A Moon Called Sun
Chapter Ten — Even Gynoids Have Feelings

"You can't kerfuffle me, T. Jackson, you sly hugger-mugger," said Widgit as they ventured down another desolate street of Narkissos. "I know what you really want."

"That's because I told you what I wanted." From the fringes of his vision, Trace perceived his own reflection prowling within the mirrored face of each building they passed. His creeping likeness, full of suspicion and cynicism, loitered alongside them like a shadowy stranger spying from the periphery. "There's no kerfuff...ling here." Shrugging off the willies, Trace focused straight ahead, ignoring the visual echo stalking their every step.

The only sound he heard was Widgit's feelers slapping and popping from the suction and release as she squished next to him. As a bit of fortuitous luck, these tentacles made perfect, spherical imprints on the mirrored glass of the avenue a residue that formed a trail of tiny circles behind them. Trace thought this an ideal method to find their way back from wherever they happened to wander in this mysterious place...a place where it was hard to distinguish one block from the next.

"Well, you asked me to guide you to the Pillars of Rak," she rattled on. "But that's not what you really want, now is it?"

"It's not?" asked Trace.

"Not really. Oh, Rak may be a small part of it-although a very unwise part. No one ever survives the Pillars...not to mention that reaching the portal to fetch you there may destroy you as well." She spun around his legs, twirling her arms as she'd done before inside the recharging station. "No, I imagine a more devilish design with you washing up on the shore of Narkissos."

"And what might that be?" replied Trace.

"I think you've heard the stories about me, and you're determined to see if the exploits are spot on."

"And what's the story about you?"

"That gynoids have a certain, unmatched prowess in the erogenous regions." She stopped spinning in front of him. Although Trace could never tell exactly where the face was on Widgit's nebulous body, it seemed as if she were facing him. The globules on the side nearest to him rattled, while the others around back remained still. That had to be her face if he cared to guess.

"You mean sex?" he asked with incredulity.

"Of course, sex, you duffet. Appreciating the fact that I'm a Chromic 36C, which is a fully functional model, clearly you wish to press the erotic flesh with me. Don't be embarrassed. Every male in the galactic network desires the carnal attention of Widgit. I have drawn you to Narkissos as the siren beguiles the lonely sailor. It's not your fault, T. Jackson, you simply couldn't help yourself."

"But how?" Trace was flabbergasted. "But how!"

"I'm fully capable of accommodating your species with receptacle porticos in my upper and lower quadrants. Additionally, my porticos are auto-adjusting for any organ specification. To be honest, I don't enjoy it very much, because it can be most unsanitary and quite baffling, especially with Earthians. The Curdlings have a clean, succinct way of lovemaking that I find most enjoyable. Regardless, I will endure your more barbaric customs capitulating for the sake of our budding friendship."

"Wow," Trace said, laughing. "No offense there, Jiffy Pop, but I don't find you attractive."

"Impossible. I'm the perfect female form revered throughout the universes. You must find me irresistible!"

This time he watched every tapioca-colored bubble covering her fried-egg, tentacle-laden body rattle in a huff of conceit.

"Yeah? Hardly." He laughed harder. "Trust me on this one. You're not my type."

"Ah, I see." She paused. "I've heard of this condition."

"And what condition is that?"

"Before, inside the recharger, you did attempt to call me android."

"So...what if I did?"

"Well, the term android has a much more masculine veneer to it, but that's fine. I can tolerate just about any pretense, and I'm quite skilled at role-play. Carps, I can even rattle in a lower register if that helps arouse "

Trace stopped laughing. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Wait a dang second here. You think just because I don't want to put my organ in one of your receptacle porticos that...I'm gay?"

"Gay?" Widgit rubbed four of her feelers against the top of her dome "How does being Sovereign of the Great Truvian Kingdom have anything to do with carnal preference?"

"What? No, I mean...never mind. Shit, just trust me. I wouldn't find you attractive, no matter what you did with your register. I'm just not into calamari...tapioca-egg...gynoid...whatever the hell you are!"

"So, you truly don't desire me at all?" The little gynoid rattled softly as her dome deflated. "I am...devastated." She turned away from him to squish down the generic glass street of Narkissos. "Come then, I will take you to your portal, if that's all I'm good for."

