The children were in their playhouse on the morning of the third Tuesday in August when their father’s Skyla® whooshed overhead an hour late. Celedon was talking to friends in Japan, while John was using his Myte to polish the details on the “big prize” in the Kuiper Belt.
“No, Tiff, he’s not really a doof. He needs to make friends is all – ”
“I named it Celedon.”
“What? Sorry, Tiff. The doof is doing something annoying. I’ll call you back this afternoon, after Papa leaves, say about two? Great.” She chirped off the link then turned to her little brother. “Named what Celedon? You can’t just name things after me without my permission. What if I named a spider after you?”
Celedon hated spiders, and John knew it. Whenever she saw one in the yard, she called for John, who bravely picked it up and moved it out of sight. There were no spiders in the playhouse, of course. The servants saw to it that every inch of the 3,250-square-foot playhouse behind the main residence was kept spotless and spider-free. The quaint building had a kitchen, Smart School®, gym, pool, and bedrooms plus hi-res screens and tru-links and everything else.
“I like spiders. Anyway, you’ll like this.”
“Like what?”
“It’s a diamond the size of Florida, and I call it Celedon!”
“And it’s just there… in space?”
“There’s lots of cool junk in the Kuiper Belt. See, you start on Earth, competing to build a ship to fly to the Kuiper Belt…”
There was no stopping John when he was creating one of his games. He gripped the sensitized Myte and focused, his eyes narrowing like an old man’s. Up popped fully-realized images, filling the room with bustling shipyards. Spaceships in all shapes and sizes assembled in seconds as if in a dream then launched by the dozens only to smash into comets or blow up while battling each other. One doof piloted his ship directly into Jupiter.
“How did he not see Jupiter coming?”
“I haven’t switched it to open play yet. Other kids will be better than Acu-Men, which is kinda stupid for a synth intelligence. That one’s me. I’m the Excaliber. That’s the one that got hold of the space diamond!”
“Excaliber. Ooh, it looks like a big sword.” John’s spaceship survived the abbreviated early rounds and stabbed itself deep into a gargantuan space diamond, and was hauling it back to Earth. “Cool!” Celedon was genuinely impressed. John was annoying and needed to play with other kids, but he was her brother, he was crazy smart, and he dealt with yard spiders. Now if John could only learn to spell Excalibur.
“Why’d you name the space diamond Celedon and not John?”
“You have a cool name, but I got stuck with John. There are like billions of Johns.”
“Dad named me when he was still married to Mom. By the time you came along, he was seeing the Belarussian model.”
“I thought she was the one after that. I made up a rhyme: Marie, Carrie, Mom… Mina, Katsiaryna, Stink Bomb!” His rhyme took a little cheating, but it worked out well enough.
They laughed. “Stink Bomb Priscilla. Perfect!” They both hated their father’s latest baby mama, Priscilla, the one who had her own line of cosmetics and wore enough perfume to make their eyes burn. They hoped he didn’t divorce the model Katsiaryna to marry Stink Bomb. Judging by the number of halfs who shared their last name, the odds were even money. “You’re too smart. You need to hide that.”
“Is our papa smart?”
“Of course. He’s the smartest man in the world. His consortium sends real Star-Grabbers® to collect ice chunks from the rings of Saturn.” John knew this, of course. She knew he knew. You could find Ring Water® in any store. What if Papa could find a space diamond!
“Papa is rich,” John said. He was using his lawyer voice – it was cute.
Celedon helped her brother along to whatever point he was getting to. “He’s the richest guy there is.”
“Is rich the same as smart?”
“Papa says so.”
“What about the stupid papas?”
“They’re lazy. Our papa is off doing business and getting richer every day. Stupid papas sit around in their stupid government dorms, collecting their stupid government stipends, minus the fees our smart Papa collects so he can go get Ring Water® from Saturn.” They went through this story once or twice a week. John liked the repetition. Celedon left out the part about how the Star-Grabber® operations made the Earth water taste bad and made people sick. This boosted sales of Saturn Ring Water®, which Papa said was better anyway.
A chime sounded in the room. “Papa! He’s landed!” they cried. John hit pause on the Myte and the great sword-spaceship Excaliber with its mammoth diamond whirlpooled back into the device strapped to his palm.
The children ran from the playhouse, over the perfectly uniform VerdaGrass® lawn, and around to the front entrance of the blended Neo-Dada-Revivalist-French-Baroque-style main residence, arriving a few minutes later, puffing for breath. Papa was there flanked by aides and people competing for his attention. He wore his young guy clothes, black tight-fitting top clinging to his big belly and black pants that he insisted slimmed down his big butt, plus cowboy boots. When you were as important as their Papa you got to dress like a kid all the time. Some of the staff was lined up on the front walk, greeting Papa. The maids and servicemen weren’t part of this monthly greeting. They used to join in, but the review line got too long.
Papa insisted everyone call him by his first name.
“Your fleet of vintage ground vehicles is polished and fueled, Nole,” said Jerome Pillinger, the chief mechanic. “Perhaps you’d like to take the children on a drive around the estate in the Mercedes Benz?”
