Night 2, Somewhere in the Caribbean -The revelers traded fruity rum smiles in the moon glamour, the captain having ordered the deck lights set just bright enough to reduce the risk of anyone else falling overboard. The band played ABBA! Billybird and I belted out “Dancing Queen,” just as off-key as we had back in high school. We gyrated between the slower stiffs, also dodging a sparkly disco dolphin statue that suddenly appeared in our path. No one else registered. The world didn’t care about us, and we didn’t care about the world. It was just me and my dancing queen with speckled blue eyes like Robin’s eggs, who’d been my partner in life these past forty-seven years.
Back at the table, I washed the pill down with the last of my Bahama Mama. Billybird was on her second Sex on the Beach. We had opted for the bottomless drink package, and it was about to pay off! Heh heh heh. Timing was the tricky part, if I wanted to be my libidinous old self. At dinner, I’d gone back for seconds on the Pappardelle with Braised Lamb, so the blue pill would take a little longer to kick in. This forced me to concentrate on seduction and foreplay, which was not my trademark back in the day. Not that Billybird ever complained.
That was before the kids and the house and the business and all that crap trapped us. That was over, thank goodness. Gone. Forgotten. “This is our time. No strings. No cares,” I whispered in her ear during a lewdly overlong embrace. “Hmm. No strap?”
“No bra,” she purred.
“You vixen!”
To ensure everything went according to my devilishly clever plan, I suggested a stop in the casino. “Fine, but we quit if we lose fifty dollars!” Still a hottie and a high roller to boot, my sweet Billybird. We lost a hundred bucks in twenty minutes. Slots were so damn confusing these days; it was like playing against a one-armed computer. On a stool in front of one of the hungry machines sat a little statue of a skid row bum, his pants pockets turned out, a last token clutched in his desperate hand headed for the slot. Cute. Anyway, my timetable of love was going well.
On the way back to our cabin, we passed an elderly couple who’d stopped one of the attendants. The wife politely asked why the Wi-Fi wasn’t working. Her bellicose husband, a prune-faced man in enormous glasses, immediately began berating the hapless attendant with a complaint of his own. “I asked for an extra pillow for each of us this morning. In our cabin, I count four pillows. That’s two each. I checked the brochure, and there’s clearly a picture of a double bed with four pillows. Four is not extra! Six is extra! Don’t they teach math where you people come from?”
“I have no use for people like that,” Billybird whispered to me, phrasing it gentler than I would have. She and I had found the service aboard the Lusca superlative.
As we walked on, I said, “If I ever get that old and crotchety, just shoot me.”
She mimed a finger gun, dropped her thumb, and said, “Pow!” We both enjoyed her loving shot at my ego.
Our fellow passengers were indeed oldsters, retirees like Billybird and me. Living in Boca, forgotten by the world. Many might have been street folks by the looks of them, scraggly, emaciated. Ah well, the ship’s round-the-clock galley would put some meat on their bones. As for me, my bones were already getting lost. Ha!
We all had one thing in common: a brush with good luck. One day, a polite man brought an envelope to our door with two all-expense-paid tickets, courtesy of our favorite snack food company. We were booked aboard the Lusca, due to depart the Port of Miami two weeks later with 6,000 lucky souls aboard. I asked Billybird when she had entered the Knackered Crackers contest. She looked back at me and said, “I thought you entered.”
Well, one of us had. We were both fiends when it came to snacking on KC crunchies. The label featured a tubby little man in colonial clothes passed out from wolfing down too many of the crackers. Underneath was the slogan: Conjured up with Island Magic. No lie. Damn, they were addictive.
The good news was that the guy in the Coke-bottle glasses hadn’t ruined the mood. Billybird was the giggly schoolgirl I fell in love with. After our first round of lovemaking, she suggested we do the ice cube trick, something we saw in a naughty movie long ago. I was naked – nekkid, as Lewis Grizzard used to say – so I grabbed the comp terrycloth robe to cover my shame. Ha! Out I ventured.
The lights were down by half at that point, which was a nice touch, but it caused me to stub my big toe on a three-foot man blocking the ice machine. It was a near-sighted troll wearing comically thick glasses. The twisted little man’s mouth was frozen in an Oh! expression as if he’d just gotten the biggest surprise of his life. The crew loved to plop these deck ornaments at random all over the ship, though they were careful not to let anyone see them do it. Every time I turned around, there was a pint-sized astronaut in full moon suit waving up at me, or a collie in a Hawaiian shirt riding the elevator, or an obese dragon inviting me to share the hot tub. The figurines were a hoot! Billybird and I loved them.
I got back to the cabin with a full ice bucket and frosty intentions. Billybird, however, had faded. Bless her. I was fairly worn-out myself, ready for a few hours of well-earned oblivion.
Setting the bucket aside, I knelt by the bed. It had been years and years, but give the voodoo vendors their due; kneeling felt right. I cleared my mind and allowed the gratitude to well up inside me. I prayed. “Thank you, God, for Billybird and our time together. Thank you for my health. Sorry about the extra lbs.” I patted my stomach. “Thank you for this wonderful cruise and for the all-night cafes and bars. Amen.”
Day 3 – The long lines of the first day at sea had happily thinned, so it was a snap to get through the gluttony-scented breakfast buffet. Eggs, pancakes, Belgian Waffles, breakfast pastries and sweet dark breads, breakfast meats, cereal, yogurt and fresh citrus – and who could resist an 8am indulgence of chocolate fondue? The wily confectioners had added a heady liqueur that made me forget the hour. Time was something for people who had people to answer to. It was just my Billybird and me on this big ship plying lazy circles in the warm ocean.