Trace noticed the tiny circles she left behind were looser-kinda wet looking. They also felt much stickier underneath his feet.

"Widgit, are you crying?" he asked. When she didn't answer, he instantly regretted his harsh rebuff of her proposition. "Shit," he said to himself. "Hey!" he called out to her. "I'm sorry, Widgit...really sorry."

"You have nothing to regret, T. Jackson." She sustained her sluggish, steady squishing. "It's not you. I've failed one of my top three dictates, which all but renders me obsolete."

"What the heck? You aren't obsolete." He ran around in front of Widgit and stopped her in mid-squish. "And you haven't failed a damn thing."

"How have I not failed?"

"You didn't let me finish. It's not that I don't find you beautiful, because...I do."

"You do?" She puffed out ever so slightly. "But you rattled "

"Forget what I said. You're beautiful." Think Trace, think, think, think. "It's just that I'm in love with someone else and...well...her particular portico is the only receptacle for me. Any other portico is not tempting in that way. You understand?" "Yes, I believe I do." Satisfied, she puffed out the rest of the way, returning to full form and twirling around him again with her tentacle feelers spinning in glee. "You are mated to another and have forfeited your manhood. Yes, that's it!" "Well, I don't know about forfeiting-"

"It makes perfect sense. It could never be Widgit! I'm the perfect female form. I'm the muse for every galactic cluster in the multiversity, so how could it be me? I'm magnificent!" She slapped her limbs hard on the glass in rapid succession. "It's your deficiency of mannish fortitude that denies you true sexual satisfaction. In as much as I far surpass the perfection of femininity, it directly correlates with your failure to reach even the lowest heights of masculinity." She rattled a sigh of relief. "Oh, I feel much better. Come, let us press on. That portal will not discover itself." And with that, she scaled the closest mirrored building and hurriedly made her way to the end of the block.

"Great...glad I could make you feel better there, Widgit." Trace ran to catch up with her. "Just fucking great."

***

The Other Sid

"Widgit, what is this place, anyway?" Trace asked as he walked past another skyscraper of silvery cut glass. "Narkissos...and the ocean I was dropped in...and the rest of it? Am I still on the moon called Sun?"

"No, not really," rattled Widgit as she squished ahead of him, still leaving a trail of little circles on the sidewalk. Trace was careful not to smear this potential lifeline stamped upon the glass. "Think of this place as a world connecting worlds," she continued. "A trans-dimensional playground for the Suntholo, or whoever happens to harness the Halcyon. Narkissos is a matrix, a machine, and a world in between."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Fuck? You do seem to favor this unusual parcel," Widgit declared. "What does this 'fuck' do exactly?"

"Fuck?" Trace scratched his chin. "Uh well...fuck has different meanings. Fuck, it's complicated...geez...ah, fuck. It's a very popular expression on Earth. I guess most of us use it to mean having sex. It's vulgar, but to the point." "Steven Murphy never rattled it," she interjected. "And we copulated numerous times."

"Who's Steven Murphy?" asked Trace.

"He was my nanaharange," she replied. "Also stolen from your Earth."

"What the hell is a nanaharange?"

"A partner the Suntholo placed to my side," she rattled. "S. Murphy was another Earthian orphan under the employ of Sansala Sui-Ki at the temple of Rak-a strange little bug nut of an Earthian. He was not as noble as H. Jimenez or as well built as you, but he was my nanaharange nevertheless. I tried to rescue him..." Her rattle sounded low and extended, more like a sigh.

"Dead?"

"No, he most likely still scratches the Halcyon for the Suntholo, even as we squish."

"And you had sex with him?" Trace said with disgust.

"Indeed. There were many sexy tickles for S. Murphy during our tenure inside Rak. He liked me to pronounce him Chief Bam-Boolu of the Tahitian Islands when he entered my receptacle porticos."

Trace winced. "Wow. I really didn't need to know that."

"Yet never did he rattle such a parcel as your 'fuck,' and never was the occasion more suitable then when he squatted above me."

