person. And this is a big world. Easy for three people to hide in.”
“So, what are we waiting for?” Farrell picked up one of the parchments and the quill, handing them to her. “Get drawing. More jewellery for a start. I have a cat to feed.” His green eyes were lit from within by the huge grin on his face.
Naria took them from him, her own grin so wide it made her cheeks hurt. “I know just the thing.”
>>><<<
About the Author of The Legacy of Eris
CJ Jessop lived for a year in Oregon, where she was a valuable member of the Beaverton Evening Writers Group. Now she writes in the north of England. In their spare time, she and her husband plot world domination with their army of cat. Yes, just one. You have to start somewhere.
CJ’s work has been published online in Dark Futures Fiction and Plasma Frequency magazine. If you enjoyed The Legacy of Eris, be sure to take a look at her collection of short stories, Out of the Blue, available on Amazon http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00J5S9PGI”
Toys
By Chelsea Nolen
Claude Haberdasher stopped in mid-stride at the sight of the good luck trolls on Jim Moonie’s desk. He straightened his waistcoat and adjusted his gold cufflinks. As his mouth settled into the usual displeased scowl, he entered Jim Moonie’s cubicle, stopping in front of the offending desk.
They stood in a straight line, eight naked pieces of skin-toned plastic with bright glass eyes and unnatural grins. Their ridiculous hair ranged from sunflower yellow to electric blue.
Claude put one finger on the desk, catching Jim’s eye.
“Hey, Mr. Haberdasher, how’s it going?” the programmer asked, presenting a lopsided grin. He’d added a loose tie to his green-and-white striped polo shirt, forgetting to iron either article.
“Jim, what are these things?”
“They’re good luck trolls, sir. Cute little things, otherwise known as—“
“What are they doing on your desk? More specifically, what are they doing in this office?”
Jim’s smile faded to a nervous grin. “Well, sir, company policy clearly states that we can have personal items of interest on our desks.”
“These do not constitute ‘personal items of interest.’ Tell me, what do they remind you of? What experience in your life does this recall?” Claude flicked his fingers at the troll with lime-green hair.
“Well, none,” Jim admitted, squirming in his seat. “But they’re—y’know—cute. Entertaining.”
“And just how do they entertain, Jim? Do they provide a visual distraction from your work? Do they make you laugh somehow? No, I seriously doubt that. These are not mementos. They are nothing more than putrid pieces of plastic, designed by morons, for purchase by other morons.”
Jim’s eyes tightened. “That’s harsh, man. But it’s still my decision on whether I like them or not.”
Haberdasher paused. “How old are you, Jim?”
“How … old?”
“That was my question, yes.”
“Oh, twenty-six or so.”
“Mr. Moonie, exactly how old are you? Surely you know your age, you have undergone several birthdays already.”
Jim glanced at the clock on the wall and closed his eyes, twiddling his fingers for a few seconds. “Ok, so I’m twenty-six years, eight months, five days, and seventeen hours old.” Jim smiled as though he’d passed a pop quiz.
Haberdasher’s face turned even more glacial, his voice adding several layers of packed ice. “Do not mock me, Mr. Moonie. I do not appreciate your so-called attempt at humor. Your joke was a paltry attempt to smooth over—“
One of the trolls turned its head to look Haberdasher in the eye. It scrunched its wrinkled face up further, stuck its tongue out, and blew a loud, wet raspberry.
Haberdasher reared back, swinging his arm in alarm. The loathsome trinkets squeaked as they struck the carpet.
“Get rid of them, Jim. Now!” Haberdasher turned and struggled not to race back into his office.
Not possible. That was not possible!
**
Haberdasher left his office, certain beyond a doubt, that Jim somehow rigged the toys so they could move. Calm again, he flicked the light switch in his office off as he shut and locked the door. Only secondary lights and the sigh of air conditioning greeted him as he dropped his keys into his jacket pocket and picked up his briefcase. He hurried past Jim’s cubicle, trying not to glance at the offensive collage of neon paraphernalia. He could not help but peek around the cubicle wall.
He expected the psychedelic pandemonium that characterized Jim Moonie’s work place to rip into his eyes. But no riot of color shredded his corneas. The cubicle was devoid of any ornamentation. Only the sanctioned white paper office calendar hung on the gray fabric wall.
Well—he listened to me this time. Good. That idiot Epstein never did.
Haberdasher tried to eradicate the days’ events from his mind as he drove out of the city and into the suburbs. When a red Subaru refused to move out of his way, he leaned on his horn and the Subaru’s bumper, until gravity finally pulled it into the slow lane.
