Milky Way Marmalade

by Mike DiCerto

  Caffrey discovered quickly that he had a knack for guitar-playing, and his powerful yet lyrical work was backed beautifully by Dave Coping's eclectic bass riffs, Al Petre's whimsical keyboards, Sam Jennit's potent drums and Russ O'Reilly's unique vocals. The band had gelled from the very first meeting, each member falling head over heels for Caffrey's wonderfully trippy lyrics and the peculiar, unexplainable otherworldly quality of this sparkling-eyed man who claimed to be from the Salisbury Hills region of England—which was, of course, the truth. Caffrey decided to leave out the thirteen-century difference in their birth dates.

  A high-pitched “Yip!” echoed down the twisting staircase of the walk-up. Yin, a little white mutt believed to be a West Highland Terrier and Caffrey's number-one favorite animal in the Milky Way, was able to detect his master's approach from as far as two blocks away. Rescued dripping with heating oil from the depths of an exposed pipe on the corner of Sixth and Bleeker, Yin had become Caffrey's best non-human friend.

  "How's my wee potato?” Caffrey asked the excited dog, rubbing his head and rump intermittently as Yin spun like a top out of control.

  The apartment was typical Lower East Side tenement design with its over-painted woodwork, exposed cast-iron radiators and cracked-and-worn plank floors. Numerous plants in various pots sat on the windowsills, showing off the green thumb Caffrey had developed since his arrival. The furnishings were simple and nondescript, collected a la carte from local thrift shops, and included an antique Victrola he had refurbished to a mint-condition shine. On more than one occasion, he would find Yin staring into the large brass horn and was never quite sure if he were stalking a mouse or suffering delusions of RCA grandeur.

  Caffrey grabbed an ice-cold Rheingold and retired to his bedroom, where his pillow waited along with The Late Late Show on his tiny black-and-white television. He yawned, and Yin, sitting at his feet, gaped his own mouth in response. Before either could yawn again, they were asleep.

  * * * *

  He opened his eyes. The apartment was dark, but his nose rose to the task and twitched, sensing something in the air.

  "Yip!” came the muffled call of Yin from out of the dark.

  Caffrey clicked on the light.

  "What the hell?” he sputtered, looking at the foot of his bed. “Shit!"

  Thick vines snaked around furniture and across the walls, ending in three large heads like those of a tremendous version of the carnivorous pitcher plant. Another pitiful yelp came from somewhere inside the vegetable intruders.

  "Yin!"

  "Yip! Yip!” Yin cried, the outline of his little body pressing against the interior of the monster's mouth.

  Caffrey ducked the lunge of one of the trio and dove under the bed. He came up with the S-77 blaster and privately patted himself on the shoulder for holding on to that particular piece of hardware. The plant reacted like a martial arts master. Two vines shot at the weapon and grabbed hold. Caffrey held firm as another vine slid up and around his crotch and, to his dismay, tightened. He dropped Willy.

  "Yip-yap!"

  "Hang in there, Yin my pooch! The Quark bloodline is in mortal danger at the moment!"

  Grabbing hold of the thinner portion of the vine, he twisted and bent the fibrous rope until he managed to lower the loop to a less essential part of his anatomy. A large empty scotch bottle that sat as a bookend on a nearby shelf presented itself as a solution. Caffrey, held back by the tension of the vine, threw his body at the shelf and, using the tips of two fingers like a pair of tongs, snatched the bottle by its neck. Books crashed to the floor in an avalanche of National Geographics, esoteric texts and miscellaneous beat writings. He smashed the bottle on the bedpost and aimed the dagger of glass at the neck of the guilty head. The other two jumped to the defense of their mate.

  "Gotcha!” cried Caffrey as the glass did quite a nice job decapitating one of the three.

  He backhanded a second, snapping it with a neat cracking sound, then sent a wicked left hook across the chlorophyll-engorged puss of the third, in which Yin waited for his freedom with growing impatience.

  "Yip-yip-yip!” the dog pleaded.

  Caffrey shoved his hands into the mouth of the canine-consuming green beast but retracted them instantly.