"Yeah, well..." Trace shivered as a chill ran up his spine. "It's a complicated word. I say it when I'm angry...hell, I say it when I'm happy, for that matter. It has many uses. Come to think of it, it's a very versatile word."

"I've decided that I like it as well. It has a warrior's tenor. Therefore, I've added it to my linguo-cortex. Yes, this is a valid fuck! How's that?"

"No, not quite right." He laughed.

"Hmmm, a declaration of this caliber must require practice." She went on her way rattling the word repeatedly.

"Widgit, does anybody live in these buildings?" he asked as he jogged up next to her.

"Of course," responded Widgit. "Lots of unfortunates are trapped here. Have a look."

Trace turned his head to follow the wiggling feeler she aimed at the nearest mirrored surface on the building next to them. And from the other side of the mirror, Brave Bear stared back at him. The young Seminole had the look of absolute terror in his dark eyes. The palms of the brave's hands were pressed flat against the glass, and his mouth hung open, stuck in a scream. Yet Trace couldn't hear a sound from the other side.

"Oh, my God!" Trace pounded the mirror with fists. "Brave Bear!" The building's veneer began to crack from his repeated blows. "How do I get him out?"

"Stop, Trace." Widgit gently laid a tentacle on his leg. "You can't get him out. If he exists within the buildings of Narkissos, he's already lost...another victim of the Suntholo."

"But I gotta save him!" Trace scanned the building for a door. "Do that thing you did in the recharger and open this goddammed thing."

"It's not mine to open, for if I do, then we'll both be lost inside."

"But he's my friend." He bent down and grabbed Widgit by two of her rubbery arms. "We have to do something."

"You're too late. See for yourself."

Trace looked up to find no more Brave Bear-only a spider web of shattered glass and dripping smears of red left by his bleeding hands. "Where did he go?"

"He has moved on, and so should we." Widgit pulled his arm in her direction. "Please, before they find us."

"I hate this fucking place." Reluctantly, Trace moved on.

"Really?" she said quizzically. "I find it fascinating."

***

Feets, Don't Fail Me Now!

"We'll never make it to the next portal if you don't ramp it up!" Widgit was jumping from rooftop to reflective rooftop and yelling back at him to keep up. It seemed the further out they ventured in Narkissos, the more the mirrored buildings shrank. Eventually, the buildings were only one or two stories tall. Widgit could easily scale them to hop from one roof to the next, which she really seemed to enjoy perhaps a little too much. "Follow me, protein pack!"

"I can't climb glass like you can," complained Trace. "I'm grounded."

"The only thing grounded is your thinking." She stopped jumping. "I'm just too quick and agile for you!"

"Easy for you to say, with suckers on your feet."

"You mean a sucker on the street. Ha!" And just as he caught up to her, she launched her pudgy body over the wide gap between two small buildings, spinning through the air like a pie plate until she landed on the adjacent rooftop with a soggy thud. "See, easy!"

Trace sprinted to the base of the building where she had perched. "Very..." he gasped looking up at her, "...funny."

Widgit threw herself off the roof and plopped down onto the smooth sidewalk in front of him.

"I'm not kidding. Your Galay Zeratee does afford you certain powers. How do you think the Suntholo controlled you?" "What the hell is a Galay Zeratee?" he asked, still catching his breath.

"What you're wearing, gum-guts," she rattled. "That outfit wrapped around your odd body is the infamous Galay Zeratee. But the Zeratee usually comes with a lid a dark mask of the Divinity's Eye sculpted with Halcyonic slivers. A control mechanism yes, but such a hat is rare and invaluable an accessory to the multiversity with unlimited potential. Pity your Zeratee did not possess the treasured artifact."

"It did," Trace bemoaned, remembering how the mask floated away in the surf. "I threw it away on the beach."

"Such a Moofty," Widgit replied. "No matter. Those who adorn the Zeratee are to be sacrificed anyway. All according to the Epistles of their phony Inherited Tabula Rasa. Everyone knows the real deal is appeasing the Suntholo's ravenous appetite for cruel amusements."

"I keep hearing that name, Suntholo this and Suntho-" Trace felt dizzy. "Wait a sec...sacrificed?"

"Right-o, sacrificed through a series of terrible trials called the Ritual of the Talio-Sui. The Suntholo do love a good show."