**
The oversized granite fireplace in Claude’s living room received a generous daily supply of wood to consume. Claude placed his brandy snifter on the mantelpiece and leaned against the wall, watching the logs succumb to the flames. He tapped the fireplace poker against the hearth upon occasion. Watching the logs crumble to ash relieved an equivalent amount of tension in Claude’s shoulders and back. He could relax, contemplate the trivial portions of life that didn’t matter.
He didn’t have to do anything at all, other than turning the occasional recalcitrant log.
Jim’s a tree-hugging hippy at heart. His cubicle is decorated like a refugee from the Mardi Gras. He doesn’t know how to dress or cut his hair. Yet his insights are priceless. Somehow he knows what people want, and conjures it out of code. His ideas bring in money—lots of money.
Enough to keep him around, regardless of his complete lack of taste.
Claude poked at some of the slower burning logs, trying to encourage the flames to attend to their job. The fire seemed delighted to comply; in moments, those logs were lit from end to end.
Claude reached up for the snifter on the mantelpiece. His hand knocked into a dancing flower. Pretending to ignore the bubblegum pink trinket jiggling its leaves on his mantle, he raised the fireplace poker and swung.
Pieces of flower splattered across the oriental rug.
Claude spotted the bloom and jammed the tip of the poker through it. Green gel oozed out.
“What are you doing in here,” he growled, twisting the poker. “If the maid left you, I shall have her filleted.”
&nb
sp; A sudden piercing pain in the back of his neck stopped Haberdasher’s brutal attack. He reached up and swatted whatever insect stabbed him, only driving it deeper. Using his fingernails, he yanked a thorn out of his neck.
“What the—”
Looking behind him, Haberdasher spotted an indigo dancing flower perched on the far side of the mantelpiece. But it wasn’t dancing. In the center of the bloom, he could see another thorn slowly extruding. With a small pfft the second dart imbedded itself in his chest.
A wave of dizziness swept over him. “You little bastard…” he slurred. He aimed the poker for the second flower, but darkness swept up from behind his eyes and carried him down to unconsciousness.
**
“Mr. Haberdasher? Sir?”
Claude knew he was dreaming; why else would he hear Jim’s voice while his eyes were closed? “You don’t belong in my dreams, Jim, now get out.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but this isn’t a dream.”
“Of course it is. I never sleep in the office, I…” Wait. His last memory was the fireplace. And that damnable plastic petunia darted him!
“You!” Haberdasher bellowed as he launched himself off whatever flat surface he lay on. Jim had been leaning over him. Haberdasher grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the nearest wall. But it wasn’t the seawater green wall of his living room. This wall could swallow his living room wall several times over.
Claude looked around. Still in his work clothes, he stood in a room large enough to use for a theatrical production. The only furniture was a gurney that he’d been sleeping on. The lights were fluorescent, bouncing off of mauve and rose-colored walls. In the far wall was something reminiscent of a garage door, painted neon yellow.
This was not his house.
“Where are we,” Haberdasher demanded as he glared at Jim.
“We’re in a spaceship.”
“Mr. Moonie, you have clearly lost your mind.” Haberdasher enunciated each word, his reprimand oozing venom. “This is not a space ship. Kidnapping is a federal offense. Add breaking and entering on the side, and illegal drug use—“
Jim gasped and choked, pointing at the multitudinous trinkets littering the floor. “Wasn’t me! Sir! Wasn’t me, they did it!”
Haberdasher released his hold on Jim’s throat. “Are you implying that your toys kidnapped me?” he demanded incredulously. “Your delusions have shifted into dangerous grounds.”
“They—uh—needed me to translate for them.” Jim shifted uncomfortably against the wall, failing to get his neck free. His gray t-shirt twisted in Haberdasher’s punishing grip.
Something poked at Haberdasher’s foot. He looked down, noting that a blue-haired troll in a tiny grey suit held a miniature space gun, which it shoved into his ankle repeatedly. It glared at him with each poke.
“Quit that,” Haberdasher ordered, refusing to follow the trail of that thought.
The troll opened his mouth and squeaked back.
For a second, Haberdasher’s mouth dropped open. Dear God, the squeaks even sound angry!
“He says, uh, that you need to step back and quit threatening me. Violence is the action of small minds.” Jim snickered until Haberdasher’s glare morphed it into an awkward cough. “Uh, anyway, he has a taser aimed your way, so I’d heartily recommend listening.”
“Very well, Jim.” Haberdasher sighed in exasperation, lowering his arms and stepping back. “We shall keep this civilized. What is it you want—a raise? This is a horrendously poor method to secure it, I can assure you.”
“I told you, I had nothing to do with this,” Jim insisted. “I’m here as a translator.”
“Ah. I see.”
“No sir, you don’t. See these”—Jim swept his arm out, encompassing the many small figures on the floor—“are from outer space.”
Haberdasher rolled his eyes. “Really, Jim? That’s the best you could come up with?”
