by Mike DiCerto
"I will never become Nefarious!"
"But you just said..."
"I said I am what he is until I am what he is not and thus will be. This and I and all of us are only Nefarious because Nefarious is. When he is no longer than I will no longer be and will be whom I intend. Then all will be me."
For a moment Caffrey considered asking Poe 33 to blast his brains out with a good shot from his air cannon. Instead, he took a deep breath and turned to Peebo. “Peebo, what do you make of this?"
Peebo danced.
"He said, and I quote, ‘Nice thing in cave makes me smile,'” translated Poe, with obvious disgust.
"Terrific."
Caffrey gathered his own fleshy logic circuits, all sputtering and melting, and formulated another question.
"As a collective whole, who or what are you?"
"Nefarious Wretch,” replied dozens of voices in unison.
"And when the born Nefarious Wretch dies, who or what will the collective whole become?"
"We will become me,” the Fleebeest explained.
Caffrey was beginning to get it and nodded approvingly. “Thus, when you are born, the whole will become you and you will set out to recreate the galaxy devoid of loose change?"
"Now you are learning."
"Is there a name, a zoological or official designation for such a being?"
Angie interrupted. “Yes, there is. This is a Dopplerspangler."
"Nonsense!” the voices protested.
"Hush!” Angie scolded the pulsing being, and all of its sprouting sub-beings. She continued her explanation. “A rare, incredibly intelligent lifeform that communicates using trans-species harmonic-holography."
"Like Spydersloth,” recalled Caffrey.
"Yes. Dopplerspanglers lock onto floating debris, asteroids, large spacecraft, what-have-you, where they construct their cocoon. Here the core grows and then spawns hundreds of beings, each representing the various biological types of the galactic region in which it resides. Each is given an allotted time to command the central core of intelligence for purposes of making a name for itself, to find love, happiness, fame or infamy. Quite a number of historical figures were born of the Dopplerspangler."
"Such as?” Caffrey doubted that little piece of trivia.
Angie squashed his doubts. “Such as Hirika Joso the restaurant magnate. General Fesn Ingni of the Philosopher Guild Army of Bliss fame. Grand Marshall of the thousand-mile-long Rampart Parade and all-round nice guy Zein Ostogloth and poet laureate of the Belgrupa region, Iiioyan Oohwa.
"You hear that?” Caffrey shouted to the Dopplerspangler. “Poets! Philosophers! Nice guys! You're producing nothing but angry madmen! Explain yourself!"
"We are not! It is the I that is!” came the chorus.
Caffrey had had enough. “Well, whoever that is had better become un-pissed fast! There's a squadron of heavily armed craft of the Order to Harmonize Eternal Reality ready to destroy you in mere hours. You'd better become music fans quick!"
The Fleebeest was quick with a snappy retort. “Disharmony was Nefarious's little fetish. Don't wash that dish in our sink. He's so melodramatic, having us all speak his alternating words for his ‘oh, so disharmonious’ effect."
"But you are Nefarious."
"We are only Nefarious because Nefarious is so. I thought you understood?"
"But the root of Nefarious is angry. Hateful."
"We are not the root. We are the I of the they individually and the they of the I collectively."
"Then the I is angry and hateful."
"We cannot control the I. We can only be the they of the I."
Caffrey stepped back into the tube to get some air. Once again his head was ready to pop like a ripe zit. He had to ponder air. Empty boxes. Large fish tanks with crystal water but no fish. Boring days with fresh, white, scribble-free calendars. Anything to clear his painfully tormented mind.
He had run a mental marathon of late. His head hurt; and yet strangely, very strangely, he was beginning to understand it all. He was becoming concerned how such utter nonsense could make sense. He suspected the L'Orange was silently watching, nudging him along. He stepped back to the edge and addressed the Dopplerspangler.
"Can the I feel what the I of the they feels?"
"The I of the they is nothing but a reflection of the I."
"I'll take that as a yes.” Caffrey smiled. “Poe, Angie, Peebo. Let's get out of here before someone, presumably me, or the I of the me, or the me of the bloody I, commits hara-kiri."