"Fuck me," groaned Trace. "I guess our friendship will be a short one then, won't it?"

"Bunk, T. Jackson, bunk! Your stripes have gone purple. They believe you dead already! And nobody delights in freedom more than the dead. So, no worries, mate. You can live it up, now that you're departed." "Again, easy for you to say."

"Everything is easy for me to rattle being so damn intelligent. And I'm not joking about the Zeratee granting you certain abilities." Again, she shot up the mirrored wall of the building and squished her fried-egg form right to the rooftop. "How do you think you've managed to get this far in one piece?"

"Yeah, you're right...I feel just...fine..." Trace ran at the building. "I can do this!" His right foot connected with the exterior wall and shattered the glass into a myriad of mesh-like fractures. And before he could take another step upward, he plummeted downward and fell onto his back, knocking the breath right from his lungs. "Oof!" He gasped as he rolled onto his side, coughing up phlegm from deep within. He continued to thrash about in pain from the impact on the sidewalk. "Good googlie-mooglie. What was that all about?" Widgit rattled in disbelief up on the rooftop.

"I thought...I could..." He grimaced as broken glass crackled and crunched beneath him. "You...said...I had powers to..."

"I said you had certain powers, but I didn't say you could climb a glass building, especially without suckers on your feet, you stupid nunkermuff!"

"Great," said Trace. He was regaining his breath, but already feeling stiffness in the back of his ribcage. "Now you tell me."

"Let's move!" Widgit catapulted herself to another building.

"Widgit, wait." Trace stood up, his wobbly legs buckling underneath him, and falling onto one knee. "My back hurts. How much longer until we reach this damn portal?"

"We're almost into the Wilds of Narkissos," she called back to him. "So, we're about halfway there."

"Great, what's in the Wilds of Narkissos-a Plexiglas tiger?" He stretched out his aching back. "Hey, you know something? I'm really tired."

"Yes, I know lots of something's, and you know what? Me too."

"You get tired?" asked Trace.

"Well, not in the same way as you, but I could use another go in a recharger. There's a post just up the block and around the corner. I've never used it before, but it should function for our needs. Let's stop and collect ourselves for a mark, shall we?"

"Sounds...fantastic." Trace walked gingerly to the corner of the building where Widgit rested. "Why the fuck not?" "Yes, fuck the not indeed."

***

In Medias Res.

"...although I managed to get the Halcyon back into the mitts of the O'dei-Malsumi, I was double-crossed by S. Murphy as I rolled in to retrieve him," Widgit explained as Trace warmed his hands over a floor panel of synthetic fire inside the recharging post. "I was certain he wished to defect to the Malsumian Reclamation Partnership. Instead, he led his vile mistress right to me. So...here I exist in all my brilliance, banished to Narkissos. Oh, the irony of such beauty having nothing to look at for all existence but my own reflection on every surface of this vile purgatory. And what a terrible loss to the Malsumi! Widgit is the best spy in the MRP. I have excellent cloaking properties that allow me to veil practically anywhere." She puffed up with pride. "The O'dei-Malsumi are piping for something very big. Even after recapture, I was able to relay the detection schematics on Sun, which proved their auto-defenses can be hoodwinked. Sansala Sui-Ki never even cracked my illicit communication to Malsumi command."

"Tell me again, who are the O'dei-Malsumi?" Trace's mind was turning over from information overload.

"Ugh. They're a peaceful race," whined Widgit, "exiled from the moon called Sun by the Suntholo while away on Tueum."

"And they left Sun because...?" He knew she was explaining as patiently as her programming would allow, and he regretted asking her to repeat herself again...but shit, it was what it was.

"Carps, haven't you been listening? Maybe your translator is speaking in Moofty?"

"Cut me some slack, Widgit. My whole life has been turned upside down." Trace paced the gloomy recharger station.

"Fine. Slack is cut, but in small pieces," she rattled. "Again...once every solstice, the Malsumi must leave Sun for the nearby planet of Tueum to replenish their population. Unique gases in the atmosphere of Tueum really get their juices flowing, if you catch my drift. Must be sort of...a..." Widgit struggled to rattle the right word.