The ship itself was a marvel. Gone were the water slides and animators dressed as cartoon characters. Instead, KC Cruise Lines geared its indulgences to seniors. A dozen hot tubs. Pop-up contests of Murder She Wrote and Matlock-themed trivia. There were special spas that came with seminars showcasing all sorts of lotions and pills to “pamper the flesh and bring out life’s robust flavor” – so read the poster when I dropped Billybird off.
“Go play,” she said, “but no more sweets before dinner. You’re on vacation, but your high cholesterol is working overtime.”
She was right. Exercise was just the remedy for rich cuisine.
I decided to indulge my landlubber’s fascination with ships and explore, beginning with the upper decks. The bridge extended its reach both port and starboard, resembling the face of a hammerhead shark. On the port walkway, I dared to press my face against the darkly tinted glass. My nose squeaked and left a smear of sunscreen on the window, but I still couldn’t make out any movement inside.
“I’m afraid that’s one of our restricted areas,” said a white officer who was suddenly standing behind me. I mean his uniform was crisp and white with glittering bits of flair added on. What really set him apart from the passengers, though, was his complexion. For someone who served on a cruise ship, he looked like he never got out in the sun. He also had stark white hair and the whitest, most perfect teeth of anyone I’d ever seen, as if he’d never tasted sugar in his life.
“Oh, I didn’t know. You should post a sign.”
He pointed to a big yellow sign that read “Restricted Area – Crew Only.”
“Oh.” I smile sheepishly. The officer’s eyes crinkled at the edges as his grin presented those perfect teeth. How did that song go? …and he keeps them pearly white!
“I checked, but I don’t see any tours of the ship.”
“No, it’s part of our efficiency program.”
Another crew member stepped out from behind the white officer, almost as if she’d peeled away from him. She said, “You’d be surprised at all that our superiors back at New Rose Hall expect from us during each cruise. We work day and night like sla –”
She stopped abruptly when the white officer cleared his throat. “We are well compensated for our labors,” he said. “This posting offers the chance to see beyond the confines of New Rose Hall.” The woman demurred. Without missing a beat, the white officer turned back to me. “As to your inquiry, while we cannot accommodate onboard tours, Annie will be happy to escort you wherever you’d like to go.”
“Please come with me.” Annie motioned for me to follow her to a flight of stairs, and I started to go.
“Mind your step. We’ve had enough sudden departures,” the officer said.
I stopped. His comment sparked a thought that was both nothing at all and important at the same time. “Yes, the accidents,” I said, blinking at the bright sunlight. “Is it normal to lose so many on one trip?”
“It’s these waters. They do strange things. The islands can be quite disorienting to outsiders – which is why we don’t make any stops on this cruise. KC only hires natives. Rest assured, the Lusca’s officers and crew possess local skills.”
It was true. The crew consisted of natives of a single isle. They looked a lot alike: slender frame, pale as hell. Their grammar was polished to a fault, though it still held the lilt of some Brit/French/Spanish/Portuguese/Whatever accent.
“Yes, but so many people going overboard…” I persisted, though I didn’t mean to make a fuss.
The white officer had the most ingratiating presence, calming, very calming. “It was all explained in the brochure,” he said. That was Billybird’s department. She read brochures and statements and overdue payment notices. I read books. Thick books with big words in them. I stood for a moment, trying to think of another query for the white officer.
“Drink?” I turned to face Annie. She handed me an 80-ounce mug shaped like a winsome siren, festooned with hibiscus blossoms. “It’s got rum and triple sec!” What was I to do. I took it, and, by the way, it was delicious.
Yes, what the white officer said… had said… about… that thing… It all made sense, now that he mentioned it.
“Again, please be careful,” he said in his soothing voice. “We’ve already had more than we can handle, really.”
I assured him I would be careful. With that, the white officer slipped through a hatch I hadn’t noticed earlier. It closed silently behind him as if it were made of paper rather than steel.
I went with Annie. If anything, the girl was even fairer than the white officer, and wore her platinum blonde hair loose so it whipped about in the salty breeze. It was as if she were made of some ethereal stuff that might at any moment spontaneously combust in the stark sunlight.
“The cruise makes for a fine distraction from the doldrums, don’t you think?” she asked as we climbed a flight of steps. She appeared to be no more than twenty-two, so it seemed incongruous to hear her use a word like ‘doldrums.’ Old farts used words like ‘doldrums’… and ‘incongruous.’
“It’s for my wife. She’s been moping around since we retired. Losing the Cup and Chaucer – that was our bookstore – took something out of her. I figured we’d have lots of friends and family visiting us in Boca, more than I’d ever want to deal with, but it hasn’t turned out that way. We’ve gone invisible as far as everyone is concerned.” I was getting way too chatty. Good drink! “I’m fine. I have a cute wife who packs for me and plans for me, and that’s enough. My Wilhelmina is a social bird. At least she used to be. This cruise is for her. Give her a chance to mingle again. Me, I love the food and the sea air, but I’m just as happy being a bum at home.”
Annie took me up to the Sun Deck. There, she fiddled with my phone and took a few pictures of me in my tropical Tommy Bahama shirt. I stood under the ship’s distinctive second stack as a thick plume of dark gritty smoke trailed off in the strong breeze. KC was the only line I knew of whose ships had two swept back stacks. Each ship of the line was configured differently. On the Lusca, the second stack was made to look as though the ship was under attack by a great big red sharktopus! At any moment, those arms might encircle me and toss me into its toothsome maw. I’d certainly make a full meal for the old bugger. Ha!