Caffrey directed Peebo to backtrack them to the rear of the giant interstellar cruise ship. They entered the space liner through the aft engine cone and found themselves in a large, oily room. Treading carefully across the slick surface, they discovered a door leading through a toolshed, through a corridor of spare parts and finally out and into a ridiculously long hall.
The corridor was immense. Ceilings vanished up into a haze of black; and the walls, widely spaced, marched down to a pin-like vanishing point seemingly kilometers away. On each side of the hall, small windows, glowing soft colors, lined the way in a perfect proportioned order. And there was that heartbeat again, that pounding engine. Apparently, the pulse of the Dopplerspangler, while steady, wasn't the source of the sound.
The strange engine was at work.
The windows, it was soon discovered, were on doors, each marked by a number and a small nametag printed in a language that Caffrey did not understand. Poe 33 studied the writing on the nearest door.
"It reads Wanila Wensiwisk."
"Fellas,” Angie interrupted, “there's someone inside. Peek through the window."
Caffrey peered in, his face turning yellow from the light pouring out. Sure enough, just visible in the hazy glow was a female Wyrrikin, her long leathery body outstretched on a window seat as she read a book. The room itself was small but comfy, furnished with wicker and lace. Lush plants and flowers were placed about, and the yellow light poured in from the window opposite the door.
"Looks sort of like my parents’ bed and breakfast."
"Should we knock?” Angie asked.
"Why don't you?” suggested Poe 33.
"Because I have no hands, my almighty but occasionally daft android."
Caffrey looked up and down the hall then knocked in the universally known, almost mystical, “Shave and a Haircut.” It was only a moment before the thud-thud response sounded. The door opened, and the tall Wyrrikin stood smiling warmly before them.
"Wikki wikki,” she greeted.
"Wikki wikki,” Poe 33 replied, acting as the envoy. “Wooko wenda wuwu?"
"Wi wunda wenda,” she stated.
"What are you saying?” Caffrey asked.
"I asked her what she is doing here. She says she lives here."
"What is this place?” Caffrey asked.
Poe 33 did the translation and the being replied, “Weg wul wunda wenda. Wasata weewee woog. Wilnoga winwini wigwwip. Wellip woowoo Wefarious Wretch wowya wanai wanai wis wis wirona."
"She says that they all live here. They have been brought to serve Nefarious Wretch by being in a state of slight annoyance."
"Slight annoyance?"
"Wee wanapy we Wyrrikin weg wawa we wup woo we woo. Wutwawasa woco woco wirona."
"She says her room and board are rather comfortable, in fact, better than on her home world. She just has to deal with light that is brighter than Wyrikkin eyes prefer."
"Why?"
"Wewe?” asked Poe 33.
"Wis waza waz wet wirona wa."
"This engine is powered by the energy produced by annoyance."
"Is she here against her will?"
"Wa wu wippy wa wilusa?"
The Wyrikkin went on to explain that, while she wasn't officially a prisoner, she had no possible way to get back to her world, currently amongst the imprisoned planets floating beyond the dome. She was one of two million slightly annoyed guests of Nefarious Wretch, and they provided a large portion of the energy requi
red to run the enigmatic engine.
Not wanting to further annoy the already slightly annoyed Wyrikkin, Poe 33 apologized for the interruption and let the being go back to her slightly impeded reading. The trio investigated a half-dozen other beleaguered guests of Nefarious. There was no apparent rhyme or reason to the order of the prisoners nor any clue as to how they could track down an individual, or in the case of Caffrey, four individuals.
"Angie, there must be a central computer that controls this operation."
"I'm sorry, my slightly annoyed love-dove. I have found nothing of the sort. Other than the incessant hum, there is no sign of any technology."
Caffrey stroked his chin. “It could take years to search all these rooms!"
"At least, Quark Caffrey. I could calculate the exact amount of time, taking into account the permutations and combinations of search procedure as well as the odds of finding your friends within the first twelve hours of searching. I may come up with a surprising figure!"
"What about you, Peebo? Any idea how we can locate my friends?"