  "Don't bite me, you ungrateful mutt!"

  "Yip! Yip!” apologized Yin.

  Taking the upper and lower jaw in each hand he used every ounce of his strength to split the remaining head in half as another vine wrapped around his stomach. A powerful thrust tossed Caffrey against the window, through which, despite the absorbing quality of his current activities, he spotted a cloaked figure standing in the pool of streetlight below. A shadow. An almost mythic cliché.

  The vine yanked again, and as Caffrey spun around, his eye caught a glint of metal. The S-77 poked out from under the radiator. He grabbed the weapon and sent a blast of red lightning at the stalk just below the neck. The head launched into the air, careened off the ceiling and landed on the bed like a decapitated horse. A confused and bruised Yin yipped and yapped then crawled out between the clenched lips of his dead captor, his fur matted with plant goop. The vines around Caffrey's body fell limp.

  The two stared at each other and at the plant parts scattered about the room. There was a long moment while they caught their respective breaths. Yin growled softly at the window, and Caffrey recalled the figure outside. He rushed to take a gander.

  "Well, who have we here, Yin?"

  Yin jumped up on the sill and growled again.

  "Wait here, buddy, I'll be right back."

  He threw on his bathrobe and slippers and rushed out the door.

  It looked like a scene from a thousand spy movies. The figure, a man of average height, stood half-lit in the bluish-white pool of streetlight, dressed in a hat and raincoat that appeared to be a size too big. He continued to stare at the window of Caffrey's apartment, his face covered by his raised collar. Caffrey, watching from the dark crypt of his front hallway, carefully opened the front door, hoping not to be betrayed by the ancient hinges. A squeal of non-lubricated metal crushed his hopes. The figure's attention snapped towards him.

  "Hey! You!” Caffrey called out, tossing his attempt at stealth out into the dawn air.

  The man vanished. At least, so it seemed as he turned and shot off so fast Caffrey had only an eye-blink's chance to catch which direction he'd gone.

  "Bugger."

  He trotted off towards Second Avenue, trying hard not to step out of his soft, floppy slippers.

  The first hints of the sun had taken the pitch from the night sky. The streets were desolate, and Caffrey's once-sharp hunter's eye had atrophied. Some of the more obvious clues that would have never escaped his notice in the past stood naked all about him, their proverbial tongues wagging at him in mocking jest: a scattering of dust, a disturbed blade of grass growing in the cracks and a cockroach crushed under the foot of the fleeing mystery man.

  Caffrey noticed none of it. His gut instincts, however, were sharp as ever, and they led him to the cast-iron gate one block south.

  It was a place few New Yorkers knew existed. Located beyond the gated alley off Second Avenue between Second and Third streets, the Marble City Cemetery hid within the city square that enclosed it. Caffrey stood outside the old wrought-iron gate and peered in.

  A misty, early-morning sunlight dusted the rich greens of the grasses and trees beyond the dark alley. The gate was secured by a rusted padlock; and Caffrey, by an odd quirk of human behavior, tugged at it as if some bizarre occurrence in the quantum realm would cause the steel mechanisms to melt away and fall open. The lock's devices remained tightly held, and as he let his hand fall away he was nicked by a sharp spur of metal protruding from one of the gate's bars. He pondered the little drop of blood dripping down the gate and sucked his finger. He had no clue what was transpiring. He walked home.

  Five minutes later, the cloaked figure appeared at the end of the alleyway and approached the gate. A single blue metallic fing
er reflecting the streetlight in subtle streaks of orange touched the globule of Caffrey's blood. Using a built-in vacuum system, the blood was sucked in. The figure turned and walked off.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Crystal Ship

  The days are bright and filled with pain.

  Enclose me in your gentle rain.

  The time you ran was too insane.

  We'll meet again, we'll meet again.

  The Doors

  Caffrey spent most of the next day cleaning up the carcass of the dead vine. Yin appeared to have suffered no long-term effects from his Jonah-like experience and paid the battlefield of Caffrey's bedroom no more than an occasional passing sniff of interest.

