Jump Starting the Universe

by John David Buchanan

  “I think I’ll turn in,” offered Nita, “maybe the front desk would put us in our previous rooms, Amelia and I had a great room.”

  “Yeah, Wayne jump kicked the door into splinters the last time we were here but I’ll bet it’s exactly the way it was,” commented Mark.

  “I think I’ll go see,” said Nita, who signed for the tab for dinner and made to stand up. Everyone joined her and they all trouped to the front desk where they were given the exact same rooms.

  Mark sat down in a chair next to the window looking out over the park while Wayne laid down on the bed. “Wayne, do you have any idea what our next move should be?” said Mark. “Wayne?” Mark looked over his shoulder to see Wayne fully dressed and sound asleep on the far bed. “Good idea,” he thought as he stood up and changed his clothes for bed.

  Blasting around the universe, or universes, had its fun times, in fact it was an absolute thrill ride. But it was also taxing in the times between the fun and conversation because when their minds had time to slow down and think there were no answers. When there was a brief pause, not one of them could see a pathway home. It was disturbing, disturbing to the point of being exhausting at times. Wayne was not the kind of person you would describe as delicate and yet there he was, knocked out on the bed fully clothed as if he had just returned from an epic battle and narrowly escaped with his life. They were going to have to address it. They were going to have to bring it out in the open, lay it bare and open for discussion, or the idea that they might never return home would break them down slowly and constantly like waves breaking against the Cliffs of Moher, sooner or later something gives way and crumbles.

  The next morning everyone met for a late breakfast. Blackie who was last to the table asked the waiter if they happen to have Gavalkian coffee. “Sorry sir, we don’t,” came the waiter’s reply, “I’ve never even seen Gavalkian coffee; I think it is very rare. But ours is good. Shall I bring you a cup?”

  “Bring a carafe,” said Blackie, “and some of whatever that is,” pointing to Amelia’s plate. Blackie sat down and looking up immediately noticed a waiter escorting someone or something to their seats at the adjacent table. They were translucent and squared off, literally. Their heads were squared; their shoulders were three quarters of a meter wide and perfectly squared off. Their thin arms were like two rectangles that actuated in the middle where an elbow should be and their legs looked exactly like their arms only longer and ended in rectangular feet. One of them turned to sit down in his chair and Blackie noticed they were very thin, maybe three centimeters thick. He overheard them thank the waiter then order Cosillico water. Their voices were not like spoken words but rather like slow, sweet music wafting in from a distance. A waiter returned with Blackie’s coffee and breakfast and noticed him transfixed by the occupants of the next table.

  While bending to pour Blackie’s cup he whispered, “Perlucidians,” then he straightened and asked if they required anything else. Blackie didn’t hear his question; he was trying not to stare but couldn’t help himself. His eyes would stray to the window overlooking the park or some random part of the restaurant and immediately find their way back to the adjacent table. He was drinking coffee and eating his breakfast without really being aware that he was doing it. The Perlucidians were discussing something and their conversations wove together like a symphony. No one else at the table seemed to notice. Amelia and Nita were looking at the park and discussing the beautiful trees and the excellent walking paths.

  Mark and Wayne were in a heated deliberation over how to end a particular song the band had been practicing; Mark resisted the notion of a quick cut-off and persisted in the idea that a long drawn out end would heighten everyone’s expectations of the end and therefore would have more impact. Wayne said that was nonsense. Mark claimed to have the psychological upper hand. Wayne pointed out that Mark had never had a class in psychology, or more to the point, had never studied psychology even if he had been in a psychology class. Mark said Wayne’s comments were irrelevant. Wayne pointed out the Mark’s claim that the audiences would have a heightened expectation implied he understood crowd psychology therefore understood the psychological implications of the different song endings and how the crowd would perceive each one. Mark returned fire by naming song after song, live versions, not studio rubbish, which achieved exactly what he described. Wayne’s returning salvo was a list of songs that ended abruptly, and also to a huge ovation from the audience. They were both silent for a moment and at the same time said, “Your right.” Mark grinned wide and one side of Wayne’s mouth may have edged up just slightly. He’s a bass player you know. Anyway, they agreed to try both endings with different audiences in different size venues to test each other’s theory.