“Yes, that would be nice. Maybe later.”
He’d hired Chef Guillaume DuSainte to prepare lunch. “I hope you brought your appetite, Nole. I’ve prepared lobster pizza, one of Master John and Mistress Celedon’s favorites.”
“Sounds good.”
Global Link Chief Cho Soon Pak looked around at the others suspiciously. He leaned in to make his report. The children were just close enough to catch it. “I’ve activated the console in your study, sir – Nole. You’re able to access all of your tributary accounts from here for the next three hours before the system seals itself off. The funds are flowing well this morning, I might add. Another sixty billion this morning. There is one other matter. A small glitch in the data review indicates someone may have –”
“You say, the flow is good… Chief? Good. I’ll check my accounts at once.” Nole was smiling.
Sgt. Lyndon Jeffries reported on the residence’s security. “Three attempted incursions in the past month. Three arrests. Three transports to the colony. Perfect score, Nole.”
“Excellent.”
During all of this, the children stood by and waited. Finally, Nanny Paloma De Mendoza motioned for them to come forward and hug their father, which they did. Fly-Cams® captured the spontaneous moment of bonding to post on feeds worldwide.
“Nole!” they cried. Owing to a codicil in his matrimonial contract with Katsiaryna, only a small subset of his children called him “Papa” whenever adult witnesses were around. The children’s mother, Daria, stood silently on the porch, arms crossed, eyes stern. Nole it was. The children knew the drill.
“There you are!” Nole said. “I’ve missed you two so. How are my two beautiful children today?”
Nanny Paloma said, “Celedon and John talk about you all the time. They’ve composed a song for their father, haven’t you children? Celedon and John,” she spoke slowly and clearly “would like to sing it for you while you have lunch together, Nole. Are you ready, Celedon? Are you ready, John?”
“Celedon. John,” their father said quickly, tussling their hair with his hands, “why don’t you two go ahead and start on that pizza. I’ll be along in just a minute. I want to check on something.”
Leaving the crowd outside, they followed him indoors, into the atrium filled with tacky art and on to the main hall. The noon dining room was to the right, their father’s private study opposite next to a big potted fern. John followed him to the door of the study.
“No… John. This is Nole’s room. No spies!” he laughed at his own joke. John remained. Nole tried to think of something to say. Instead, he tussled the boy’s hair, still mussed from the last tussling, and told him, “Scoot now. I need a moment. I can smell that pizza. Go, eat up.”
The children devoured the pizza. Celedon ate the lobster bits on top; John picked them off. He nibbled at his slice absent-mindedly, focusing most of his attention on his Myte®.
The air over the lunch table filled with color and sound. Suddenly, they were in the main control room of the Excaliber. The crew was discussing their big prize.
“We’re closing on Earth orbit, Captain Smith. We’re the richest men on Earth now. This diamond will buy everything we ever wanted!”
“That’s right, Ensign Jones. I’m going to buy North and South America! How about you?”
“I’d like to buy Mom a new coat. Maybe a solid gold coat!”
“That sounds very nice, Ensign Jones.”
The audio was a little tinny for some reason. John was good, though, and Celedon had no doubt he’d fix the problem. It was working well enough to make their mother smile. She stayed off to one side, waiting for Nole to enter, then she would leave. She knew the drill.
Celedon said, “John, eat your pizza before it gets cold. You’re scrawny. You need to beef up.”
“I will!” John protested. “Don’t bug me. It’s getting to the good part.” His face grew very serious as he concentrated on controlling his crew.
“Captain, I am reading a fleet of angry ships, closing fast!”
“Pirates?”
“Worse! Corrupt wasteful government ships!”
An angry face appeared on the Excaliber’s forward viewscreen. Actually, Celedon noticed that all the faces looked like Papa.
“Surrender that diamond. We need it to fund our many corrupt wasteful government projects!”
“No, we won’t surrender our diamond! If we do, the people of Earth will never get the benefits of our diamond! Ensign Jones, prepare the destructo button!”
“Noooooo! You fool, Captain Smith! Don’t do it!”
Captain Smith did it. He pressed the destructo button. The children’s view pulled back to a wide exterior of the ships and the space diamond hanging above the Earth. Excaliber drew its sword-shaped hull free of the space diamond, drew back and above the Florida-sized gem and cleaved it into billions of glittering pieces. Each piece floated down to Earth, where it fell into the waiting hands of a person living in rags. Instantly, the person transformed into a well-dressed tycoon. Everyone danced and sang.
“I’m still working on the ending. The people will be so happy they’ll give Captain Smith North and South America.”
“And a gold coat for Ensign Jones’ mother!” their mother reminded him.
“Yes. I won’t forget that, Mom.”
The image whirled and sank back into the Myte® strapped to John’s hand.
The children’s mother applauded.
Nibbling the last of her lobster pizza, Celedon said. “It looks great, John. You’re so good at the graphics now. It’s just…”
“What?”
