WHEELS

by Lorijo Metz

  KRUMM: Downfall?

  WELLS: Abacis. I should never have trusted him.

  KRUMM: Abacis was your right-hand Tsendi?

  WELLS: A traitor is what he was. A traitor to his Advitor!

  KRUMM: Advitor?

  WELLS: The title the Tsendi bestowed upon me. I was their Advitor, their King—their Savior. Then she came along.

  ***

  PROMISED REWARDS

  Monday, March 16th

  Circanthos – The Tsendi Outpost

  “Tell me everything. How many, what their machine looks like—EVERYTHING! Omit even one minor detail and—” The Advitor spun around so fast, Mallos barely had time to duck his head, “I will have you dunked head first in the Lapis Sea. You’ll never taste your beloved cobaca froot again.”

  Mallos, kneeling prostrate on the floor, his two cohorts behind him, began shaking and nodding so rapidly beads of sweat flew from his brow leaving spots on the floor in front of him. Images of ripe, juicy cobaca froot disappeared faster than goots on a torp. He thought the Advitor would be pleased with the gift, but the Wellsman had simply tossed the strange satchel onto his bed.

  The other two Tsendi pushed Mallos forward.

  Of the three, Mallos was the only one who could speak the Advitor’s language with any proficiency. Most Tsendi had little use for verbal communication, but Mallos was as intelligent as he was devious—and only now did he realize he should have hidden it better.

  Mallos bowed his head, pretending to be humble—a pitiful trait if there ever was one—and tried to collect his thoughts. “Most kind Advitor,” he began, “This most unworthy Tsendi begs your patience.”

  “Oh shut up and stop beating around the bush.”

  Mallos had no idea what “beating around the bush” meant, but it was probably not good. Best not to take all the credit should the Advitor be displeased. “Oh great Advitor, forgive my ignorance, for I—We are only lowly Tsendi. Though, it was I who first spotted the unusual activity on the forest floor not far from the Circanthian-most edge of the forest.”

  “How many?”

  “Three, oh great—”

  “Three. Only three?” The Advitor sounded relieved.

  Mallos was pleased the Advitor was responding more favorably now. “Two of them human.”

  “Two? Well, why didn’t you say so? What type of being was the third?”

  Mallos bit his lip and stared at the floor. “Oh great Advitor,” he mumbled, “I believe the third was—”

  “Speak up Mallos, I can’t hear you.”

  “Circanthian.”

  “Circanthian! Which one?”

  “I believe, oh Greatest of—”

  “You’re testing my patience, Mallos.”

  “Pietas.”

  “Pietas? How interesting. Let me see, I believe it was YOU, Mallos, who delivered the news that Pietas was dead. At least I think it was you, all you Tsendi look alike to me. This must be some new Circanthian trick of which I’ve not been informed—rising from the dead!”

  “Pietas has not been seen anywhere on Circanthos in over four loonocks. It was a logical conclusion,” Mallos stammered. “She is well over three hundred loonocks old.”

  “Never mind. One ancient Circanthian female won’t be that much trouble. No doubt, Pietas will be pleased her compatriot, Soliis, has returned to the Gathering. Let us hope he does not give himself away or we shall have to make an example of him. The Advitor smiled, his gaze lingering on Mallos cold and piercing like the spike of a wild broshbonit. And perhaps you, Mallos, perhaps you.”

  “I will talk to the old cir myself, oh Great One, and remind him where his supply of cobaca froot comes from.”

  “Continue.”

  Mallos hesitated. “We did not see where the humans arrived. There was no star machine such as yours, oh Great One. It is my belief they have hidden it somewhere in the forest.”

  “And where do think they would hide such a large machine? Under the moss, perhaps? No. No…I believe they left it behind in the cave.”

  “We cannot—”

  “Confirm it. No, you cannot; or rather, you will not enter the cave because you, like all Tsendi, fear the water. Very well, I will search the cave myself.”

  Mallos gritted his teeth. The Wellsman continued to claim Concentric lived in the sky, rather than the sea. He ridiculed the Tsendi for their “confounded fear” as he called it. Yet, he refused to see the obvious: if Concentric lived in the sky, would he not be consumed by the sans? Mallos glanced behind him, the other Tsendi were curled up like a pair of cowardly, bright red vortmogs.