  After a careful study of the massacre site, the leaves, vine-segments, pulp and heads were all cut, tied in bundles, bagged and discarded a few blocks away. Caffrey had determined, to his utter confusion, that the killer plants had roots leading to a pot containing a simple aloe vera. He was sure planet Earth, despite all its psychotic forms of life at the top end of the food chain, was not prone to violent vegetation—at least none the size of the previous night's intruders.

  His mind was avoiding one other little detail that filled his heart with an annoying and rarely felt sense of dread. Who would have sneaked a deadly plant in to attack him? Who would have had access? Dismissing the chance that a windblown seed had traveled umpteen light-years and landed in his flower pot as rather silly—even in his often-absurd universe—he mentally catalogued those who would like to see him devoid of life.

  There weren't many. Enemies were not something Caffrey Quark made easily. He was, often to a fault, an amiable SOB. Friends or, at worst, acquaintances were easier on the stomach. Enemies required too large of an investment of bile; and since Caffrey despised the feeling of a sour gut, he kept his circle friendly and saved a fortune on antacid.

  Yet someone had planted the vine. He tossed Yin a suspicious glance, chuckled to himself and carefully examined the windows, fire escape and rooftop for signs of a possible intruder. There were none.

  * * * *

  Marmalade Skies was halfway through their second set in the basement of the Crimson Court Pub. Caffrey, deep in the solo of “Cosmodellic Cocoon,” was sending swarms of notes over the moderate crowd like colorful butterflies.

  A soft “Yip!” sounded behind him. He turned and spotted Yin, tail wagging furiously, standing in the doorway to the backstage area. The dog turned and scampered off. Dumbfounded, Caffrey finished his solo and waited for Dave to begin his bass riff then exited stage left on the motion of a Townsendesque pinwheel.

  The backstage area was empty, and a slice of red light from the exit sign fell from the door opening into a rear alley. Caffrey placed his guitar onto the thick cushions of a sofa and stepped outside. The dog yipped again and ran off.

  "What the hell are you doing, mutt?” He trotted after him.

  The alley joined Avenue C just off Sixth Street. The area, famous for its population of transients, was quiet, as is often the case when autumn begins to add bite to the breeze. Caffrey spotted Yin standing diagonally across the empty street, apparently waiting for eye contact. When contact was made, the dog took off.

  "Yin! Damn you! I have an encore to play!"

  The dog led his master on a virtual leash for five blocks, finally stopping in his tracks and sitting on his haunches under FDR Drive. Panting little puffs of doggy breath, Yin sat patiently until Caffrey came breathlessly up beside him. He took off again, heading for the river.

  Across an overpass, down the ramp and onto a dilapidated pier ran the little Westie, finally jumping atop a wooden piling where he waited for his master in a seagull-like pose.

  "What in God's name are you doing, you flea-ridden excuse for a lifeform?"

  Yin was panting, but a glaze in his eyes and batting of his tail seemed to illustrate the dog was mighty pleased with himself.

  With the exception of the incessant drone of autos on the highway, the dock was quiet and desolate. The wind blowing off the East River had a wonderful, toothy smile. Caffrey closed his eyes and let the breeze kiss his face then took Yin in his arms. The dog stared at an old shack that had once served as ticket office for a dinner boat and growled in his most sinister voice.

  Caffrey strolled across and peeked in through the dirty, cracked window then tested the door's padlock. Once again, quirks in the quantum realm refused to play locksmith.

  "The door is locked,” said a figure, cloaked in the shadows and dressed in an oversized black London Fog raincoat, black derby, Italian silk scarf and expensive sunglasses.

  "Evidently, that is the purpose of this device,” quipped Caffrey, the padlock still in his grip, mildly annoyed he hadn't seen the figure standing so close.

  "Apparently,” agreed the figure. “I have met many locks in my days. I've often wondered if locks got lonely. If locks ever pondered their purpose. Whether or not locks ever needed love."

  Moody and richly textured music accompanied every word he spoke, accenting rather than impeding the odd figure's diction.

  "Who are you?"

  The figure stepped out of the shadows, and the ambient light shone off the soft, skin-like blue metal of his face with peculiar orange accents in the ridges and peaks of his bone structure.