“If everyone gets a big piece of space diamond, I don’t think they’d be rich, at least not for long. A smart guy will find a way to own all the diamonds, like Pa– like Nole does. It’s a good thought, but it won’t work.”
“I bet it will!”
“No, it won’t.”
“Will too!”
“Enough,” cried their mother. She was about to say more, but the door opened and in stepped their father. Their mother made a hasty retreat out of the room.
“Nole!” John cried. “I have something to show you!” He held out his hand to show his father his palm-band Myte®.
“I’d love to see it… buddy. Tough luck, though. I don’t have time. I just stopped in to say how much I love you two.” His face spread into a big smile, kind of. Ever since the doctors fixed their father’s face, his smile looked sloppy, like a sock clinging to the back of a sweater. “Now, excuse me. Nole has to finish work in his study.”
He was off again.
Celedon stared at her brother. They finished their lunch in silence. Twenty minutes later, they heard the sound of the Skyla’s® engine firing up. Nanny Paloma came into the lunch room carrying a brightly-colored bag for each of them. “Look! Your father wants you to have your Chris®as sweaters!” It was August. Chris®as was four third Tuesdays away. Papa probably didn’t want to forget. He probably would anyway. They’d probably get another sweater or two before the third Tuesday in December.
John slipped the Myte’s® strap from around his hand and tossed the device on the table. So much for his new game.
“Why can’t smart papas stay around all day?”
“They have important things to do. Papa has like a million meetings, speeches, and product launches. That’s how he brings people Ring Water®. And he gives them palm Mites® like yours. And then there are the Smart-Forks® that tell you what you’re really eating, Vibra-Sox®, Cornea-Cams® that take your picture in a blink, Dolphin Bites®, and Bri-T-Whitey Nite-Lite Underpants®. People ran up credit debt for these items with registered trademarks, bringing Papa trillions.”
“Nole is busy,” Nanny Paloma said. “Why don’t you children play in the playhouse. You love the playhouse!”
“Sure,” they agreed. Celedon and John got up and walked out of the lunch room. Nanny Paloma headed back to her room to close her eyes and watch her stories on her Cerebral Tru-Link® feed, another of Papa’s products. Their tutor took the third Tuesday of each month off, but their driver would take them and Mama around the estate in one of the vintage sports cars later. It would be a fun day.
For now, they were alone.
John looked at Celedon, and stepped with purpose to the door of his father’s private study. The door was locked, of course. John reached down and dug his fingers into the dirt of the nearby potted fern, fetching out another Myte®. This one had no palm-band, but it did have a lot more little lights all over its face.
“This won’t work, John.”
The boy ignored his sister. He waved the Myte® over the door lock panel, and the door clicked open.
The children went in, as they often did when no one was around. Inside, they found the main console, an ugly fixture out of place in the richly furnished room.
John dropped down on all fours, his little bottom sticking up in the air.
“Got it!” he cried, producing a third Myte® from its hiding place. This one was wafer-thin and had a screen which only had one button. John pressed it.
“Access granted,” the console said in Papa’s voice. From the center of the console sprung a dizzying display of colors and numbers that filled the air above them. The detailed image showed not only Earth but all the colonies and ships beyond. From an uncountable number of points leading back to their location in the rolling hills of northern Virginia. Pulses of light indicated the direction of flow along the lines. Numbers showed amounts.
“So, it’s all set up to go, and then pffft! Everything fries itself for good.”
“I know. I know. I’m not stupid, Celedon.”
“No, you’re very smart. You’re very smart, but you’re a doof.” She wasn’t being mean. They’d talked about this a lot. They’d planned and tested and prepared over the course of three third Tuesdays to get things ready. Celedon wasn’t mean; she was teasing her brother because he was her doof to tease. And because he needed it. He was smart but emotionally fragile. If he toughened up a bit, she felt, he’d have a better chance of surviving an uncertain future.
“Why am I a doof?”
“Because I don’t think this will work. Maybe I want it to, or not – I’m not sure. But, it’s like your diamonds thing. It won’t work.”
John would not be discouraged. Holding the Myte®, he reached into the colors, shapes, and numbers. He found a part of the display with two arrows: one green – all the lines running to Papa’s accounts were green – and a second, dimmer red-colored arrow pointing in the opposite direction.
“Papa will be mad. He’ll lose everything – his money and his cruisers and his houses and his companies. Everything will change. We’ll be stuck at home all day with a poor papa.” She sighed and rolled her eyes in an exaggerated show of emotion. Celedon took her brother’s hand and warmly squeezed it. “Doof,” she said. “It won’t work.”
With his free hand, John jabbed confidently at the dim shape. The red arrow glowed brilliantly, pulsing in reverse, drawing brightness from the one green point and spreading redness on a one-way trip along every single line across the display. A second later, the image evaporated and the console fell dark, dead.
“Will too!”
###
I hope you enjoy my gentle ribbing of billionaires. If so, please SHARE this story, so I can be a billionaire someday (or at least pay the bills.) I appreciate it!