  “Oh Great One,” he stammered, “perhaps it is another Circanthian trick. We will scour the forest searching for anything that looks out of place. The Circanthian spy will help us.”

  “Soliis can no longer perform Circanthian trickery.”

  “Yes—” Mallos knew it was dangerous to correct the Advitor. “But, he knows what it looks like.”

  “Soliis has already returned to his Gathering.”

  Mallos groaned. He was tired. This was taking much longer than he had planned.

  “Is that all?”

  All?All as in more? More? The Wellsman always wanted more. All Mallos wanted was more cobaca froot and then a long, much deserved rest. Before that, however… “These humans,” he closed his eyes and tried to recall that moment in the forest, “they were…different.”

  “In what way?”

  Always more! Mallos stared at his long pointed nails, cracked and crusty. He really should have one of the females work on them.

  “Time is valuable Mallos. Your reward is getting smaller with every passing second.”

  The Tsendi behind him let out a collective sigh. “Say, say,” they whispered.

  “Oh Great One,” he began, flicking a large, green-grey chunk from beneath one of his nails, “one of the humans was a different color than you. Brown like the color of some of the seaside dwelling Circanthians, but tall, like you and standing on two legs such as yours.”

  “There are many different color humans. That is not important.

  Mallos nodded, trying not to stare at the green-grey chunk that had landed close to the Advitor’s foot. Mallos had not realized humans came in different colors like Circanthians.

  “Did they speak the Earth language?”

  “They spoke to Pietas in Earth, though it sounded…different.”

  “Go on.”

  “The other…” Mallos paused, wondering if he should grab the chunk, or hope the Wellsman did not notice it. “The other human had hair…?” He was not sure how to describe it. “Hair the color of Locent san.”

  “Red! Interesting. Is that it?”

  “Yes…I mean, No.” Mallos had almost forgotten about this. “The other human sat on a—” He stopped. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? “The other human sat on the star machine!” Excited, he leaned back on his heels. “I did not recognize it before because it was much inferior to yours. Much smaller, oh Great One.”

  The Wellsman began feverishly combing his fingers through his hair. He turned, strode over to the window and threw open the shutters. “I must see this machine for myself. NOW!”

  Mallos quickly grabbed the chunk and stuffed it in his mouth. He looked over his shoulder. The other Tsendi were still prostrate, heads tucked, bellies flat to the ground. He sneered at their cowardice and swore he’d demand a share of their cobaca froot.

  “Mallos!”

  “Oh Great One,” Mallos swallowed, tasting a hint of overly sweet bile in the back of his throat, “Pietas performed her trickery before we could capture them. They disappeared.”

  “Or…” The Advitor closed the shutters. “Perhaps it was the human’s machine that made them disappear.”

  Mallos was almost sure the machine had nothing to do with it, but he thought it best not to say so. “Before they disappeared, I may have seen a glimpse of the Lapis Sea.”

  “Of course!” The Advitor turned as he said this and, be
fore Mallos knew it, was standing before him again.

  Mallos quickly averted his eyes. He tried to ignore the hot, stale smell of the Advitor’s breath. The human had a strange habit of rolling socoos leaves and holding them burning between his lips.

  “Pietas would encourage them to go there. She’ll fill their heads with lies about me and about you, Mallos, the Tsendi. And when more humans arrive—and they will, believe me, they will—they will rise up against us and enslave the Tsendi.” The Advitor leaned over, placing his hand on Mallos’ shoulder and his stinking breath beside Mallos’ ear. “Therefore,” he whispered, “we must take action. We must destroy these invaders before it is too late.” He caressed Mallos’ shoulder reassuringly, painfully and then quickly pulled away. “We must be careful,” he said, walking back to his desk. “They may be stronger than us.”

  Mallos let out the breath he’d been holding and looked up. “Not you, oh Great One.”

  The Wellsman honored him with a smile. “Of course not, but remember there are two of them. We must arrange a meeting somewhere…” He paused to pull out a map of Circanthos. Mallos felt an urge to spit on it. Abacis had drawn the map. Abacis, who was more human—no—more Circanthian than Tsendi, and could not be trusted.

