by Nagle, Pati
“Krrrreeeee!” screeched the lagoon-thing.
“F-f-f- . . . says you!” gasped Hog. No, don’t talk to it! he thought. Save your strength, save your strength. He jumped, trying to lever his weight downward to break free, but the tentacle’s grip was tenacious.
“You can do it, Justin!” screamed his mother’s voice, from somewhere.
“Get yourself out of there, dammit, Hog! How’d you get into that?” he heard, from another direction. He was completely disoriented with respect to the room; he could only focus on the mat, and this infernal creature.
He jumped higher. The tentacle went higher. He still didn’t break free, and now his leg was up as far as it could possibly go, and his hamstrings were screaming.
“Krrrreeeeee!” urged his opponent.
“Scree you!” Hog retorted angrily.
Tweeeeeeeeet! The ref strode forward, breaking the impasse. It turned to Hog and waved a paddle in his direction, while braying to the scoring table: “The use of abusive language is prohibited. One point penalty against the human!”
“What?” Hog gasped, limping away from the Ektra.
“References to the opponent’s progenitors are strictly forbidden!” scolded the centaur with the whistle. “Assume the position.”
“Ref—you piece of Arcturan fungus!” screamed a voice from the sidelines. “You mold, you donkey! You wouldn’t know a foul if it came up and plugged you—you—!”
Hog ignored his coach’s rantings and assumed the position.
The centaur was staring coldly in the direction of the sidelines, but it said nothing, until the shapeshifter had hunched behind Hog, its tentacles on his back. A little too firmly on his back, Hog realized. “Ref—wait a min—”
Tweet!
Hog was a moment slow in moving, and the shapeshifter had its tentacles around his waist by the time he was into his standup. He was on his feet, but he couldn’t break free, and he began lunging one way and then another, trying to loosen the thing’s grip. He dug his hands down under the tentacles to break their hold. Yes—he had them loose! “Aarrrrr!” he snarled, spinning and bracing his feet outward. If he could just arch, he could complete the escape . . .
He staggered a little, as the Ektra pushed him backwards off the mat.
Tweet! “No points!”
Hog cursed under his breath and returned to the center of the mat. This time he was ready.
Tweet!
He was up, turning, leaving the lagoon-creature on the mat . . . except for the tentacle that whipped out and caught his ankle and jerked his leg high in the air. “Gaaahhhh!” Hog roared, hopping . . . hopping . . . hopping . . .
Time seemed to slow and twiddle its thumbs as he danced, evading the second tentacle, while struggling in vain to escape from the first. He edged slowly toward the out-of-bounds, and the lagoon-creature slowly dragged him back.
Time took a coffee break. Time went out to an early lunch . . .
And Hog hopped . . . hopped . . . hopped . . .
Would the period never end? he thought desperately, throwing his weight up and down with fading strength. Would time never run out on this eternal second period . . . ?
BLAAATTTT! went the buzzer.
Tweeeeet! “No points!” called the ref.
Hog gasped, as the Ektra released his leg.
“Shake it off, Hog—shake it off!” “Go, Justin—!”
He gulped air as he staggered in a circuit around the mat, before going to assume the top position for the final period. “Whattza score?” he rasped to the ref.
“Three to one, Ektra,” the ref informed him.
From somewhere overhead, the strains of country-western music filled the gymnasium.
∞
For Earth, Hog thought dizzily, focusing on the form of the creature before him. Do it for Earth. Do it for wrestling. For wrestling. For the tricrystal medal. Just gotta do it, somehow. You’re on camera—the only human left.
“FREE DRINKS, HAWWWG!” yelled Harmin’.
Tweet!
He hurled his weight into the lagoon-creature, hoping to topple it over. His only hope now was to turn it over for the fall. He felt its weight giving way . . . altering shape under him. What the hell was it going to be this time?
For an instant, he felt a disgusting slime under him, as the Ektra’s form dissolved. Repulsed, he involuntarily loosened his hold a little, and as he did so, a hundred and thirty-eight pounds of Ektra bounced up into his chin. He almost lost his grip, but somehow recovered his balance and thrust himself against the Ektra with all the strength his legs had left.
Boing.