Peebo bounced up and down and shot like a bullet down the corridor, leaving a trail of red persistence of vision behind like a crimson comet's tail. Moments later the red blip grew large until Peebo was back at their side like a panting dog. He communicated his findings with a little boogie-woogie tushie-shaking. Poe 33 did the translating.
"He says your friends are not on this level. He scanned every room. Bloody show-off. Says he would be glad to double check."
Caffrey shook his head. He knew exactly what he needed to try. He walked to a quiet, shadowy corner and put himself into a poor excuse for a lotus position. He closed his eyes.
"That's it, my sweet Zen zwieback. You do it!” Angie hovered protectively.
Caffrey began with a salutation of the first thing that popped into his head. The essence of French toast and coffee with a dash of anisette wafted from his mind. It was the result of the free association game his mind played with the memories of his friends. Russ loved French toast. Sam flipped over coffee with anisette. He waited for a reply; and when none came, the smell of a flickering movie projector and the taste of bad cinema fell into his mind. He routed them outward. Nothing came back. Blackness filled the inner screen. His third eye had its lens cap on tight.
He tried again, attempting to relax and not force the thoughts. He focused on his breathing. The breath. The time and space between each breath. Nothing. No lovely teal with gold trim—nothing. This was the stereotypical “black as coal at midnight sans lights cannot see hand in front of face whilst blindfolded sheath of ethereal pitch.” No matter how deep his breathing, focused his thoughts or far out of the box his mind, it all remained devoid of information or inspiration.
Caffrey opened his eyes and looked up at Poe 33.
"Nothing?"
"Nada."
* * * *
They followed another long hall and traversed staircases that grew increasingly odorous with a vitriolic noxiousness of unknown origin. Down, down, down through black-lit passageways that reminded Caffrey of the places in Nefarious's mind he'd visited. His ears began to vibrate with each pounding of the engine and his heart fell in rhythm with the beats.
A guitar chord sounded and he screeched to a halt. A song was playing. Soft strumming and muted singing.
It was coming from Poe 33.
"Poey?” Angie inquired.
"What are you singing?” Caffrey hadn't expected this.
"I have written a song,” announced the Portsmith to the Wisest Substance.
"I see,” Caffrey said, forcing a smile. While certainly stunned at the news, and feeling quite an amount of admiration for the artistic endeavor of the normally reserved android, he wondered about his timing.
"Would you like to hear it?” asked Poe.
"Uh, sure, Poe. But do you think this is the time for songwriting?"
"I believe this is the exact time. Here it is.” Poe 33 sounded a harmonica to set his proper pitch, cleared his throat—though of what, Caffrey hadn't a clue—then began the song.
Socks are like clocks. Not something to mock.
On the feet of a jock. Or to keep warm one's cock.
A sock is a sock is a sock.
Angie swallowed her guffaw, and Caffrey became deeply concerned that another, really powerful scrambler had been installed in the poor android.
"It's no ‘A Day in the Life,’ but it's a start,” he said, trying to be nice.
"Ever since you first communicated with my Master, I have been trying to understand how I, as perfect as I am, could step out of the cosmic box. I began pondering the music that so inspired you. I was doing a complete analysis of the song that transformed you into pure music—'The Staircase to the Heavens.’”
"'Stairway to Heaven'—never mind. Go ahead, Poe."
"I cannot explain why, but there is something about the song that intrigues my deepest programming. Tickles my electronic fancy."
"You and a billion others."
"There is a line: ‘If there's a bustle in your hedgerow don't be alarmed now. It's just a spring clean for the May Queen.’ My losing connection with the Great Wise One has been a bustle in the hedgerow of my existence. And I have been greatly alarmed. But for naught! For the natural powers of the cosmic May Queen can simply use her broom and dustpan and clean up that ole nasty bustle!"
Caffrey listened and privately prayed that Poe 33 had a point beneath the dull sheath of his verbosity.
"The song poetically goes on to say ‘Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow and did you know your stairway lies on the whispering wind.’ The whispering wind! The subtle voice of all reality holds the answer. Is the answer. Is my Master! I had been spending so much processing time attempting to calculate ways to reestablish the quantum link that my ears had closed to the whispering wind."