  “Somewhere west of the Boreis Peaks,” said The Wellsman. “Somewhere neutral. It is only natural that I should want to meet the other humans.”

  “I will set up the meeting myself, oh Great One.” Mallos allowed himself a small sigh of satisfaction. Abacis would soon find he was no longer the Advitor’s number one Tsendi. Mallos would draw a better map, one without Circanthian Gatherings on it. One, in which Tsendi ruled the planet!

  The Advitor walked over to a large cocombaca wood chest sitting at the end of his bed and began gliding his fingers across the top of it. “We will meet with them,” he said softly. “We will be our most civilized selves. Proving, of course, the lies Pietas has told them about the Tsendi are not true. And they will show us their Gate.”

  “Gate?” whispered Mallos, not meaning to say it aloud.

  “Yes, yes,” said The Wellsman, clearly annoyed. “I’ve explained this to you several times, Mallos, my galactic time traveler, The Gate. The reason I’m here.”

  Mallos nodded his head, thinking how the Advitor’s machine had always reminded him of Circanthian trickery. Now there was another Gate on Circanthos. Worse, in Circanthian hands!

  “What if they leave it at the Circanthian Gathering, oh Great One?”

  “They will not leave it behind. No, they will want to show it to us. Surely, it is based on my design. And it is at that moment—the moment they let me, the creator, sit upon my machine—in that moment, we shall strike.”

  “Send them away?”

  The Wellsman laughed. “No, my poor foolish Tsendi. We will kill them. Unfortunately, regrettably,” he said, as if talking to a young one, “it is the only way. If I am to fulfill my roll as Advitor, your savior, there is no other choice.”

  Mallos felt a shiver of pleasure run down his spine.

  The Advitor walked to the door and threw it open. “Guards!”

  Four large Tsendi rushed into the room.

  “Take those two and lock them up.”

  Mallos’ cohorts stood up—confused. “No, we find hoo-mans,” one of them cried. “Cobaca froot? Cobaca froot?”

  “Take them away,” said the Wellsman, his gaze coming to rest on Mallos. “They have withheld important information.”

  The two Tsendi were dragged away kicking and screaming, only Mallos remained, the hair down the length of his spine tingling with fear and anticipation.

  “Let that be a lesson. Never let anyone do the talking for you.” He motioned Mallos to get up. “Send word through our fastest runner to the Circanthian Gathering. We will meet Soliis and the two humans at Aramedios,” He pointed to the map, “three epoks from now when Locent san begins its turn toward the forest. Understood? Look for us near the rock by the last inlet.”

  Mallos nodded and began backing away before his luck failed him. “Yes, oh Great One. At Aramedios.”

  “And Mallos, make sure Soliis understands that he, not Pietas, is to accompany the humans. Soliis must work this out. Accomplish this without a hitch and you shall receive not only your promised supply of cobaca froot, but that of your former allies.” The Wellsman’ face broke into a generous, almost jovial smile. “It seems they won’t be needing it anymore.”

  Chapter 14

  Excerpt from the personal log of Agent Wink Krumm

  Monday, March 16th

  Just outside Avondale

  continued…

  I had just secured my position inside the van, when I heard voices. Good thing I had the foresight to bring my Burrberry and trusty stun gun along on this little “vacation.” I feared the owners of the van had returned.

  As I looked out the window, I was in time to see the last—or rather—the first human emerge. I say first, for though two others had proceeded him, they were either some mutation of humankind or not human at all.

  From the waist up, they were “normal” and both male, one fortyish and the other elderly, but quite spry. From the waist down, however, (the exact point indiscernible, as both were wearing a longer version of the standard sport coat and dress shirt) they possessed a spherical appendage instead of legs. Their height (including the sphere) I estimate at around five foot six or seven inches tall.

  ***

  IT’S GOOD TO BE THE KING

  Monday, March 16th

  Circanthos – The Tsendi Outpost

  H.G. Wells locked the door, bolted the shutters and lit two more sconces. It was hardly soundproof, for there was no glass in the windows, but then it was not sound he wished to hide.