For more fun watching rich guys get theirs... check out Goody Celeste:
https://www.amazon.com/Goody-Celeste-Chris-Riker/dp/1665307072
Goody Celeste by Chris Riker is about boys with fire in their legs, biking twenty miles to the beach and back and laughing it off. It's about a remarkable woman and those caught in her emotional gravity well. The time that was, whispering to the now we've made; it's in there. A pinch of wonder, a teaspoon of melancholy, stir in humor to make a witch's brew, a recipe for reflection. It's eating fries with vinegar, listening to folk music, body surfing, driving classic cars, and making choices we cannot take back. A purple door leads into a shop of dangerous wonders, where a cat with mismatched eyes watches foolish humans get themselves tangled in the reins of love.
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When I wrote Come the Eventide, I let my imagination go wild... dreaming up a crazy scene where my octopodes hitch a ride on the backs of friendly dolphins. How nuts was that?! What really happens is this...
https://www.nytimes.com/2025/03/20/science/octopus-riding-shark-new-zealand.html
Hmmm... Wonder what else I got right. Check out Come the Eventide, and help dolphins and octopodes save humanity!
https://www.amazon.com/Come-Eventide-Chris-Riker/dp/1631834525
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When astronauts splashed down, a welcoming committee was waiting...
https://www.bbc.com/news/videos/c3372l3g068o?utm_source=firefox-newtab-en-us
Maybe the dolphins are studying what we're doing in space. Maybe they have some plans of their own.
https://www.amazon.com/Come-Eventide-Chris-Riker/dp/1631834525
Earth is dying! Humans are on the way out! Muriel the dolphin has a daring plan. She must outwit the creature lurking in a sunken carrier, help a band of young islanders confront Queen Isobel and her cruise ship full of pirates, travel back to the 1980s to race against dolphin slavers, and inspire a submarine’s octopod crew tasked with blowing up a plastic island! Will this be mankind’s last eventide? In Come the Eventide, Chris Riker delivers high-stakes action, thought-provoking ideas, and a touch of humor as dolphins, octopodes, and humans fight for the future.
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I'm pleased to announce that I have completed a solid first draft of my latest novel Darkling - An American Hymn. It centers on a demon who convinces a woman that she is lucky to be a slave. I did say he's a demon. The story is set in my native Rhode Island. I just noticed this article, which offers a fascinating glimpse into the past.
I hope to release Darkling - An American Hymn later in 2025.
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What is it about shapeshifters that captures our imagination? Is it fear, or wonder, or envy? In any case, see how many of these tricksters have captured you:
https://reactormag.com/six-onscreen-shapeshifters-who-deserve-more-love/
If you want to totally lose yourself in a great thriller, check out Skinners - A Love Story. Here's a generous sample, absolutely FREE:
https://chrisrikerauthor.com/news/short-stories/they-love-you-they-want-to-be-you
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“It’s no trick. Here, like this.” Looking sharp in her dress gray uniform, Gaila demonstrated the new salute, and I imitated her. I looked silly, but she made certain I did it correctly. “Just don’t fall back on any of the old ones, or you’ll get us transferred even farther out.”
Terra Light 117 was remote enough – on the edge of the Methanto Domain. I’d been a Kap since the Bodge Dynasty. The new Dremk Dynasty found me still a Kap, now in charge of a forward defense post guarding two dozen colony worlds. My career had plateaued. Now, with rumblings of war, a favorable inspection might jump me lightyears ahead. Of course, an unfavorable report could be fatal.
Gaila and I had taken everything into account for the commodine’s inspection. Chief TopTek Falq’s team had lowered the gravity to .45, as detailed by the commodine’s aides. “Our VIP is sensitive about his mass,” I said. Laughter threw off our balance in low grav. Gaila had an infectious laugh. It cut through the tension, and it had other, pleasant effects on me.
As requested in the fourteenth addendum of his intermissive, I’d reprogrammed the post’s ambience plates to reflect, of all places, an ancient porneion. Instead of showing data or the surrounding stars or even a lovely sunset, the plates lining every bulkhead now displayed fully-resolved images of half-naked young men and young women cavorting about in a Grecian-themed bordello. Personally, I found such fleshy images made a long tour of duty even longer; but then, I wasn’t a commodine. Besides, I had a lovely doctek to help me pass the long nights.
The hatch dilated.
“Welcome aboard, Commodine Neff. I trust you had an uneventful flight out.” The comment was perfunctory, safe.
The commodine waddled across the gangway with his six aides and three more individuals who made up his media retinue. Nine. StarComPac had urged him to travel with a minimal contingent. His underfed, overworked entourage buzzed around us as we walked, talking into personal comms that were sending out unfiltered data across the cosmos. Any signals were supposed to be sent via entanglement-link, unhackable, but from what I could see, these were ordinary long-range comms. We were open to the entire Terran Corporatum, and anyone else who might be listening.
Commodine Neff said, “Hardly uneventful. We lost a full day refueling the escort fighters at Star Post Exinon.”