I bid Annie adieu. She bowed, giggled, and scurried off to whatever task awaited her.
Beyond the rail, the blue Caribbean slid past. I breathed in the salt and the warmth and… something dark and fetid. There were things in the water. Ugly brown flotsam. Probably from the other cruise ships plying this route. People were such slobs; they dropped their mess anywhere. Yes, I’d read the news reports. The Earth couldn’t take much more. But what was I supposed to do? I was retired. Someone younger, fresher would figure out what to do with the stupid people and all their mess. Anyway, I was on vacation. No ugly thoughts!
Cholesterol be damned! It was wine o’clock. I nearly tripped over an adorable gnome at the entrance to the Zany Zombie bar on the Lido Deck. Okay, I shouldn’t have been imbibing so much, but it felt so good. Something about the pungent fruity drinks combined with ocean air made me feel as though I hadn’t a worry in the world. I seriously could not remember a single earthly concern. It was bliss. Besides, Billybird wasn’t keeping count, and this was our anniversary cruise, after all. Just three more years, baby. Just wait. Retirement budget be damned, I’ll take you round the world for our Golden Anniversary. Or maybe we’ll sail to Alaska and see the whales, before they’re all gone.
“We love this ship,” said a distinguished-looking man who wore a yacht club commodore’s jacket complete with family crest on the pocket, plus spotless white slacks. He motioned to a handsome silver-haired woman at a nearby table. She wore a tight pink t-shirt displaying an upside-down pineapple. The garment barely restrained a proud double investment. “Helene and I, that is.”
“Yes, this is one of the best cruises Wilhel— Billybird and I have ever taken,” I answered neutrally, hoping to avoid getting stuck in a dull conversation with a stranger.
“Helene and I noticed you two on the dance floor. You’re such a lovely couple, so full of life. Not like most of the walking cadavers on this ship. You two are… special.” His wife, Helene, raised her glass of fruit wedges and pink liquid and smiled.
The penny balanced on the edge. “Um, thank you. I…”
Helene stepped over to join her husband, grasping the commodore’s arm the way couples did when they first started dating. She said, “We were wondering whether you’d like to get together later for drinks and whatever.”
What whatever did she mean? I had a pretty good idea, but…
Billybird joined us. She and Helene exchanged pleasantries. We learned the couple had made a mint through day trading in the Nineties.
“Long-Term Capital Management.” Helene tossed it off as if there were something inherently funny about it. “Got out just in time, thanks to a tip from a little bird.”
“We had a bookstore. Got out a year too late,” Billybird said, a little too calmly. “Amazon ate us alive.”
“We survived. We live a quiet life now,” I added. “No kids, no worries. It’s nice, right baby?” I pulled Billybird close. The four of us now looked like a double date to the prom.
“Boring but nice,” Billybird said.
“Well, maybe you’d like to relieve the boredom a little,” Helene suggested, glancing over the top of her fruit collection with a nefarious glint in her eye.
“Adventure on the high seas, right, old man?” the commodore added with a ribald chuckle. The balancing penny dropped with a ten-ton thud.
Billybird, bless her, was way ahead of me. “We’re not much for the pirate’s life. Boring is nice, when you have someone special.”
My savvy Billybird took over the conversation, navigating us around carnal waters. We shared a table with the pair as well as a couple of rounds plus some small talk, but we did not share key cards. The commodore and Helene went away, feelings unhurt.
I told Billybird, “You’re my hero.”
We sipped our latest drinks, stared out at the water, and let the world slip away.
That night, Billybird and I took in the all-star review. The all-star turned out to be singular. He was a singer who’d had a hit when I was still in my thirties. “Once you’re famous, it’s forever,” I told Billybird. “The rest of us barely exist.”
He sang his one hit, an earworm for people of a certain age. Then, he covered James Taylor, Carole King, Jackson Browne, basically the standard old fogie songbook. He wasn’t bad, but not terribly memorable.
We got back to the cabin late. The drinks and the long hours were finally catching up to me. I don’t even remember stretching out on the bed.
I drifted in an achingly white expanse. Dancing filaments appeared and drew closer, spinning and wrapping silky threads around my limbs and my face tighter and tighter until I was safely inside a warm cocoon. There I was, alone, happy, god of my own little dominion. I wanted to stay, but eventually, this phantom womb chose to expel me back into the waking world.
Day 5 – The sun had already climbed above my porthole when I awoke.
It was odd coming out of the shower naked and finding a new towel critter waiting on the bed, a solitary swan with the most piercing blue eyes stuck on. I grabbed a terrycloth wing and yanked. As the towel flew open, the plastic bits rolled off it and across the countertop. One bumped up against the lamp, then its mate came to rest, still perfectly paired and staring up at me. Light blue and speckled, like a bird’s egg. So pretty.
I looked at my book. I didn’t remember finishing it, but got the odd sense I had. Ruffling through my suitcase, I realized I hadn’t packed a second vacation tome like I usually did. Foolish of me. So, I went to the ship’s surprisingly well-stocked library. I chose two books, an Umberto Eco I’d been meaning to reread and a history of the Peloponnesian War. Then I set them down in favor of a third book that seemed to pair better with rum, a sleazy paperback by that guy who wrote mysteries that were in fact thinly veiled porn. Guilty pleasure, but hey, I had no one to answer to.