The Ektra bounced back against him.
Boing.
It bounced away from him, veering unexpectedly to his right, and doing a backflip out of his arms. He threw himself against it before it could get completely away, tackling it and carrying it out of bounds.
Tweeeet!
Panting, Hog took a good look at his opponent as it settled, more or less, into position in the center of the mat. It looked like a large coil spring inside a knotted sock, and it seemed unable to stop bouncing completely, even in the starting position. It bobbed and jittered at a sort of idle speed, reminding Hog of his Uncle Wainwright, who could never sit still, bouncing and gumchewing his way through entire ballgames—and who had often belittled Hog for choosing wrestling over basketball. Hog glared at the coil-springed Ektra, and imagined it shapechanging into his Uncle Wainwright.
With a silent snort, Hog settled behind the Ektra and placed his hands carefully on its trunk, prepared to tackle it as viciously as he could. The centaur-ref peered at him for a moment, seemingly unable to decide if his positioning was legal. Then it flipped its paddle-hand. Tweet!
Boing.
Hog lunged into the bouncing shapeshifter, and bounced with it, boing, boing, right off the mat. He got up glaring even harder. Time was running out, and it didn’t do him any good just to hold the thing down, he needed to pin it. But how could he pin a coil spring? The one thing that encouraged him, as he watched it bounce back to the center of the mat, was that it was starting to look tired. Maybe all this springing was wearing it out.
At the whistle, Hog threw his weight into it again, and landed flat on his chin. For an infuriating, flustered moment, he thought he had lost the Ektra, and he scrambled to get up, looking around wildly. Then he realized that the Ektra was under him; it had splatted out into an enormous pancake with tiny, starfish legs around its outer edge. He pushed and hauled on it, but the thing was immovable.
“Turn it over! Turn it over!” yelled his coach, his mother, somebody.
He couldn’t possibly turn it over—unless he got off it completely and tried to flip it like a throw rug. But that would be crazy . . . it was too heavy and too awkward.
“Warning—Ektra—stalling!” brayed the ref.
“Hog—you’re running out of time! DO SOMETHING!” hollered Harmin’, from somewhere very close to the edge of the mat.
With a snarl, Hog jumped off the pancake and yanked on the edge of the thing. It went “Querrreee!” and began contracting into a new shape. Good! Now he could go to work on it!
The change took place in a dizzying blur, and it was not just a physical blur. Hog felt a wave of confusion pass through his mind, and he blinked and found himself holding the hand of, and staring into the large brown eyes of, the most breathtakingly beautiful woman he had ever seen, or imagined. (Come . . . come to me . . . now . . . ) whispered the psicry. She had long, golden-brunette hair; and she was wearing a clinging silk wrap that did not altogether cover her breathtaking . . . her breathtaking . . .
. . . and she was breathing so hard, so quiveringly hard, and pulling him by the hand toward her with a smile that made his heart stop.
“Whoaaa—Hog! All riiiight! Go for it, man, go get it!”
The sound of Harmin’s voice was strangely removed, as though Hog and his . . . opponent? . . . had been whisked into a private place for a special little
tête-à-tête, with everyone else suddenly a very long way away, miles away, light-years away. (Yes, yes . . . come get it . . . you will like it very much . . . ) And, for a fleeting instant, Hog thought that was fine, just fine, very fine indeed. For the glory of Earth fine. Oh yes.
And then maybe a whiff of oxygen reached his brain, or maybe a whiff of astringent alien breath, because the hypnotic spell slipped just a little, and his heart seemed to beat again, and with a start he realized that he was sinking to the mat, allowing himself to be drawn into the arms of this . . . about to pull this gorgeous creature on top of him, this . . .
“Get that goddamn tramp off you, Justin!” screamed someone, his mother.
. . . Ektra shapeshifter.
“Awwwww, jeeeez!” he panted, struggling to get his brain clear, and realizing he had about one second before he’d be flat on his back under this . . . sex-crazed . . .
The woman’s weight was already shifting for the pin. And his mind was still fogged . . . but not quite so fogged that he couldn’t make one last, desperate hopeless move.
He reached down and tickled her in the ribcage.