The shuttle carried a regenerative jump engine, but the fighters had to make parsec-long jumps using a standard power plant. That meant fuel. They were limited, usually only assigned to local patrols. It was the commodine who had insisted on the escort. None of this escaped my lips, which also skipped the formal introductions.
“You have failed to follow the addenda!” one of the commodine’s stern-faced wonks said. She wore geometric shapes on her lapel, faux rank. “This is a Terra Light post.” We were a post. We were a Terra Light. Only civilians said ‘Terra Light Post’ like we were some random streetlight. “You are to play the Primus’ anthem at all times in all common areas. This was clearly spelled out in the twenty-fifth addendum.”
I tried to respond. “I assure you I fully reviewed the list, and –”
A second wonk tapped the first on the shoulder and held out a screen. “I see,” Wonk One said. “It appears the second and third addenda lists got shunted into a high-risk file.”
Gaila spoke too quickly. “There are more lists?”
The wonk kept her attention on me. “This is a serious failing on your part, Kap Ponnen.”
Our comms were configured to keep the Methians from flooding us with blitzprose, which could embed itself inside simple messages then escape and disable any system on the post. Had some junior officer questioned protocols, I’d have assigned him to scrub the waste recycler. Under the circumstances, I offered a sympathetic grunt.
We moved away from the hatch and walked on in the direction of the briefing room, where my command staff might shield me from some of the questions that were bound to come. It was a struggle to maintain a dignified gait at .45G; I kept bouncing.
In a professional tone, Gaila said, “Our records indicate you and your party are not current on your full-spectrum inoculants, Commodine.”
He huffed, “I should say not.” The irritation in his voice was obvious.
Gaila pressed on, “I’ll set you up with a booster. I have everything ready in –”
“You are Doctek Gaila Brone, are you not?” he asked her in a suspiciously formal manner.
“Yaaz, Commodine,” I interjected. I got it right, including remembering to snap my hand up at mid-chest like a toddler waving to his mommy. “Doctek Brone is a fine –”
Not looking at her, Commodine Neff said, “Doctek Brone is hereby relieved and will depart the post immediately for extensive retraining in health priorities.”
Gaila looked to me in alarm. “Evard?” she pleaded with me softly. Retraining was the kind of thing only mentioned in whispers. I had no answer. All I could do was to shrug helplessly.
Snapping out of our shock, we responded simultaneously, just the way we’d practiced. “Yaaz, Commodine.” We got the little hand salute right. One of the aides took Gaila aside and led her off, back towards her med center. I started to follow, but one of the wonks coughed and I halted my steps.
Gaila had been with me for three years. I trusted her judgement, and I – Gaila was a savvy lady. She’d get through the retraining intact, somehow. Forgive me, I thought, though I didn’t know what I could have done.
Synthetics was en route to the briefing room, and so we stopped in for a quick inspection. Everything shone like it had just gone online. The recyclers were churning out our next meal right on schedule.
He stuck his stubby, unwashed fingers into the food-cooling bin, drawing up a wad of colorless mush then shaking it back into the big pot and onto the deck. “What is this muck, Kep Ponnen?”
“The crew affectionately refers to it as Stella Gumbo. It’s not actually gumbo, of course, but the taste and consistency are –”
“I spent two weeks flat on my back, getting poisons like this muck as well as your foul inoculants filtered out of my blood. My mind and body are clean. I am pure as the Auldoch made me.” Auldochers put great stock in purity.
The previous ruling family had been Neo-Darwinians. If a commodine like Neff was an Auldocher, that had to mean he followed the Primus’ faith. Anyone who wanted a future was an Auldocher now. That fact must have gotten lost with the missing addenda. Conform or perish! I grabbed my comm and thumbed in a quick message to the go-teams I had standing by. I prayed to the Auldoch, or whoever, that my crew would redress the chapel in the current sacred paraphernalia and explain it all to the curate before we got there.
There was still the other matter. “I fully agree, Commodine. Nonetheless, it’s standard protocol on the front lines to use inoculants. Despite our best efforts at decontamination, we encounter new bugs from time to time. Some are sent to us by the Methians. Don’t you think it might be more efficient to keep Doctek Brone to oversee –”
“Brone is redundant. A healthy diet is our first, best line of defense. Pure food builds the body’s own devasive systems.” Devasive - another of the new terms in the Dremk Dynasty’s glossary of loyalty. Parrot or perish! “No poisons, and no impure food. We will be reviewing your food stock, discarding the poisons, and purifying your crew’s blood.” That sounded… profound.
Over the following weeks, my crew did their level best to obey the addenda spewing from their screens. The commodine’s aides were in every department overseeing the changes. The Synthtek Department strained its resources to replace our gray uniforms. The new rosso corsa attire included leggings worn under puffy shorts which resembled the ‘pumpkin breeches’ of Shakespeare’s time. We wore them proudly. Titles were updated. I was no longer a kap – I was a kep. Not the promotion I’d hoped for, but at least it was not a demotion. A leetva was now a leetfid, teks were tekks, and so on. This bold initiative would no doubt transform us into a fierce fighting unit.