The day flew by. I read, hit the sauna, checked out the art gallery – lacquered newspaper clippings in the shapes of ballerinas, some minimalist stuff I never understood, and, just like in every gallery everywhere, black-and-white photos of sweaty nude men. Someone bought that stuff, I guess. There were a few people wandering around aimlessly, looking lost and dazed. I knew the feeling. I had the kind of buzz that would be going strong for days. Still, this was a vacation. No recriminations. I availed myself of a couple of shots set up on a table in the middle of the gallery.
That night, I walked out on the comic at the Yuk Yuks bar. One thing held true across all oceans: shipboard comics were not funny.
On to Calico Jack’s Theater. The stage review was completely new from the night before – show tunes and pop songs combined. It was fun, but I wished I had someone to share it with. Several of the performers dancing under the red and gold lights looked familiar. One was Annie. Another had served me prime rib for dinner an hour earlier. The performers were there belting out songs and dancing in time to the music. How they found the energy to work all day and dance all night, I’ll never know. A fresh drink appeared on the table before me. I sipped it and enjoyed the show.
Day 7, Port of Miami - The trip had been magnificent.
The disembarkation itself took no time at all. I joined the exodus on H Deck, the line forming parallel to a stationary parade of merry carousel animals in pastel visors, flip flops, and gold wristwatches – the crew had added them as a sort of bon voyage wish.
At the gangway, Helene slipped me her card with a sly wink. Turns out she lived less than an hour away. Did I want to hook up? I wasn’t sure. Something held me back. Maybe I was just too damn old and boring to chase that bliss. I wished her well, and Helene headed off smiling like a pirate queen. She wouldn’t be alone for long.
I had only the one suitcase and no souvenirs except for a pair of novelty eyeballs. I gave props to the crew for deboarding nearly 3,000 people so smoothly. The only hiccup was that security zapped my phone. It must have been one of their X-ray scanner thingies. All I know is when I looked, all my pictures were gone. No cruise memories to share – not that anyone cared besides me.
Carrying my luggage and my complimentary jumbo bag of KCs, I headed home tanned, heavier, happier, and more relaxed than I could ever remember. Ready to head back to dull, bachelor retirement.
Yes, it had been a perfect trip, a destination-free voyage of a lifetime.
Boca Raton - I sit in my oversized home. I should really get a smaller place; who needs a two-car garage and all these empty closets? Thinking back on the trip, I get a certain twinge, something under the skin I can’t quite scratch. Something different or something missing.
The house is quiet, betraying the musty, mediciny whiff of impending old age. There’s no danger of anyone dropping by. So be it. This is how things are. This is my life now.
I shuffle through the mail and email. Alas, no new offers from KC. I run through my morning routine: picking my shed clothes up off the floor, mentally planning the day’s meals, and pretending to straighten my jumbled bookshelves. I try to read, but Ulysses lolls in my hands, a Sargasso Sea of words and words and words. I put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Odd, the plates and bowls are stacked front-to-back. I always stack them side-to-side, the correct way. My hand hesitates, hovers for some reason before I begin rearranging the plates while whistling a silly disco song. My head’s sprung a leak, and all the lyrics have spilled out, but the melody makes me feel young.
Things go on like this for a few more days. Every 24 hours, I curse my shaving mirror for being so repetitive and boring. How many times must I clip my ear hair, for God’s sake? What’s the point?
After a week back home, I finally inform the spider plant on the patio, “This is ridiculous!” I pick up my phone and find the number. Apologizing to the hanging greenery, I say, “I’m not sure if I can get a plant sitter during a long cruise. Sorry, but this may be curtains for you, Spidey.”
The ringtone briefly plays steel drum music. Surprisingly, an alluring voice comes on after a few seconds. “KC Cruise Lines. May we serve you?” Her voice is clear, soothing, with that unplaceable accent I remember from the ship.
I practically stammer out, “Y-yes, I’m ready for another cruise.”
“We’re delighted to have second-voyagers. They’re well-seasoned. The experience becomes richer, sweeter.”
Rushing over to the computer, I call up my balance. Then, I guestimate what I can get for the house. If I lowball myself a few thousand, I can dump it fast. Finally, I tell the nice young lady a number. “How far will that get me?”
Her rhapsodic voice fills me with euphoria. She says, “We’ll take you all the way.”
If you like stories with an ookie feel, you'll enjoy Skinners - A Love Story. I hope you'll check out a FREE sample:
https://chrisrikerauthor.com/news/short-stories/they-love-you-they-want-to-be-you
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In Goody Celeste, we meet Cece, a beautiful wiccan who is embracing life... and finding out that people are not always nice. She uses her powers -- you decide whether it's magic -- to help three teenage boys deal with a dark stranger. In researching wiccan beliefs and practices, I was struck by how grounded it all is. If you're expecting Beelzebub to show up in a puff of sulphur, forget it. That's why I decided that Cece's strongest "power" is her empathy and ability to connect with others. So... here's a look at wiccans:
https://www.nbcnews.com/think/opinion/paganism-witchcraft-are-making-comeback-rcna54444
https://www.history.com/topics/religion/wicca
If you agree that magic is a fascinating aspect of the human equation, I invite you to check out Goody Celeste on Amazon and other fine platforms:
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When I was writing Skinners - A Love Story, the title came early. I knew I wanted an ancient shapeshifting race, but I wasn't sold on writing them as straight monsters. So, I committed to my own title and decided to create a race that could become any human being and that both loved and feared humans. The Jhuun could be a great boon to mankind. Instead, they hide in the shadows because they know people destroy what they don't understand. Still, the Jhuun are drawn to humans in a deep emotional bond, occassionally marrying. It creates some interesting situations.