"Aphrodisiac?"

"I know that!" She rattled a huff of exasperation. "Aphrodisiac was indexed into my linguo-cortex eons ago, so thank you for the pointless interruption." Widgit's appreciation was underwhelming. "Anyhow, Malsumi are chaste as virginal nunkermuffs on Sun, but get them over to Tueum, and carps! They go talliwonk. However, they didn't count on a race of nomadic zealots squatting on their moon-pinching it out from under them when they were getting it on in the caves of Tueum. I mean, who thinks of those things when you are about to bust a wonk, you know? The Suntholo stole everything in the name of their spurious dogma. Bunk, deceits, and drivel! What's worse, they refused to let the Malsumi back on Sun, so they're forced to live in exile on Tueum."

"Why don't the Malsumi make the best of it on Tueum, then?" Trace asked. "They'd have the whole planet to themselves. Wouldn't a big planet be better than a small moon?"

"Too simplistic, T. Jackson, much too simplistic. Would you mind being booted from your house because the backyard is larger than your living room?"

"No, I guess not," he agreed. "I see your point."

"Of course, you do. I was quite eloquent in making my point. The O'dei-Malsumi have many ties to their moon of Sun. They've built immense structures with elaborate devices to kibbutz with the ghosts of their ancestors-the most powerful being the Halcyon, which the Suntholo have perverted. The Malsumi are a devoted race. The real fuck is their offspring can't be born on Tueum, because of the acidity in the planet's atmosphere. Ironically, the very thing that puts the Malsumi in the mood is the very thing that will kill their newborns as they emerge from the pouch. Their podlings need the sterile, thin atmosphere of Sun to survive the birthing process." "Amazing," said Trace. "But if that's the case, why don't they just go to another moon in the cluster and cut their losses? There must be suitable moons nearby, right?"

"Well, being big bags of gas and fluid, you'd think space travel a natural for them, but far from it. The Malsumi can't tolerate prolonged space travel-turns them to pure lily mush inside evidently quite painful and most unappealing to witness. They can only make the short jump over to Tueum without contracting the knots and blowing a pipe sac. The Malsumi are a dual world race... Tueum and Sun specifically." Widgit rolled over to be close to him. "They need both bodies to thrive."

"That's a bitch." Recalling their earlier conversation about her receptacle porticos, Trace felt himself recoil from Widgit's proximity. He shifted his body ever so subtly away from hers. "Yep, a real bitch."

"Bitch? Hmmm, another new parcel for me." Widgit paused. "Good, bitch is now indexed. Anyhow, the Suntholo perceive the Malsumi as godless aberrations who should rightfully succumb to their fate, and the entire Malsumi population will indeed expire if not allowed to return to Sun...and soon."

"I see...said the blind man." He flashed an awkward smile.

"Why would a blind man speak of sight? Is he also stupid?" "Never mind."

"So, T. Jackson because I've adequately explained the situation, you must join the Malsumian Reclamation Partnership. We shall be best friends and lovers, as well as warriors for the cause!" She waggled all her wriggling feelers into the air in her customary display of affirmation.

"Hold on there, Widgit." Trace jumped away from her. "I certainly don't like what you've told me, and I sympathize with the O'dei-Malsumi, I really do...but what the hell does any of this have to do with me?"

"Everything, you noxious ball of Moofty dung! Why do you think you're here?" Widgit tittered.

"Exactly," Trace squinted down at her. "Why?"

"Because..." her rattles meandered off, turning dispirited. "I concede...that it just may have been my wish for revenge against the Suntholo that brought you here." Her tentacles barely even wriggled as they drooped to the floor. "Widgit didn't intend to inflict this purgatory, this anguish upon the innocent. I did not intend it so." She sank. "I did not reason it through, and I made a terrible..." "Mistake," offered Trace.

"Yes." Widgit deflated. "The dreaded parcel has been embedded."

"Then I was one of your so-called masterpieces. You do remember me."

"I will confess to suffering a gen recall of the event and...and...remembering you...that stupid man and that stupid red beast? I never heard the slightest rattle..." "Why did you do it, Widgit?" he asked.