To further this goal, several of the latest generation of two-man picket ships, designed by the Primus himself, arrived at the station. Cargo vessels also brought us containers of Primus Dremk’s Vermilion Book of Wisdom. The books’ talking pages opined in Dremk’s voice, sharing his eclectic views on purity, the psychological effects of color, baking, and Mid-24th Century Autoschediastic Erhu music. Thousands of books spoke at once, each from a different page. They had no off button.
Our nutrition production was no longer self-sufficient, and food shipments from the colonies proved to be irregular. I noted in my log that we were “meeting this exhilarating challenge with great vigor, determination, and purity of spirit.”
Convoys were providing a solution, hauling in 236,950 tons of soil (“More natural than hydroponics, therefore more pure!”), plus seeds. My tekks struggled to offload it all and find a place to set up our new gardens. Terra Light 117 would now be a military installation and a farm… eventually. In the interim, fast-growing soybeans provided most of our meals. I hoped Gaila appreciated my new, trimmer look, assuming we met again.
“So, what’s the problem?” I asked a tired-looking TopTekk Falq.
“Kep, it’s the air filters. They’re clogging up with mites and other tiny critters. This dirt. It may grow soybeans and all, but it’s full of bugs and wild organics. This stuff is straight from the hills of Colony Beetha. Untreated. I’ve got four tekks down with a rash.”
That brought the total of personnel on the disabled list to over two hundred. Most of those were undergoing blood filtration. The procedure took the parameds two weeks. It was slower since they didn’t have the guidance of a chief medtekk. The recently cleaned crewmen were unfit to return to duty for a further three or four days owing to highly-productive nausea.
I tried to explain the situation to Commodine Neff, maybe urge him to allow Gaila to do her retraining on the post, but he was busy with “pressing matters.”
It was the wrong time for neighbors to drop by, but of course they did.
The klaxon sounded.
“Wake the perimeter WASPs, and launch the Cerulean and Saffron Wings immediately!” I ordered. Saying Blue and Gold used to be quicker and less confusing, but colors were never so pure as they were under the new order.
Ominous celadon-colored blips on the big screen in Central resolved into ships. Fighters, fast attack vessels, and capital ships. Methian ships.
The Methians had kept to themselves for over a century. We’d only communicated via audio translators. They spoke in a series of reverberating emissions. Only in the last few months had we learned their true nature. The Methians turned out to be small, highly-intelligent glandular beings who exuded dense clouds of noxious fumes. Basically, they were sentient farts.
Of the two dozen emissaries sent on our one and only diplomatic mission, only three survived. Despite their encounter suits, they were thoroughly contaminated and would spend the rest of their lives far away from anyone with a working olfactory sense.
Not long after the first official meeting, relations went sour. They claimed our colonies were encroaching on the Methian Domain, an ill-defined region of space. While Terrans enjoyed making fun of the Methians and their odor, their ships were no joke. We were evenly matched in firepower, but the real threat was contact. Whenever a Methian boarded one of our vessels, we automatically declared the ship lost!
“I’m waiting for launch confirmation, Leetfid Cajij,” I barked.
“Bay Two reports all Gold – I mean Saffron birds away.”
“Where’s Cerulean Wing?”
“They’re taxiing out on Bay Two, sir.”
“Why aren’t they using Bay One or Three?”
“Those bays are busy growing soybeans, sir.”
Dammit. The Methians were closing. They’d be within weapons range in a matter of minutes. It would take at least that long to get the post’s defenders into position. For now, that left our fate up to the Weapons And Sensor Platforms. The big screen showed thousands of our WASPs, each capable of attaching itself to one of the Methian ships and detonating. Now roused from their passive surveillance duties, the lethal devices fixed their orientation and hung ready for action. No enemy had ever penetrated a WASP wall. I felt my heartbeat return to normal.
“Kep.”
“Yes, Entin Renno?”
“Sir, I’m getting odd telemetry from the WASPs.”
“Odd? Define odd.”
“Uh, sir… they’re singing.”
Entin Renno put the WASP guidance channel on the speaker:
‘His vision, it do hearten us.
His glory, it do nourish us.
His honor, we do pledge to uphold.
Dremk! Dremk! Dremk!
Terra’s foes do tremble at the name.
Dremk! Dremk! Dremk!’
It was the Primus’ new corporate anthem. We all knew the lines, which played non-stop in every corridor, lift, and toilet of Terra Light 117, by order of Commodine Neff. The melody was an old nursery rhyme; the lyrics were an overlay penned by none other than Primus Dremk himself.
“Sir, the WASPS are just hovering in position. I have no indication that they are prepared to take action. They are definitely not – I repeat, not accepting new inputs.” The young entin was sweating profusely. “There’s an authorization code blocking any signals from here, sir.”
“Let me guess.”
“It appears to be a corporate encryption key.”
I punched the internal comm. “Seku, get me –” I took a quick breath. “Please invite Commodine Neff to join me in Command.”