  Blackie would normally be listening intently to Mark and Wayne’s diatribe, sitting just out of punching range in the event he offered an opinion. But at the moment he was musically absorbed; he was unconsciously focused on something else, something musical.

  None of the others noticed the translucent beings sitting two meters away or the evocative sound of their voices. Blackie was sitting with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth as if he had been frozen, his eyes had a faraway look, but his mind was racing – he understood what they were saying, how was that possible? The musical sound didn’t convey their meanings with abruptness like most languages but with subtlety, with an elegant beauty he had always thought must be the language of elves. In fact each word only had meaning within the context of the sounds around it, as if they were all part of a magnificent symphonic suite.

  “I understand,” he said quietly to no one.

  “Good,” said Mark thinking Blackie had just agreed with their decision to test long and short endings of the band’s new song. The musical sounds continued to no one’s notice except Blackie. “You must be favorable to his request and reply,” said one of the Perlucidians.

  “I simply cannot,” said the second, “it was not our agreement and I am bound to the outcome of our mutual understanding.”

  “Zypho is not concerned with the agreement,” said the first Perlucidian.

  “Zypho is also not Perlucidian, Mikna, you know this, and you also know he engaged in the pact with me voluntarily and such an accord is not negotiable.”

  Mikna looked across the table momentarily then responded, “Zypho will have his way, and you must learn that things change and you must change with them.”

  The response came quickly, “Some things should not change. A pledge is not some casual happenstance that may be changed or negotiated on a whim. You should appreciate this.” Mikna hesitated once again then stared across the table, “you give me no choice.”

  “What would you have me do?” came the response.

  Blackie sensed a change while their conversation continued. The dialogue was different, when Mikna talked. The music was dissonant and with each exchange between the Perlucidians it became more discordant; it had suddenly become dark, unnatural and uncomfortable. Mikna stood suddenly.

  Blackie seemed to understand what was happening before it happened, “No,” he shouted. Then several things happened all at once. Mikna had placed his hand against the left side of his chest, retrieved a small rectangular shape and brought it sweeping across the table to point it at his cohort. Wayne followed Blackie’s eyes to the adjacent table. Whatever the device was Mikna had activated it and Blackie grabbed his ears in a vain attempt to mute a deafening roar heard by none of the others except Mikna and his colleague. Whatever the beam was it hit its mark with a sharp audible report. The Perlucidian was briefly suspended in a latticework of pulsing red threads then melted into an almost clear puddle on the floor. Mikna turned toward Blackie as Wayne stood quickly and placed his foot on his chair.

  “No witnesses,” said Mikna harshly.

  The music was black and became overwhelming. Blackie pushed away from the table with his eyes wide, like he had just slipped off the edge of a cliff, while Wayne sensing something was wrong stepped
into his chair and already had one foot on top of the table. Mikna swung his arm toward Blackie as Wayne reached the table top and launched himself. Mikna’s arm came to a halt with the small rectangular device pointed directly at Blackie’s chest. Blackie grabbed his ears in pain and rolled out of his chair toward Mark just as the report sounded. Mark watched the chair melt as both of Wayne’s feet hit Mikna in the chest and bowled him over. Nita screamed and pushed Amelia to the floor as Mark rounded the table and dove on top of Mikna trying to pin his right hand and disarm him. Wayne got to his feet as Mikna rolled to break free and Mark rolled with him, not letting go. Wayne pounced and as he flattened him to the ground Mikna tried to yank his hand out of Mark’s grip and the weapon discharged. It was as if everything went into slow motion, an unnatural state where a few seconds seemed to play out like hours. Wayne looked at Mark for some sign that he had been injured while Mark returned the same gaze. Blackie grabbing his ears had come around the table and was almost to Mark. Nita and Amelia had hit the floor and Amelia raised her head just in time to see Mikna suspended in a latticework of pulsing red threads. As she tried to gain her feet he melted into a puddle on the floor adjacent to where Blackie now stood.