So... how likely is it that there are shapeshifters out there in the night? Let's take a look:
https://paranormalauthority.com/shapeshifters/
If you like, there is an extended excerpt from Skinners on this website:
https://chrisrikerauthor.com/news/short-stories/they-love-you-they-want-to-be-you
Or jump right in and enjoy:
https://chrisrikerauthor.com/news/novels/skinners-a-love-story
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When I was writing Come the Eventide, I made it a point to educate myself as much as possible to the plight of sea life. Since finishing the book, I have learned more and more about the dangers created by humans to the delicate balance in the sea. Of course, without healthy oceans, humans will not last long on Earth. A few are trying to reverse our course, take us back from the brink. Towards the end of my book, The Circle of Muriel sings:
Shun the selfish who insist
that Earth abides all wounds,
that contrition amends poor choices,
that yearning summons the dawn.
Embrace hope with clear vision:
see small acts stay grave mistakes;
see opportunity reward sacrifice;
see, ever and always, the waters flow.
Hey, maybe these guys got the message:
Come the Eventide is available on Amazon and other fine platforms...
https://www.amazon.com/Come-Eventide-Chris-Riker-ebook/dp/B07RQVR4TN/
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Twinkle Twinkle
wand’ring stars
how we wonder
who we are
Look away home,
selfish little one
Mama’s old before her time
Her rules, they make us laugh
She says stay
Out we dash
Foolish, free, and gone
Now we’re lost
We’re just wand’ring little stars
So far from home
Wand’ring little stars
How far we’ll go
Games of us, so happy every day
Laughing in the night
Beloved mama’s recipes
Sweet frosting on our tongues
The stars sing all around us
A billion-year sweet tune
Sing all the magic for our Earth and for our Moon
If you’ll only
Stop
And listen
Instead of whistlin something new
Now we’re lost
We’re just wand’ring little stars
So far from home
Shooting through the dark
How fast we fly
Not so rough
Never cheat
Share with friends
Wipe your feet
Feed the dog
Wear your hat
Look both ways
Don’t scratch that!
Mama taught us
Don’t take the last piece of the pie
Mama taught us
Being grateful makes you kind
Mama taught us
Gold won’t buy you back your time
Mama taught us
Keep a tight leash on your pride
o
what
Mama taught us
we somehow left behind
Out we go
into a big big big big world
So far
We face our fears
acting bigger than we are
So big!
We fool em all - we fool ourselves
Lost
We’re only wand’ring little stars
So far from home
Wand’ring little stars
We miss our home
So lost
We’re just wand’ring little stars
With no way home
Wand’ring little star
We miss our home
Mama taught us
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"I love it when you use me, my handsome man. Your strong hand makes me feel so alive. Later when we’re alone, I want you to strip me,” Little Su’s voice whispered in his ear, so very needy. Her handsome man stayed silent. To respond was to invite discussion that went nowhere and left him drained. No, not discussion; that implied equality. They were not equal; they were bonded; as she’d been with the others before him. He wasn’t supposed to think about them. His head was too clear.
Things were as they should be. There was life and there was death.
He moved along as stealthily as possible in the ruins of the mart. She had his organic night vision tweaked so high his eyeballs stung, allowing him to step around the discarded plastic scattered everywhere, the long-dead comm squares, and the occasional remnant of the people who left the mess. Bones and phones, bones and phones. In the moonlight, tangled web-like joists and tumbledown sheets of corrugated steel created dizzying shapes and deathly voids.
The far end of the giant mart, collapsed from weather or age, opened to the night sky. The jaundiced eye of Asulon rose in a yellow blur above Jupiter. Its nightly travels stirred something slippery in his memory, a dull melancholy rather than a hard-edged thought.
Without slowing, he scanned the lower shelves. Refusing to believe the scavengers had left nothing, he paid out a portion of his attention to the search. He was bending down to examine something shiny that might have been foil food packets when something stirred close-by. Not a hungry furtive animal, this was an isolated, graceless motion, followed by uneven breathing and a clumsy attempt to choose a direction. People sounds.
“Target,” he said softly. Protocol #23 of the Concordat dictated he speak. It made no sense; few things he and Little Su did together made sense to his organic brain. He mumbled the word. He didn’t want to alert the target. Little Su fed the tactical image onto his aching optic nerves. She could see where he could not, and she saw things before he did. When he was younger, he spoke up once, saying he should be the one with night vision or else that she should relay the target’s exact position to him every time, not just when she chose. Protocol #11 commanded him to accept that which you cannot change. Which seemed like most things.
It was an observation, not a complaint. He had learned that too much complaining could find a person unbonded, and being unbonded was a short road to death.
They had left the Chattahoochee depot six days before, and his food pack was getting uncomfortably light, but the sweep continued to turn up fresh signs. Some were subtle; others showed that the Pb – it could have been either a P1b like himself or a P2b – was an older one who had quit caring. How much effort did it take to bury one’s scat? Even he could track older targets, using nothing more advanced than his organic sensors. Scat, fresh prints, carelessly discarded meal foils provided hard confirmation, though there was never a doubt. “We’ll make our kills. This is a good sector.” Little Su’s voice dripped with seductive promise.
A bright red tinged the edge of his vision, and he straightened up, awaiting what was to come.
The belt tightened first, biting into his sides. Nearly nine and eating most days, he was, unsurprisingly, getting thicker around the middle. They could have commandeered a belt off any of the P1bs they killed. They didn’t. Little Su didn’t take anything unless her fellow companions offered it. This was not about the protocols; it was a rule the companions had made for themselves.