Seku-Chef Wasset (or was it Seku-Cheev now?) responded, “Kep, the commodine’s not on the station. His transponder shows he’s –”
“On Saffron Nineteen, Kep,” one of my flight controllers called out. “Listen!”
He channeled the comms from Saffron Nineteen onto the Command speaker.
A panicked woman spoke. “Commodine, we’re too close. We should fall back with the formation.”
“Just fly this bird, Leetfid Genkitt. And open a broadcast to the Methians.” The signal altered slightly. It was coming in on two bands now, including one unfiltered, which meant the Methians were also hearing what we were hearing in Command. “Methian Fleet, I am Commodine Neff of the Terran Corporatum, speaking on behalf of his Infallible Guide and Profound Leader of the Corporatum Primus Dremk. You are approaching a Terra Light post.” I cringed at his phrasing. “We are fully armed with a lethal array of ships and other… highly lethal things… fully capable of eradicating the Methian impurity from this sector. Turn back now.”
The Methian ships reached the edge of weapons range… and halted.
Cerulean Wing was out of the nest, finally! Once they reached action stations, it would be a contest. For now, any exchange of fire could only result in pointless deaths on both sides. Fortunately, the Methians weren’t shooting at us, at least not yet.
I took advantage of the momentary lull. “Commodine, I must insist you return to the post. You have no business on the front lines.”
“Ridiculous. This ship is one of the advanced models I brought in last week. It is invincible.”
Of course it was. Primus Dremk had designed it himself.
I spoke in a steady tone, though I wanted to scream. “Pilot, I am giving you a direct order to return to the post.”
“Yes, Kep sir,” the female voice said over the speaker. The roster identified her as Leetfid Genkitt, a man. “I’ll try. These control systems are all over the place. Nav is where environmental should be, and the helm is way over to my right… somewhere – oh, yeah, there. And I keep bouncing out of my seat because the gravity’s set to half. I recognize these controls, but everything’s been scrambled. Anyway, I’ll try, but… sir, I’m not Leetfid Genkitt. I’m Steward Haunf.” Oh my Auldoch! The voice. It was. It was my kep’s mess steward. “I took Leetfid Genkitt’s place, sir. He’s indisposed with food poisoning from the meat that Commo – the shipment of colony-produced meat that came aboard four days ago.” The inoculants would have prevented food poisoning, if Genkitt still had them in his system. “I’m just a trainee,” Haunf said. “I’ve flown sorties before, sir, but never in anything this… different.”
It was at that moment that the Methian commander spoke over the comms. Our systems relayed the original audio followed by a translation in a deceptively soothing voice. Out came a series of short, fricative bursts and a squeak or two. Then: “Terran Kep, we greet you. I am Ank Ffrtff of the Methian Domain Militia. We make this display to impress upon you our resolve to find a mutually agreeable solution to our territorial disputes.”
The translator did an excellent job of stressing the key words as Ffrtff spoke them, though I had to stifle a giggle at the accompanying sounds. I’d had enough diplomatic training to know what he was really saying: we’re ready to fight, but we’re giving you one final chance.
“Ank Ffrtff, I am Kep Evard Ponnen. I acknowledge your impressive fleet. However, you are disagreeably close to our colony worlds. We respectfully require you to withdraw. The Terran Corporatum will then send a full delegation to negotiate the matter at hand.”
“We’ll linger for now, Kep Ponnen. We enjoy the view from our frontier. I will, however, give you my promise that, should no hostilities erupt on your side, we will withdraw and remain open to making summit arrangements.”
“That will be agreeable, Ank Ffrtff. I welcome your show of good faith.”
“I do not!” It was Commodine Neff, naturally. He sounded resolute, therefore dangerous.
“Commodine, please!” Steward Haunf shouted. “Don’t touch that! Commodine!”
A pallid replacement officer at TakTekk called out nervously, “Saffron One-niner is firing, Kep!”
“Commodine, stand down. Cease firing. All ships, hold your fire! Do not fire without my direct order! Acknowledge.”
The other vessels sent back confirmation. They wouldn’t fire. The question was… had the damage already been done.
At that distance, the volley from Saffron Nineteen took nearly thirty seconds to reach the intended target: the head of the spear in the Methian formation. It was no doubt the same ship that carried Ark Ffrtff.
Composing myself as best I could, I hailed Ffrtff. “This is not an authorized attack, Ark Ffrtff. You have time to take evasive action.”
“No.”
“No?”
The bolt struck the lead Methian vessel. Our ships used displacement shields to channel energy around and away. The Methians prided themselves on equipping their ships with tough hulls. So, they were a little crazy after all. Most of the volley missed and flew harmlessly past the target – space was a stupid place to fire blindly. One bolt hit home, shearing off a sizeable chunk of the lead Methian vessel’s nose. It shuddered but never lost trim.
A second Methian ship fired a single, perfectly-aimed bolt. It was headed straight for Neff.