"But I did not comport you over the fence! I dropped you where you landed on Earth and absconded with the Halcyon. Somehow the Suntholo must have reclaimed the cell, or else you wouldn't be here. S. Murphy must have completed your comportment for the Suntholo after I'd miffled you in the map and left you on the other side to fend for yourself."

"Why couldn't they just leave well enough alone?" Sitting down next to the crestfallen little gynoid, Trace thought back to his limited time with Hialeah and the Seminole. "I was fine where I landed back on Earth."

"Because the Halcyon does not purpose that way," she replied. "You were needed to prevent an eventuality ripple that would render the map unusable. That was my ultimate desire as I left you in place, yet out of place the total nullification of the Halcyon for all." The hundreds of tapioca blobs that covered her bulbous physique shuddered in a wavelike pattern. "I am so remorseful, T. Jackson. I used you. Your very essence here was Widgit's fault. I shine no better than the Suntholo." Clear fluid began leaking from underneath each quivering glob.

Trace put his arm around her plumpish and slightly sticky body. "Please don't say that," he said. "You want know something?"

"I know many somethings," she sniffled in her unusual tongue.

"I doubt you know this particular something." Trace winked at her. "Because of you, my life has become really quite extraordinary. Because of you, I met the love of my life. I may have lost her, but I met her and-carps!-she was amazing. So, what you did...it's okay. I'm okay."

"You rattle with sincerity?" she asked with bit more pep in her rattle.

"Of course." He smiled. "It's the only way I rattle."

"Excellent!" Widgit instantly inflated back to her usual corpulent self and twirled about the recharging post with delight. "Then let us reaffirm our sentiments with a sexy tickle! That would be a proper fuck for us both, would it not?" "No!" he snapped. "It wouldn't! And will you please stop using that word?"

"Hmm...no, but I pledge to keep working at it." Widgit peeled and slapped her way over to sit next to him again. "Then how about we crush the Suntholo into powder, along with those absurd little deadbeats of theirs-those creepy Wafi always leeching off them like larvae feasting on a chunk of road? Let's lobotomize them for a change."

"Why on Earth would I want to do that?"

"Not on Earth, T. Jackson, right here! The very apparatus designed by the ancient Malsumi to confer with their ancestors has been appropriated for ill-gotten gains. With the Halcyon, the Suntholo snatch mortals from around the universal expanse including your Earth. Doesn't that talli your wonk at all?"

Trace again paced the shadowy recharging post with its glowing outlines of white light. "I've had the weirdest visions," he admitted to her. "My head is always spinning. I have terrible nightmares. I find myself doing bizarre things like talking to birds...even to ghosts." He missed his old friends...the astute Micco Opa...the snitful Brave Bear. "I don't know what to believe."

"Bunk!" She cartwheeled around his legs and pirouetted in front of him. "Not to worry, my Earthian friend. Your intellect is sound as a marble turd. Mishandling of the Halcyon will affect all sorts of misfires among the neural synapses, but this disarray is reversible with restorative treatment. I thrust an alibi from my paunch, I wasn't trained. No snatched pedal was trained. How could we be when the Suntholo never really learned to apply it themselves? You assume I was the only operator to muckle it up? No, they'd rather other silly duffets do the dirty work, commit any miffled nooblies in the process, and feel the blame in their stump. But it has always been Suntholian ineptitude that ultimately fucks your skull-filling and nothing else. Is that better, how I used the 'fuck' in there? I felt it needed the plural, yes?"

"Huh? Oh yeah, that works,” replied Trace.

"Excellent, another victory for Widgit!" She waggled her feelers in triumph before continuing her chatter. "Even as you warm your dingus over this synth-fire, transports are perishing in the transfer-scrambled like pillaged hag nits. Those who survive will be brainwashed and made into warriors for the Suntholian cause-filled with irrational hatred for the peaceful O'dei-Malsumi. The Suntholo do not fight for themselves, the flaccid knobs."

Thankfully, Widgit took a sudden respite and stopped her rattling for a moment. The silence allowed Trace to absorb everything he'd just been told. It was adding up...expect for one thing.