  “Mark are you alright” Wayne said looking at the puddle.

  “Fine, not a scratch I think.”

  “Blackie are you okay?” he asked. Blackie was just lowering his hands from his ears, a bit of blood was on the palm of his left hand, “I think I’m okay.”

  It was then that they became aware of the pandemonium in the restaurant. Patrons were trying to squeeze through the exit door while security was trying to enter. Waiters had dove to the ground at the sound of the weapon’s first report and were just getting up. A security guard made for Blackie who looked like he might be sick and helped him to a chair saying to Mark and Wayne, “Don’t touch that, get away from it,” as he pointed to the puddle on the floor.

  “Mark, are you sure you’re okay?” said Wayne.

  “Fine, fine,” replied Mark.

  “Amelia, Nita?” yelled Wayne.

  “Are you okay Nita?” she asked and Nita nodded, “We’re okay,” came the reply from Amelia who was sprawled on the floor.

  Wayne and Mark joined Blackie, “Are you sure you’re okay?” said Mark.

  There was no reply. “Blackie, are you okay?” said Wayne.

  Blackie looked up at them both and replied, “The music stopped.” The security guard turned to stare at Blackie. Blackie returned his stare then pointed at the puddle that was Mikna and said, “It looks like silicon.”

  “It is silicon,” said the guard, “stay away from it if you know what’s good for you,” and he walked off to meet the police officers who had just entered the room.

  Nita and Amelia made their way past the scraps of chair and stood next to Mark. “What was that all about,” asked Nita.

  “I don’t know,” replied Mark, “I didn’t even see them sitting there.”

  The wait staff had come from the kitchens to inspect the damage. “Don’t touch that,” yelled a policeman to a waiter who was considering whether to sweep up the silicon puddle. The two policeman and the security guard moved toward the group and Mark overheard the security guard say, “And the one seated there, replied, the music stopped,” as he nodded toward Blackie.

  The two policemen advanced on the group then one approached Blackie, “We need a word if you don’t mind,” said one officer, “maybe over there.”

  “Maybe right here or not at all,” said Mark who glowered at the officer, “you want to talk to him, fine, but we all stay together.”

  The officer started toward Mark but his partner put out an arm to stop him and said, “That’s fine, we need to discuss what happened and we can do it right here,” said Officer Thompson.

  The first policeman looked at Blackie and said, “Mr. Tomes the security guard said you stated the music had stopped.”

  “That’s right,” said Blackie.

  “What music?” asked Mark?

  “Please excuse my French,” said Wayne, “but could someone just tell us what the hell just happened here?”

  Officer Berk bristled, but Thompson cut him off and said, “They are Perlucidians,” pointing to the nearest puddle.

  “You mean they WERE Perlucidians,” stated Blackie.

  “That remains to be seen,” said Thompson, “if they reconstitute or not.”

  Wayne looked at Mark and said, “This is going to get weird, I can feel it, this is going to get really weird.”

  Thompson looked at Wayne and smiled, “Perlucidians are silicon based life forms. The weapon used was a matrix deconstructor. If either of them was wearing a Stage-2NL Shield they are still alive, just not in the same format. Years ago Perlucidians perfected a device that is capable of reconstituting their original form. If they weren’t wearing a Stage-2NL Shield then they can’t be reconstituted and are nothing more than a puddle of silicon gel, no more alive than that melted chair,” he finished pointing to the chair that had been blasted.

  “See,” said Wayne to Mark, “weirdness creeping out like mice at night in a granary.”

  “Yeah, said Officer Berk to Wayne, “but this time you and your buddy played the cat didn’t you.” Mark felt a little more at ease with Berk because of that comment, he was not sure why, but somehow he seemed okay now.