“Breee-heee-heeeeeee!” shrieked the shapeshifter, erupting into helpless laughter and losing its hold.
Hog scooted out from under it, but managed to keep his fingers in there tickling. He was gasping from the exertion, but his gasps were drowned out by screams of laughter . . .
“Kreee-hee-hee-(stop)-hee-heee-kreee-(stop)-heee-hee-hee-(please stop!)-hee—”
Hog struggled to disregard the psicry pummeling his mind. He hugged and cradled this creature, far and away more gorgeous than any woman he had ever even fantasized about, cradled her in a fabulous embrace . . . tickling mercilessly.
“Kreee-hee-hee-(stop please stop!)—”
“HOG, TEN SECONDS LEFT!!!”
The thing’s laughter was contagious, and Hog fell on her, nearly laughing uncontrollably himself. And he pressed her back down to the mat, his left arm crooked in a careless reverse-half-nelson, his right hand tickling just below those magnificent—
Whack! Tweeeeeeet! “Pin! The match goes to the human!” brayed the centaur-ref.
And he almost couldn’t make himself stop tickling her now that he had her down, but the roar of the crowd was enough to make him look up in a daze, and the first thing he saw, past the four legs of the ref, was Harmin’ Harmon jumping up and down like a dancing buffalo. His friend’s voice was drowned out, but it hardly mattered. And the second thing Hog saw was the centaur bending down to look at him with apparent puzzlement in its eyes.
“Human, I am unsure how you did that,” the ref said, waving its paddle-hands. “But congratulations. And if you don’t get up off your opponent, it will be a shame that you will be required to forfeit the match . . .”
“Huh?” Hog released the Ektra with a start and sat back on his haunches, blinking in amazement at what he had done. He stood up shakily, and extended a hand to help his opponent up off the mat.
The Ektra-woman was pouting as it rose. But after a moment, its lips quivered and reformed into a smile . . . and then into a beaming grin. A grin? Hog thought.
“Earth!” “Earth!” “Earth!” “Earth!” “Earth . . . !” A chant had started in the stands and was growing in intensity. They were banging their seats now. “Number One!” “One!” “One . . . !”
“WAY T’ GO, HAWWWWWG!” bawled Harmin’ Harmon, striding up and down the sidelines, fists in the air.
“Look at the camera, Justin—look at the camera!” His mother was practically on the mat, pointing up into the stands at his father and the fastcam.
Hog grinned weakly and looked back at the Ektra. It was still a dazzling creature, but her grin had continued to widen, bright teeth sparkling, until the grin seemed to take up most of her face. And then Hog realized dizzily that her face was slowly disappearing, leaving only the grin. And he stood, blinking, watching the grin fade last of all, until the Ektra was gone altogether. And Hog turned in bewilderment to the ref, who was looking toward the scoring table and didn’t see any of it happen.
“Justin! Ask it to do that again! Your father missed it!”
Hog turned around, waving in confusion. “Say, uh—” he croaked to his absent opponent, “nice match!” And found himself thinking, Is it true? Is it really true? Did I win the tricrystal medal for Earth? The only human in history to win a tricrystal? And then the centaur-ref trotted back to him, and hoisted his hand in victory, and Hog forgot his doubts and waved triumphantly to the crowd. And when he turned, he saw a large, iridescent lizard rising up as if from the very substance of the mat and turning to shuffle away.
“Hey, Ektra!” he cried.
“Breee?” said the lizard, looking back. (We like semiconductor medals better, anyway. (I lie!) (I lie!)) it whispered in a psicry.
Hog laughed happily and patted it on the back. “Great match, guy. Next time don’t be so ticklish!”
“Breee,” said the lizard. (Done well. Next match I get the home crowd, okay?)
“Okay. See you around.” Hog trotted off the mat, waving again to the crowd, and fell into the congratulating arms of his mother and Harmin’ Harmon. He hardly even heard their voices, or the voice of Coach Tagget . . .
“Drinks on me, just like I said . . .”
“Where’d you learn to do that sort of a thing with a woman, Justin . . . ?”
“Donovan, just like I been tellin’ you, the brain is the most important . . .”