"And what did the whispering wind tell you, Poe?"
"Socks."
"Socks,” Caffrey repeated.
"Socks?” asked Angie.
"Socks."
"What about socks?"
"Beats the living shit out of me, Flapjack,” confessed Poe, and he walked off.
Angie giggled. Caffrey rolled his eyes upwards and followed.
After a while they found themselves in an expansive room that must have served as one of the dining halls during the craft's days as a cruise liner. Eating troughs lined the walls while tables, broken and rotted, littered the center and feeding cages hung from the ceiling. Apparently, a varied collection of species frequented the ship.
The air was growing colder, the chill penetrating Caffrey's bones. Poe 33 led them across the room and into another winding corridor. The beat grew louder, clearer—they were even closer to the engine. As they walked, their surroundings grew colder, dirtier—a sad mix of leaking oil and rust. And darker. The air was scented with loss, hatred and anger. Caffrey felt as if he were surrounded by huge cockroaches, and ephemeral jittering shadows created by Peebo's light exploited his fears. Finally, they banked around a mess of fallen steel beams and discovered a door blocking their path. A locked door.
It was, in fact, the most locked door Caffrey had ever seen. There was a small window situated high up on it, barred with a tic-tac-toe pattern of iron rods rattling with the absolutely mind-numbing heart-pulse.
He turned to Poe. “Is this it?"
The android nodded. “Behind that door, I would gamble, is the current living form of the Dopplerspangler that is Nefarious Wretch."
"Who will have the honor of the first peek?” asked Angie, caution evident in her tone.
Caffrey stepped up to the door and had to stand on his toes to peer through the window. With an eyebrow raised, he studied the scene. Seconds later, he moved away.
"Sad, really,” was his only remark.
Angie took a peek.
"Pitiful. Utterly pitiful.” She moved away, too, taking up a position near Caffrey's left ear.
Nefarious Wretch looked like a human slapped
together by an impatient child. He was mere bones with the essential organs wrapped in a thin gauze of sickly yellow skin. His head was narrow and axe-like, and it sat upon a thin neck four times the length of a human's. His nose was somewhat elephantine, and hung to just below his pointy chin.
He sat before a bank of ancient equipment appearing as though it came from the shop of a Victorian metalworker. The room was more like a cell, containing only the barest of essentials—a cot, a table, a chair and a chest of drawers. A dirty glass cylinder, large enough to hold a full-size human, protruded from the ceiling. Nefarious was dressed in black shorts and a white, sleeveless shirt. He sported filthy, well-worn socks.
"Would it be rude to knock?” asked Poe 33.
Caffrey shrugged, lifted his fist and pounded the door, the sound drowning in the sea of the engine's heartbeat.
"I doubt he heard,” advised Angie.
"We need a more visual knocking,” hinted Caffrey, putting his hand on Poe 33's shoulder.
Poe understood. “Shall I use the traditional mantra?"
"Of course, Poe."
A series of crimson pulses burst from the android's forehead in a silent staccato, piercing the small window. Five beats. An inaudible yet unavoidable “Shave and a Haircut."
A voice boomed out “Who dares interrupt my janitor?"
"Janitor?” Caffrey smiled as he played voyeur again.
"Leave him alone! He has important duties!” Nefarious was speaking into a brass horn, which used some unseen technology to greatly magnify his vocals. They boomed above and beyond the throbbing.
"He's mad. Simply gummy in the walnut,” Caffrey said to himself. “Poe, can you pump up the volume of your voice?"
"Of course, I can,” the android demonstrated. “My volume goes to eleven."
Caffrey nodded in approval.
"Will you open the door so we may speak with you?” Poe asked, setting himself at volume seven.
"That door is to the chambers of my janitor. For what purpose do you need to interrupt his evening activities?"
"Nefarious,” Poe 33 said, “we know it is you behind the door. We are not stupid."
"Bah! You are, indeed, stupid! That is my janitor!"
"Tell him we can see him talking. Who is he trying to kid?” Angie appeared most embarrassed by Wretch's wretchedness.