  “Do you feel up to telling us what you heard?” inquired Thompson as Officer Berk watched. Blackie ask a waiter to bring him something to drink and then relayed the entire story. “I can tell you that it is extremely rare that someone other than a Perlucidian can understand their language. People think it is just music playing somewhere or don’t hear it at all, which is why they felt comfortable having this conversation in public.”

  “I didn’t hear music,” said Mark.

  “Neither did I,” said Nita.

  “It’s subtle,” replied the officer, like the sound of a faint breeze I’m told. If you were focused on your own conversation you may not have noticed. Thompson pointed to one of the puddles and asked, “You are sure that one was named Mikna.”

  Blackie nodded his head, “Yes, his name was Mikna but the other one’s name was never mentioned.”

  “Well we may know his name soon enough, if he reconstitutes,” said Officer Berk.

  Thompson began again, “I can also tell you that it is extremely rare for a Perlucidian to be violent. I have been on the police force for fifteen years and I don’t’ recall one incident; it is not in their nature. However, Zypho, the man mentioned by Mikna is a known criminal of the worst kind; involved in every kind of bribe, back room deal, smuggling operation and suspected of murder and now for attempting murder by hired assassin. If anyone could turn a Perlucidian into a cold blooded assassin it would be Zypho. He is half Centorian which all but guarantees he is a formidable fighter, and from what I hear on the street he has a predisposition to violence without second thoughts and with no remorse. If it meant having Mikna kill all of you to protect a secret it wouldn’t have mattered to Zypho, he does as much business with a blade as he does with a contract.”

  Blackie looked to the opposite side of the adjacent table, “I feel bad for the other one. He seemed like an honest chap just wanting to fulfill a business commitment.”

  Thompson glanced at the silicon puddle on the floor and replied, “Perlucidians are very intelligent. That one knew who he was dealing with and I will not be surprised if he was wearing a shield and reconstitutes when we get him back to the station. The other one I’m not as sure about.”

  “Why is that?” asked Amelia who had been listening intently to everything that had been discussed.

  “Well he was with another Perlucidian so he had no reason to believe he was in danger. Mikna certainly didn’t anticipate someone overhearing the conversation and he wasn’t prepared to have to defend himself against an intervention, it seems he only had one weapon. On the other hand, he was representing Zypho, so there is also reason to believe he might have
been wearing a shield to protect himself from his own boss. We could end up with two very good witnesses if everything goes well at the station.”

  “As for you lot,” began Officer Berk, “Thompson here has Blackie’s statement and I can attest to the veracity of its contents so I’ll give you some unofficial advice. Leave. Zypho is not one to leave loose ends lying about and he can ill afford five corroborating witnesses to an assassination, or assassination attempt. Thompson merely nodded in agreement. “The sooner you leave here the safer you will be,” finished Berk,” and don’t be traced,” he added.

  Wayne went to the front desk, checked them out of their rooms and left a handsome tip for the maître d’ and his staff. They met up at the Nomad.

  “I packed all your things Wayne,” said Mark as he handed Wayne his bag.

  “Just up the street is a small store,” said Nita, “why don’t Mark and I purchase a few supplies while you load the bags.” Nita and Mark made for the store immediately and in no time had half a cart full of items. As they approached the counter a rough looking man entered the store.

  “I hear there was some excitement at the Phoenix Hotel today,” he said to the clerk.

  “I hadn’t heard,” said the clerk motioning Nita to come to the counter.

  “Where exactly is the hotel?” said the man, “I have an acquaintance who was supposed to have lunch there and I would like to check on him.”

  The clerk pointed up the street, “Just up there.”

  “Ah, yes,” said the man, “I’ll just use the loo and be off.”

  “Bum fodder is in the cabinet,” said the clerk. The man turned and walked toward the rear of the store.

  Mark noticed the tip of a blade protruding from beneath the back of his overcoat. “We need to hurry Nita, said Mark.

  The clerk overheard him and rang up the items quickly, “Late for an engagement are you?”

  Mark grabbed the packages as Nita paid the bill, “We will be if we don’t hurry.” He grabbed Nita’s arm and pulled her away from the counter, “Thanks,” he said to the clerk.