But if he didn’t hear what they said after that, he did hear the chants of Earth! Earth! and he could already feel the tricrystal medal glistening and breathing in his hand. And he heard a centipede voice hissing, “Kreeeepy kreeepy earthman—sssee you nexxxt yearrr on Meetsssnepp Fffive, hah-hahhh! Zerrrro grrravity unlimited, suckahhh . . . !” Only this time Hog just laughed out loud and didn’t even bother to look as he headed for the cameras, as the Vegan’s voice faded back into the waves of HOG DONOVAN! HOG DONOVAN! TRICRYSTAL EARTH . . . !
Bye-bye Lotusflower, Lotusflower bye-bye!
Feef’s House
Doranna Durgin
“Feef’s House” is one of my few science fiction pieces, which means I stretched to write it for the original editor; because I enjoy that editor so much, I felt confident enough to really go for it. And in the end, it does a lot of things that I wanted it to do; it feels like all the layers come together in a big click of completion at the end—and every darned time I read it, it makes me cry a little. This story is also one of the ways I dealt with the events of 9/11.
∞ ∞ ∞
The interact screen stared sternly at Shadia, showing her a form full of questions to which she had no answer. To which no duster would have an answer. Local personal reference. No chance of that. It was why she’d chosen the temp form.
Commonly known as the duster form, but only if you said it with a sneer.
Local address. Wherever she landed on any given night.
Last posting. Three weeks Sol-ward on Possita IV.
Shadia scanned the form with the contempt of a duster for the mag-footed perms and then, recalling that she sat in front of an interact screen connected to Toklaat Station’s temp job placement system, hastily schooled her expression to something more neutral. Jobs no one wants, jobs with no guarantee of security. The first she was used to; the second suited her. She didn’t want to be here still in the first place and she certainly didn’t want to tie herself to work or community.
There. There was an empty form-line she could fill. She manipulated the interface with absent ease.
Instantly, a woman’s face filled the hitherto blank square in the upper left of the screen. “You had a terdog? A real terdog?”
A real terdog?
I didn’t want to be here in the first place. Not filling out forms, not pretending it suited me, not remembering the sight of my friends boarding the hydropon repair ship, buying passage with three weeks of shoveling ’cycle products and glad to do it. Not hiding my rea
ction to such a question. A real terdog? Was there any other kind?
Politely, Shadia said, “A kennel of real terdogs, sir. Belvian Blues, which we used to find subterr rootings for export—”
“Yes, yes,” the woman said, rude in her eagerness. “I have just the position for you. It pays well and suits your unique skills.”
Her unique skills? She had a duster’s skills. A little of this, a little of that, learn anything fast. Take what gets you off-planet or off-station when you feel like going. Just like so much space dust.
Unless, of course, you fall on your ass in front of a zipscoot and rack up such a medical debt that you’re stuck on-planet until you repay. Stuck. In one place.
Stuck.
Most wary, Shadia said, “What’s the job?”
Her application screen rippled away, replaced by the familiar format of a job listing. Almost familiar . . . except for the header logo, which caught her eye before she had a chance to focus on anything else. Permtemp. “There’s been a mistake, sir,” Shadia said. Her recently healed thigh cramped with the sudden dread that it wasn’t actually a mistake at all. She forced herself to relax. “I’m not a perm. Just a temp. I put it on my application.”
“This is a priority position, young woman. In such cases we extend our search parameters.”
“Apologies, sir, but temp is a preference, not a restriction.”
The woman’s eyes flicked aside, to her own interact screen where Shadia’s partially filled form would be displayed. Her demeanor cooled, enough to give Shadia that same prickly unease she got any time she stepped out of duster turf and into perm areas. “Shadia,” the woman said, pronouncing it wrong, shad-iya instead of shah-diya.
Shadia didn’t correct her.
“Shadia,” the woman said, wrong again. “Why are you applying for work on Toklaat?”
I have the feeling you know. No doubt the woman had instantly called up all of Shadia’s Toklaat-based records. “Med-debt, sir,” said Shadia. Damn perm. They thought themselves so superior, with their airs about commitment and stability and dependability. Dusters thought them staid and boring and knew better than to expect permanence from any part of their lives.