The tiny figures moved closer, voicing their thoughts in innumerable squeaks.
Haberdasher reached down and snatched one up—the one clenching the ray gun. It glared back, the gun firmly aimed at Claude’s nose.
Haberdasher examined the creature from several angles. The ears were thin and followed the curve of the head. The ear canal was plainly visible. Haberdasher could see where the hairs disappeared into the scalp; it wasn’t a scrap of carpet.
“At least you’re wearing clothes this time,” Haberdasher noted drily.
The troll stuck his tongue out; Haberdasher could see the bumps that were surely taste buds.
A final stroke of the oversized ear threw any remaining doubts in the trash, as the ear twitched. “It isn’t plastic.”
“No, sir, it’s not.”
Haberdasher very gently set the troll back on the floor, then took several long, calming breaths. “Very well, Jim, as hard as it is to believe, I accept the premise that these are indeed aliens from outer space.”
“These guys here are called Krithlin, sir.” Jim’s wave indicated the good-luck trolls, now clothed. “They’re from Cygnus Six. And the flower-folk are Chamkopa from 15 Sagittae, fifth planet.”
The Krithlin wore clothing that looked remarkably human. The Chamkopa had bangles dangling from their many petals.
Haberdasher regarded them silently for a moment. “I am quite positive those are immeasurable distances from here. So why did they come to Earth and present themselves as toys? And what could they possibly want from me?”
“They’re here to help us, sir.”
“Hah! Toys do not change society, Jim.”
“Oh, but they will! They’re encouraging children to play more.”
“I thought you said that they were here to help us,” Haberdasher grumbled. “We hardly need more lazy children lounging around—”
“Not lazy, sir. Playing. Children need to play to learn lessons like responsibility, caring for others, caring for the world—”
“Please don’t throw your hippie environmental dross at me.”
“—and creativity. Maturity. Emotional control. Sympathy. Empathy. All of these can be strengthened by simply playing.”
“Are you saying that you are creative because you play? That I could replace you with a five-year-old and a set of Legos™?”
“That wouldn’t work, Mr. Haberdasher, and you know it. A child doesn’t have the skillset to take his creative urges and transform them into something useful. But, a five-year-old might make that leap if he or she continues to play throughout childhood and into maturity.”
“What do these things get in exchange for teaching us this vital lesson, Jim? Have you asked them that?”
“Well, yeah. They’ll help us reach the stars. They’ll benefit from trade, new places to visit, the gases from the outer planets, all kinds of things.”
“When?”
“Well, it’s going to take a couple generations. Humanity is pretty screwed up.”
Haberdasher snorted. “So they have promised pie-in-the-sky at some unforeseen date, to be determined by them. This is a hoax, Jim. They have nothing to offer us. They are illegal aliens, living here, multiplying on our land, eating our food, because fools like you give them a free ride.”
In the distance, the rumble of car engines sounded. A large door in the far wall opened, letting in several round vehicles. As they neared, Haberdasher felt his ire rise. The vehicles were old 1960s Volkswagen Beetles. Grass green, sunshine yellow, cornflower blue, and cherry red, the vehicles lined up before him, running their engines and sounding like grumbling uncles.
“You go too far,” Haberdasher growled back. “These cannot be aliens. A—car—cannot be alive. Machines do not live!”
Jim stood beside Haberdasher. “Oh, they’re alive,” he asserted. “Do you see any drivers? That’s because the Bugs are driving themselves. They’re insect people from Capella Seven. They grow an iron carapace around their organs, and they get to decide how it grows. Most of their organs lie below the engine—which is a fake plat
e, you know, a hidden panel kind of thing. The brain is somewhere in the rear seat. We can’t begin to say their name, so they took the title ‘VW Bug’ as their own.”
“And they picked this objectionable form?”
“Well, Hitler gave them their first way to scout out the planet, with his auto manufacturing.”
“So these aliens were helping Hitler.”
“God no! They knew he was off his rocker!” Jim leaned close. “They worked against him by taking the messages Hitler sent and leaving them where the Allies could find them. That’s why Hitler turned to motorcycles for delivering messages, you know.”
“I refuse to believe your balderdash, Jim. They are not here to benefit humans.”
Another Krithlin stepped forward and fussed for several moments. Jim looked anxious as the creature spoke.
“If I tell him that, he’ll go bonkers,” Jim protested.
The Krithlin squeaked some more, increasing the anxiety in Jim’s eyes.
“For God’s sake just tell me,” Haberdasher snorted. “You won’t hurt my feelings. I don’t care what they say.”
Jim licked his lips. “All right. Just remember, this is a literal translation, as close to word-for-word as I can get it.
“He says they’re here to help humanity, because we’re in desperate need of help. People like you are destroying the planet as well as your species.”