“Hold your fire!” I repeated to both Saffron and Cerulean Wings. The WASPs were merrily singing the Primus’ praises and didn’t seem to care.
The Methian weapon unfurled into a brilliant orange (more of a mango, actually) field but did not dissipate. Saffron Nineteen tried to evade, but the undulating field engulfed it like a big fish eating a little one.
“Status?” I barked at TopTekk Falq, immediately regretting my temper. I placed one hand on his shoulder as he checked the instruments.
“Saffron One-niner is dead in space, Kep. No power readings at all.”
The Methian appeared on the screen again. It was difficult to read his features through his gassy shroud, but he was standing tall. In a human, that might signal cockiness. If so, he’d earned it. In any case, I was determined to respect this flatulent foe.
“We could leave your pilot and your Commodine Neff to drift in space until they freeze to death,” Ank Ffrtff said. “If you attempt to retrieve your people, we will blow your ships away, leaving not a whiff.”
“Do you intend for them to die?”
“No. We simply wish to be the ones to return your commodine to you.”
Was this mercy? More likely, they were rubbing our nose in our own stink.
The Methians dispatched a small vessel. It restored partial power to the disabled Saffron Nineteen while towing it back through our own defensive lines, all the way to Terra Light 117’s Bay Two.
“They could have a good long look,” TopTekk Falq muttered.
“I would,” I agreed.
There we waited, two great military forces staring at each other, exchanging occasional pleasantries edged in threat.
Two days after they arrived, the Methians began withdrawing their fleet. They’d made their point.
Comms reported, “They’re signaling that we may ‘now retrieve Commodine Neff and your waiter/pilot.’”
I ordered Comms to reestablish our direct link. “Thank you for not killing him or taking him captive,” I told my opposite number, certain he could read human mendacity.
Ark Ffrtff responded, “He will do us more good where he is.”
Commodine Neff stepped into Command, red-faced and unkempt. Also, he was badly in need of a personal washing. “I will address the Methian leader now!”
“His name is –” I started to correct Neff’s etiquette, a risk.
Neff didn’t listen. “Methian, I trust this encounter has taught you something about Terran strength. We are pure. We are powerful. Have you learned the lesson well?” Pissing at a retreating armada was impudent and uncalled for.
The wily commander’s features were beginning to snow over with distance and interstellar radiation. He had just enough time to respond, “Yaaz, Commodine. You have taught us much about Terrans.” With that, Ark Ffrtff signed off.
“Good. We showed them.”
“Yaaz, Commodine,” I agreed.
“Don’t forget the salute.”
There it was, the cute little wave.
“You acted boldly, Kep. I will highlight that in my report.”
So, I was a hero of the Corporatum. Somehow, it didn’t feel the way I had anticipated. Could a hero get his Doctek returned to the post, I wondered?
“Does that mean you’re leaving us?” I was feeling a little light-headed. The latest crop of soybeans, some colonial variant, were having a violent disagreement with my bowels.
“I’m afraid so. This has been quite an experience. Now, I must take what I’ve learned here and enact these successful changes on Terra Light 118… 119… all up and down the line, in fact. The safety of the Terran Corporatum depends on it!”
Three days later, my crew and I got his entourage loaded on the shuttle. The hatch opened then closed only to open again. TopTekk Falq cursed and hacked into the servo with a hunter-killer script. Falq had been chasing the same invasive blitzprose all over the post.
Under temporary control at last, the hatch began to constrict closed. I called out, “Safe travels, Commodine.” My shouts competed with a nearby container of Crimson Books extolling the nuances of the erhu. “Glory to the Auldoch and to the Primus and to the Corporatum. I’m confident your labors will yield… purity.”
###
If you enjoy stories about guys who are their own worst enemy, check out Zebulon Angell and the Shadow Army:
https://www.amazon.com/Zebulon-Angell-Shadow-Chris-Riker/dp/1637107056/
Would-be songwriter and hard-living Uber driver Zebulon Angell stumbles onto a sex candy, launching him on an adventure that makes him the target of shady corporate players and ultimately leads him inside the not-so-empty tomb of China's first emperor.
Zebulon Angell's life in an upscale suburb of Atlanta is a hot mess. He's scraping by and barely surviving his own mistakes. Things take a bizarre twist when a monkey turns up dead in his wife's luxury SUV. This leads him to "Tiger Penis," a sex boost, love potion, and maybe something else. Zebulon and his buddy, Nitro, become the front men for a product that could be worth billions, but they quickly find themselves in over their heads. Zebulon's estranged wife is the chief scientist working on Tiger Penis and has had enough of her husband's failings. Zebulon's boss is a seductress who definitely has her own agenda. Zebulon is confident he's up to the challenge. He's not.
If Indiana Jones and James Bond teamed up with Travis Bickle, they'd still have a tough time digging out of the chaos Zebulon Angell creates for himself.
Zebulon Angell and the Shadow Army mixes sex, the supernatural, history, international intrigue, and sharp wit to conjure up a wild ride with a spirited finale in the realm of the Son of Heaven.
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