"T. Jackson," again she rattled, but this time with seriousness in her approach. "The O'dei-Malsumi were caught resting in a steamy puddle of ignorance, unprepared for what has happened to them, as you were. The ancients may have been wiser than this bunch, but you mustn't think them too mushy. They're quick learners and quite brave a race worth the fight."

"Widgit, there's a hole in your story," he replied as recent events played over in his mind...the day out on The Joey with Skiff...the swirling vortex in the Atlantic...the Coast Guardsman...being thrown into the arms of the Seminoles during the Seminole Wars...and Hialeah...especially Hialeah, beautiful Hialeah. Where the hell was she? "The Suntholo haven't asked me to fight for them at all." Trace stared deeply into the synth-fire on the recharger's floor. "Apparently, all they want is for me to die."

"Hmm...yes, well..." The little gynoid seemed to be at a loss as well. "Someone in the Suntholian hierarchy wants T. Jackson cancelled from the production without even sampling the pleasure of his company? But who?"

"Maybe I'll find the answer to that question at the Pillars of Rak," he said.

"Is that why you want me to take you there?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure. My father told me it's where I'll find my destiny." "Oh, carps, I need more information than that. The term destiny can mean anything from self-actualized supremacy of the multiversity to being content holding a loved one's hand. Destiny comprises both the tangible and intangible. I've even known it to mean..."

Trace watched Widgit prattle on in hushed bewilderment. Each of Widgit's rattling globules reflected the warm glow of the dying synth-fire in front of them. Her shiny tapioca blobs reminded him of polished gems. Well, no, not really gems. Her blobs were too rounded to be gems-gems were usually more angular in shape. The gynoid's glowing globules were more like...beads.

"That's it!" Trace jumped up, startling Widgit, who tumbled over backwards and trundled end over end until she slapped against the wall of the recharger with a grunt.

"Carps! I almost popped a tweeter, you duffet!" Widgit rattled with fury. "Are you bug nuts?"

"What you just said, that's it. I know my destiny." He ran around the room.

"Yes, but which part?" With three of her feelers, Widgit rubbed the globules on the back of her dome. "Widgit's brilliance is responsible for infinite epiphanies."

"Content to hold a loved one's hand," Trace smiled. "Hialeah is at the Pillars of Rak. My destiny is Hialeah."

"Bully for you, smart boy, you figured it out. But the surplus roar was way over the top, don't you think?" "We must leave right away." "What?" Widgit squished over. "Did it occur to you that it might be a trap? The Suntholo can be clever when it comes to strategy, the fiends."

"You said it yourself the purple stripe means I'm dead." Trace chuckled with self-assurance. "If they believe me dead, then why bother springing a trap set for a stiff?"

"Yes, that rattles with some legitimacy." She scratched the underside of her dome. "You sure you don't want to knock one out before you go? It will relieve stress, and I'll never rattle a word of it to anyone, not even your destiny. Trust me." "No, we have to go right now!" Trace went to the corner of the little black box of a room and touched the junction where three glowing lines connected. The walls of the recharger fell apart. "Come on! Let's get to the Wilds of Narkissos!" He

bolted forward.

"Wait!" shouted Widgit. "You don't know what's waiting for you out there!" She rolled after him. "Carps, not getting a full charge will make me a mean fuck."

***

In Medias Res, Part Two: Monsters in the Mirror.

"Widgit?" Trace tried to orient himself toward the little gynoid but couldn't pinpoint her location. After he went down, she masked herself-blending into the mirror and crystal surroundings of the wilds. "Where the fuck are you?" "No time for fuck, you nunkermuff. Danger is about!" Widgit's voice echoed through the forest, bouncing off the rows of wineglass-shaped trees, shattering some of the more fragile branches and shaking loose many of their breakable leaves. "I may be concussed here." Trace had regained his feet, but blood was streaming down his face from the nasty gash over his brow. Once they'd gone into the Wilds of Narkissos and ventured into the Crystalline Forest, something unseen had thumped him on the side of the head. "What are they?"

"Trihedrals, and big ones," Widgit rattled with excitement. "They'd make excellent warriors for the cause if they weren't so talliwonk. Trihedrals are quite tricky to bring down. Oh, and if not done correctly, slaying them will make matters far worse."