  The satchel was constructed of a thick, tightly woven material, dyed blue and adorned with a shiny protective coating. A wide black swoosh decorated the front, but what interested Wells most were the rows of shiny black, interlocking teeth of its clasp locker. He’d read of the clasp locker’s début in the 1893 World’s Fair, and now the sight of it caused him to experience an almost overwhelming moment of homesickness. All the progress he’d made with the Tsendi over the last one hundred years paled in comparison to this simple, yet brilliant invention.

  Wells struggled with the clasp locker’s pull, unable to get it to budge. Another tug and suddenly it began to glide. Rows of interlocking teeth separated, opening wide, exposing the belly of the beast. The contents spewed forth across Wells’ bed, and oh what treasures they were! There was a hard rectangular device about the size of a book, though much thinner. At first, Wells thought it must be some sort of tray. Upon closer inspection, he noticed a button embedded in it. When he pushed the button, the tray, or whatever the contraption was, lit up with words. A book tray, of all things. He looked forward to examining it later. In addition to the book tray, there several decks of cards decorated with humans, monsters, and machines such as Wells had never see before. Also chips and chocolates, and brightly colored sweets packaged in strange materials promising to keep the contents fresh for eternity. But what pleased him most, what caused a second moment of homesickness worse than the first, were the pencils. Not just plain pencils, but colored pencils, pristine and sharp, stored in a metal box.

  “Feathers and blood,” murmured Wells, rolling one of the thin yellow treasures between his fingers. The pencils would bring a welcomed reprieve from the bloody barbarian tools he’d been forced to write with.

  And then there was paper…oh, how he’d longed for real paper! Wells picked up a journal bound with wire so fine, he almost cried. Carefully, he turned the pages noticing how thin, yet remarkably strong the fiber felt beneath his fingers. The owner of the satchel had filled the pages with skillfully sketched faces of both young and old. One thing had not changed over the last one hundred years: humans still looked like humans. Wells turned one more page, hoping the next would be blank when—

  “It can’t be!” he exclaimed, dropping the
journal as though it had bitten him. Praying his eyes had been playing tricks, he looked down. Green eyes stared back at him. Emerald green eyes framed by wild, curly red hair. Eyes that mocked him, daring him to look away. It was those eyes, in fact, which brought Wells to his senses; for though they were the precise color, they were not the same shape as his sister Julianne’s eyes.

  “How dare she!” He said, forgetting, even in that instant, that it was not his sister. For, of course, only Julianne knew how to access the secret room where he’d created his most prized possession, the invention that had brought him, and now others, to Circanthos. Only Julianne could have given his secret away.

  As he bent to collect the journal, Wells recalled Mallos describing one of the humans as having red hair. He studied the picture. But for the eyes, everything else was the same. Perhaps the artist had made a mistake. Then he laughed. “Ha! Fool!” For, of course, Julianne was nothing but a rotting putrid corpse by now. The picture was an aberration—a coincidence. He picked up the journal and returned it to the satchel.

  The mere thought of leaving his kingdom, growing old, ugly and under-appreciated made him more determined than ever to stop the humans. “Dear God, return to Earth,” he murmured, remembering Mallos’ bumbling responses so aimed at pleasing him, “when here, I am adored.”

  Fingers trembling, he reached up to brush the no-longer-red, unruly mess of curls away from his forehead. He was a cultured man, not a murderer. A professor of literature, author, inventor, and now—King and Savior. Which is why, for the sake of his dear Tsendi, he could not risk allowing the humans to return home. Mallos would have to take care of them.

  Wells turned and faced the pale-blue chest at the end of his bed. Circanthos had treasures too. There was nothing on Earth like cocombaca wood, pale-blue on the outside, deep violet near the center. Only one thing in the entire universe could slice through it, the underdown feather of a gemdoola bird. He had many such treasures stored away in the chest. Yet, even they were trinkets. Mere cover. He lifted the lid. Should any Tsendi, or Circanthian for that matter, dare look, they would find his treasures disappointingly common. Should another human somehow access the chest, these objects would provide curiosities for years to come.