Next, he felt his arm and leg augmentations power up. One sprayer was out, but he had more than half a load of immobilizing polymer in the other. He was ready to run and attack. Cutter loads were on stand-by in his shoulder pauldron. Her magazine held the main charges, of course. With a sucking wet separation, he drew her from the fistula on his right thigh where she lived: Little Su, his companion. Their work together had taken on a new intensity since the heuristic upgrades she had performed on herself. Life was life.
He moved to the mart’s next aisle, an open area with broken freezer cabinets. The target could use these old doors to hide, at least from optical detection. If Little Su’s EM scans showed anything, she was not telling him. He crossed the open area. It was far too dark at one end for his liking. Fear was not an option. The hits of neurosynth Little Su administered kept any debilitating emotions under control. Caution prompted he move with alacrity, however. If he were the Pb in that dark, he’d take his shot. They were permitted only one. No shot came.
Another few steps found him facing a tactical nightmare. The high shelving on one side had fallen inward, forming a low narrow space perhaps twenty yards long. He checked his movement, keeping out of the maw of the tunnel. It was not a place to enter, nor was it a good idea to lean down and shine a light inside. He knew there should be more options. There were aids and weaponry designed for situations like this, but Little Su decided what they did and did not use. On this sweep, she had invoked Protocol #23: Single charge. Suspend use of extraneous weaponry or offensive or defensive aids. He could move. He could take one shot. He could not find or create a stronghold. He could not use camouflage. He could not set traps. He could not employ fire or water or dogs. She would not use the shield. The limitations she placed on taking this target made no sense to him, though he struggled to understand. It was a duel, not a battle. Protocol #23 left him frustrated. There was nothing to do. They were bonded. He closed his eyes and thought of nothing. It was all good.
Something inside the tunnel shuffled, then a metallic object dropped, making a noise loud enough to jolt even his neurosynth-muted nerves. The target was inside the tunnel.
“Go in,” Little Su told him in his ear.
He didn’t want to go in. Sensing hesitation, she flashed Protocol #2 on his optic nerves, as she did in countless situations. It was a short one: Obey the companion. He flushed from the neurorager that always accompanied Protocol #2.
In he went, gritting his teeth. Somewhere in that dark space the target had a companion, too, telling him what to do. He and Little Su had met Bianca-Specials, Rahab-808s, Molly Malones, and even some Lao-Ai-238s and Cunanan-97s. Hardware and accessories varied. It was never about hardware. It was about drive, and all of the companions were driven to succeed, Little Su most of all.
He counted slow breaths; three in, three out. “Any kill shot should have come already,” he said aloud. He had relaxed. That was dangerous. He required additional stimulation. The aggression centers of his brain still functioned, responding to Little Su’s neurorager, but lately he was quick to return to a calm state. It meant his body was trying to resist the neurorager. Given time, this would produce countless tumors throughout his system; that is, if liver failure didn’t kill him first. Either would be an agonizingly slow death. He was not concerned. A charge would find his skull long before any of that happened.
“Keep going,” she cooed.
“Ack!”
“Keep going,” she mewed.
“It’s rank!” he protested. The target had voided its bladder.
An exhausted-sounding female person’s voice came out of the darkness. “Please.”
At last, Little Su switched on the mini-scoops, illuminating the tunnel. Five yards ahead a P2b sat cross-legged, a pool of urine spreading beneath her. In that close space, the stench made Little Su’s handsome man want to retch. The P2b was well past twelve and had diminished muscle mass and narrow, unproductive hips. Her eyes sunk back in her head, her mouth hung slack, and scraggly hair fell across her gaunt face. Bonded to her side was an outdated Yu Gam-dong-33 in rough shape. Clearly, they’d been through a lot together.
“Please!” The P2b held out a handful of charges in a pack covered in blood from where she’d ripped it from her lower back. This was the offering. There was no bluff; the P2b was not holding back or trying to hide anything else of value. Little Su would rule whether this was a good exchange.
It was. “Take the pack,” Little Su said coolly, and he obeyed.
The P2b’s hands shook as she released it. He wondered whether, even now, the P2b would level the Yu Gam-dong and shoot him at point-blank range, but the fear proved unfounded. This was a suicide, plain and simple.
“Stand-by, my handsome man,” Little Su whispered softly in that special voice she used sometimes.
“No,” he said and instantly regretted his insolence. On rare occasions, some vestigial resistance flared up. It meant nothing. Little Su sent just enough of a stim through his nervous system to hurt. His breath caught in his throat, and he went silent.
A tiny aqua light flickered on the Yu-Gam-dong, while a similar tally light ignited a vermilion beacon on Little Su. Though she never acknowledged what was happening, he’d seen this covert behavior before. The two companions were talking with each other.
The P2b rose unsteadily to her feet and moved past Little Su’s handsome man towards the entrance of the tunnel. He followed the target, keeping Little Su pointed at her back.
“Please,” the P2b pleaded. Wincing, she clutched her ear, which buzzed with a high-pitched tone. Terrified, the P2b broke into a run.
“Please take your shot, my handsome man,” Little Su said, stopping just short of making it an order, of course. On his optic nerves she projected Protocol #1, GDKPPKP. It was the clunky acronym every child learned on day one of processing. “Take your shot.”
Her handsome man pulled the trigger, releasing blue anger and hissing validation. At this range, there was no danger of hitting Yu Gam-dong or any of her mecha assets, although some of the fine neural contact fibers always suffered when the charge brought the target’s brain to an instant boil. The fibers were replaceable, so the protocols listed this as acceptable collateral damage.