  "An android?"

  "Yes. I am Poe 33. And I have been tracking you across the oceans of space and landscapes of time,” replied the blue-and-orange android. The odd musical soundtrack continued to augment his tone.

  Caffrey looked around. “Where the heck is that music coming from?"

  "From me. It helps communicate my mood to those of lesser intellects. And, if I may say so, it adds to my intriguing and wondrous personality."

  Caffrey couldn't care less. “Why are you tracking me?"

  "You are Quark Caffrey?"

  "Some people call me Caffrey Quark."

  "Then it is you I needed to find."

  "Why?” A certain impatience tensed Caffrey's fingers into claws. Yin, apparently bored with the conversation, began noisily preening his genitals.

  "You are in danger."

  "Oh, really? Why would that concern you?"

  "Because you have the blood of my maker."

  Yin ended his toilette abruptly.

  "Uh-huh,” Caffrey muttered, sharing an amused look with the dog.

  "I wouldn't have traveled so far across the Cosmos to pull a jest, Quark Caffrey. I am perhaps the most important artificial lifeform in the galaxy, perchance the universe. I can ill afford such wanton wastes of time."

  "What makes you so special, Mr. Poe 33?"

  "Please, if you insist on addressing me with a modifying title then I would prefer the correct one. Portsmith Poe 33."

  "Portsmith?” Caffrey chuckled with a brutally honest, mocking tone.

  "I wish I could laugh self-effacingly at such a notion,” Poe 33 confided, with a sad backing track, “But, alas, I am it. I have failed my master. I have become separated from the Great and Wise One."

  "L'Orange?"

  "If you must use the vulgar moniker, yes."

  Caffrey studied the android a moment. “So, why me?"

  "Is the short-term memory capacity of humans defunct? I believe I already answered that question."

  "'The blood of your maker.’ What the hell does that mean?"

  "Simple. I have been programmed to seek out the closest blood relative of my maker should I ever be separated from the One."

  "Greppledick Quark,” intoned Caffrey in a distant voice.

  "Yes. Do you know him?"

  Caffrey shook his head and walked to the edge of the dock. Ghosts from his distant-future-past were not what he had desired when he made his decision to live on twentieth-century Earth. All the space-faring relatives, bizarre alien creatures and other oddities that jumped planet-to-planet were wonderfully missing on his troubled but relatively simple home.

  Caffrey's life had been reduced to the basics: Rock music, dirty but breat
hable air, simple but satisfying food, modest but effective shelter, warm companionship and just enough sex and mind-altering substances to make it all balance. It was the perfect existence for a man who'd spent quite enough time filling his journal with very bizarre entries.

  Poe 33 stepped up behind him as Yin kept a watchful eye on the proceedings.

  "Were you killed in the last few days?” the android asked, with the utmost sincerity.

  Caffrey turned with a baffled smile. “Was I killed?"

  "Yes. By a woman with purple eyes. A beautiful woman. Although I do not yet understand the role of beauty in terms of the ritualistic sexual practices of humans, she does seem to have it."

  "No, I wasn't killed."

  "That's a relief."

  "You were outside my window. The night my aloe plant did its Manson imitation."

  "Yes. I followed her. She climbed the staircase on the exterior of your building and fed your sweet and innocent plant a drink of BenZaline 20."

  "BenZaline 20?"

  "A chemical that renders plants psychotic killers,” Poe 33 explained, the music rising to the occasion. “Ferns will attain poison leaves. Sweet little posies, vulgar language. Cactus, high-powered, high-caliber spikes that can penetrate the engine block of a generation transport ship. I once witnessed an army of giant red-leaf spruces attack a village on Goriplic 6 like a hoard of Berserkers."

  "Who is this purple-eyed woman?"

  Poe 33's brow furrowed. “Can we have kippers for breakfast, Mommy dear, Mommy dear?"

  "Huh?"

  "Excuse me,” the android murmured sadly, closing his eyes.

  His face went limp, the background music grinding to a warped stop like a record on a turntable unplugged mid-song. Caffrey's own brow furrowed as he studied the odd being.