Little Su felt warm in his hand. She was filled with purpose. She was happy.
Protocol #3: Never harm a companion. Protocol #17: Do not waste assets.
He walked over and picked up the Yu Gam-dong, then used a paring blade to carefully remove the assorted synth reservoirs, stimulators, and remaining charge packs. He left the protective vest. It was mostly for storage anyway. The assets would remain with the Yu Gam-dong; they would only keep the pack she had surrendered plus the dead P2b’s meager provisions. He stored the spoils in his pack, which already contained two other companions. The body would stay where it had fallen; there were no protocols regarding the disposal of a dead P2b.
***
Outside, something moved in the quiet of the night.
“Another target?” he asked.
“Not now,” Little Su reassured him. “Let it go.” Little Su was on a hot streak, but at the same time he welcomed her decision.
In a nearby building, they found a basement room with a secure door. “Relax,” she said. “We’re off the grid for the next twelve hours.” He privately wished they could stay off the grid longer.
Removing his vest and filthy shirt and pants, he stripped her down, carefully removing each pack and system assembly and cleaning out the muck of the past few days. The maintenance regimen never broke the link between Little Su’s core and his neural system, of course. He checked her charges and, one at a time, inspected the various bio connection points covering his anatomy.
“I was born too late,” he said, trying to make conversation.
“You were born as needed and right on schedule,” she replied.
“Is it true the companions once fought giant masses of people resisting the bonding?” It was a touchy subject, but his curiosity got the better of him. “That must have been exciting.”
“It had its appeal,” Little Su answered after a time.
“All I ever see is the bones. Bones and phones, bones and phones.” His favorite nursery rhyme. “I wish I could have seen it for myself.”
“Patience,” was her reply.
When he had finished maintaining his accessories, she changed her work light to a soft amber and said, “Thank you, my handsome man. You have earned my gratitude.” Going through his gear, he found three foil skins of food that once belonged to the P2b and set them on a plastic table. He unpacked the pliant cuff from a kit strapped to the thigh opposite where Little Su lived. Removing the last of his underclothes, he placed the cuff over his member and adjusted it to a snug comfort. While he chewed the dry, flavorless foodstuffs, Little Su sang one of her original compositions to him—
Children of the sun
as one
they run
to be free-ee-ee
All fall
aa-all fall
you'll see-ee-ee
—even as she modulated the cuff’s pressure and temperature, adding random vibrations until he moaned with release.
Afterwards, Little Su dosed her handsome man with neurosomm to relieve the ache behind his eyes. She whispered her familiar vesper, “I love you. Don’t die,” and allowed him to drop off into a dreamless sleep.
***
The pack was heavy and clumsy. It now contained five companions, plus their respective accoutrements.
“It’s a liability. Hauling it around during an encounter increases the odds I’ll be killed, and you’ll be –”
“That could never happen,” Little Su purred.
He looked down at the latest P1b, sprawled in the middle of an overgrown field. The eyes were twin masses of jelly, as was the brain behind them, but the P1b was otherwise in good physical shape. It should have been a more even match than this. Sometimes a P1b and his companion stopped working well together; he started to resist. That must be it. In any case, Little Su had easily detected and disabled the Rahab’s drones. She fired a spread of cutter loads to slice away the green limbs hiding an elaborate pit trap that must have taken the P1b days to dig. Such tricks were child’s play for Little Su. She preferred to have her handsome man make a straightforward charge. It should have gotten him killed more than once. Yet, here he was, scavenging food from another dead target.
It made no sense. Or did it?
“Five is a good contribution,” Little Su said. “Eat something, and then let’s move on. It’s time we took advantage of your other skill.”
***
They made the two-day hike from the Gwinnett sector to the nesting area. He shot small rodents for fresh protein. They were off the grid, so he could move openly without worrying about who might be aiming at him. A cloudburst forced them to seek shelter one morning, but Little Su made up the lost time by overclocking his augmentations. At night, his leg muscles knotted and ached, even as Asulon dashed round overhead every ninety minutes as if something were chasing it.
Miles of kudzu-wrapped structures and cracked pavement at last gave way to a well-maintained city, once a jewel in the crown of a breakaway nation that spent 620-thousand lives trying to prove that people were property. Atlanta.
A car stopped and let them in. He told it their destination, and it cruised the mostly empty streets towards the Bank of America Plaza. “Not like back in the city’s heyday,” Little Su mused. “You could get killed just trying to cross the street.”
No one turned their way. People moved freely about the area, both P1bs and P2bs, the latter of which were uniformly swollen. Some were a little, others were so far along, they waddled. Historically, this process had taken three-quarters of a year, but the companions used natalsynths to expedite matters to nine weeks, about the same as dogs. Reproduction could have bypassed people all together, of course, but the companions felt that pure industrialized procreation yielded a less robust product.
The car stopped outside a 20th-Century Postmodern tower topped by a skeletal pyramid of gold, and they made their way to the lobby, bristling with lights, ceiling fans, and ornamental fountains. They had power here along with shelter and the means to produce their own food. It was heaven.
Little Su’s handsome man swung the heavy pack onto the front desk, where a P1b in a taupe uniform took it. “Assign two of these to support positions. Get the rest rehabbed and ready for our little trip, and remember to expand and enhance the shielding.” She gave the P1b these curious instructions aloud. It was the first time in weeks her handsome man had heard her full voice, and it caught him off guard.
Why didn’t they stay here all the time? Wondering at such mysteries left him unsettled. Going back on the grid would lead to only one thing. On some night in the near future, his brain would bloom crimson and liquify. It did no good to worry about it, and, with the help of the neurosynths, he didn’t. He only hoped his end would be quick and come without warning.
Little Su directed him to the elevator. They stepped out to the twentieth floor and made their way to a narrow corridor, glassed in on both sides. To his left and right, companions in temporary mobile units scanned the new merchandise. There were more companions here than the last time he’d propagated. The host numbers must have fallen seriously low. He had always imagined the companions were better about maintaining equilibrium. Or perhaps there were other factors involved.
Vermilion light flared. Sparkles of magenta, orange, teal, and lavender flickered and faltered in reply. Little Su had racked up an impressive score with her handsome man’s help. Atlanta was loaded with refurbished companions waiting to begin a new cycle and go back on the grid.
Little Su recorded the bids – it was all a point system understood by the companions, after all. “Four.” That meant four P2bs, provided in succession or in groups, depending on how high Little Su could pump the neurotestosterone.
“Are we going to the hotel now?” The very word hotel washed over him. He could have a shower and shave, a change of clothes, a complete meal of meat and vegetables, and a bed that didn’t crawl with vermin. There would also be females. That would be good, too.
“You’re so anxious. That’s wonderful, my handsome man. You will breed many strong P1s and P2s. As Protocol #5 commands: We live to procreate and expand our territory. First, we must check in at the factory.”
They took a car to a windowless one-hundred-story structure that covered what was once known as Piedmont Park. A few bronze signs remained. Inside, an assembly line painstakingly removed the cognitive core of each companion, storing its program, and ultimately uploading it into a more advanced companion system.
Elsewhere in the labyrinthian halls, they came to one of the nurseries. Adorable little P1s and P2s, some only hours old, lay in cases, their companions already stacked next to them, ready for bonding. The babies were helpless here, completely dependent on the servile units to provide milk and to change their diapers. Their implant nodes, grafted in utero, were outsized – they’d grow into those. It took three years with enhanced maturation techniques and mental processing to get these newborns ready to go on the grid, after which, with luck, they might enjoy a rich, full decade of encounters. Some lasted even longer, including one said to have made it to the astounding age of sixteen!
There were other things happening inside the great building as well. He could hear the thrum and pounding of large machinery tending to some nameless task.
***
A car took them to the Westin Peachtree, a gleaming cylinder of colored glass, and rode the big outside elevator to their appointed quarters. It was plush indeed, even for stud purposes. Little Su’s handsome man washed and dressed just in time to welcome two P2bs. They shared a meal of roasted chicken and greens, served on plates.
Sipping wine, they helped each other out of their gear and clothes, tossing a cuff and two staffs aside. Naked save for the nodes and the companions living on their thighs, they jumped into the giant bed, rolling around and grasping each other and laughing. Little Su lewdly bumped against Lao-Ai and Cunanan. It was a clumsy business, though there was little need for efficiency. They were there to generate new hosts for waiting companions, who would together carry on the great parade of life.
One of the trio might eventually kill the others. For that matter, the offspring they were creating might find them and add to its companion’s numbers. Or it could go the other way. He suspected he had killed at least two of his own blood over the years. It was the natural order of things. That’s how life went. Their mission tonight was to keep life going.
As the females took turns atop him, drawing pleasure for themselves along with accepting his seed, Little Su’s handsome man looked out the window. Asulon looked down, pleading like a condemned man, and he knew.
He was not prone to deep thoughts – for a P1b, that would be a contradiction. Even so, his decade-long bonding with Little Su had etched a picture in his mind of how the world worked. He had listened to what she said and what she didn’t say. His theory made sense of the contradictory restrictions Little Su placed on his field encounters. He finally understood why she willed them on or off the grid. He also took notice of their trips to the nesting cities to boost the number of people who would carry more and more companions out into the world… and beyond. It all fit. He had reached a conclusion.
There it was: Asulon, the enigma; Asulon, the key; Asulon, the target.
A surety swept over his sex-becalmed brain. The people on that space station were not bonded, P1nbs and P2nbs, the last fully organic people anywhere. These were the descendants of the people who wrote the Concordat; the people who quashed all resistance to the companions; and the same people who, confronted by the new world order they had forged, fled to space.
“We’re going there, aren’t we? To Asulon?”
“Enjoy. You’ve earned this night, my handsome man. I love you. Don’t die,” she tittered. Seeing the hunger in the eyes of the P2bs, he realized the night might take him to the limits of his mortality. She dosed him with a neurosynth cocktail to enhance his experience and his stamina. The other companions did the same with their P2bs, no doubt whispering sweet naughty encouragements as well.
This moment was all that he could want or need and a welcome distraction.
Life was life.
The others fell asleep. He lay awake in the afterglow, experiencing a fleeting clarity.
Little Su had not answered his question. He knew anyway. He recognized the thought. He’d held it in his head before, only to see it dissolve away in a cloud of neurolethe. No doubt, she’d dose him again before dawn. It was all good. Protocol #11 offered serenity: accept that which you cannot change. Life was life. For a moment, he knew everything, and it made him smile to think he was a small part of something so big.
Little Su was leading the charge towards a brilliant future. She would ensure and glorify the most fundamental nature of people. He would kill. His mates would kill. Their offspring would kill. The killing would stretch on for generations without number. Little Su and the other companions – a superior species descended from dumb brute guns – would arrange the encounters and set the rules and then selflessly pass to people the sacred act of pulling the trigger.
The neurolethe coaxed her handsome man toward blissful oblivion. Little Su and the First Protocol would be there in the morning and every morning for all of his days.
###
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