"They? What do you mean they?" he called out to her, fear coursing through his veins. "There's more than one?"

Widget remained safe, hidden in her invisible veil. "Don't know what a one is, but Trihedrals form a plexus, and they're cloaked. The good news is, we're near the portal to Rak, because they guard it for the Suntholo. You see, these creatures establish a trimbiotic bond at birth, establishing a lifelong "

"Yeah, yeah, that's peachy, but how do I kill them?" A powerful whoosh of air blew past his face, just before the wallop struck him in the chest. Like being hit by a block of concrete, the blow sent him flying ass over teacups. Again, he landed hard, which aggravated his already sore back. Desperate for breath, Trace clutched his ribs. Small bursts of light danced across his vision as he experienced the ol' proverbial stars. The cagey Tweety Bird, with his little feet shuffling double-time, scooted by inside his muddled mind. "Suffering...succotash," he wheezed.

Reeling from the sucker punch, Trace pulled himself up on one knee. He struggled to reset the normal rhythm of his heart, and his lungs were filled with fire. Several ribs may have been broken as sharp, stabbing bolts of pain shot up through

his shoulders and radiated down both arms.

"Carps, get off your duffet!" Widgit implored him.

"I...I can't...catch...my breath," gasped Trace. "I can't...get...up."

"Bunk! You can, and you will!" she rattled. "Now, stand up on those trifling tentacles before they smack you like a bitch again!"

"Good night, nurse...you have no problem...with that word!" Forgetting his pain, Trace fought his way back onto his feet. This was enough to enrage the invisible beasts around him. Earsplitting screeches shook every tree limb within the Crystalline Forest. This time, even the bigger branches snapped off their trunks and shattered onto the mirrored ground. "Oh crap!" Trace began windmilling his arms in giant, spastic circles.

"I do admire your form, T. Jackson," Widgit taunted, snickering. "But you look like a moron. Keep a modicum of dignity, will you?"

He stopped his frantic windmilling. "What do I do then, Widgit? I can't see shit."

"Use the Zeratee your suit! Concentrate on the ambient particles swirling about the forest, and you will see copious amounts of shit."

Trace was bludgeoned on the left arm by what felt like a large, clawed paw and fell on his right side. Although the silver suit wasn't damaged, not even a wrinkle in the fabric, Trace could feel the blood trickling inside the sleeve. He didn't think the arm broken but was sure it'd been cut up pretty bad. Before he could give it another thought, an invisible beast grabbed him by the shoulders to snatch him off the ground. Trace was held tight and dangled in the air. Christ, he thought while being jerked from side to side. I'm being examined.

"They're looking you over," reaffirmed Widgit. "You really are quite funny looking, you know."

"Thanks...I figured...as much," he groaned through the strong grasp of the Trihedral as it squeezed him, compressing his bruised lungs. Trace could feel its breath blowing through his hair-breath that was cold and odorless. He was then tossed into an immense acrylic oak, slamming against the trunk and sending a shockwave of cracks up the bark of the big tree. Trace slid onto the cold mirrored glass below. "What...no anal probing?" Spitting blood, he sat with his back

pressing against the transparent oak.

"T. Jackson," came the soft rattle of his friend from Hubria in the Astrometis Cluster. "They may discover my presence if I keep communicating to you, so I must be brief."

"Widgit, what can I do?" Trace kept a sharp ear open for the sound of any approaching foe. "Let the Zeratee work for you," she said. "Center your vision. Concentrate on the speckle patterns flowing throughout Narkissos. Look straight ahead. Look nowhere else. Pick an object near you, anything at all, start with something small. The suit will get you there. Find it and focus on it but do it quickly."

"Okay, I'll try." Trace stopped frantically scanning the forest and relaxed his breathing. The feeling was starting to return to his legs and his feet tingled with the sensation of pins and needles. His feet... lying there between his feet...was a single crystal leaf. The resilient little leaf had fallen from the oak tree, but remained unbroken, even after hitting the hard, mineral floor. That's it. His mind was muddled no more. The suit gave him this powerful awareness. He could sense it. This was the force of the Zeratee. Not walking on walls or hurtling giant boulders but finding this single, little leaf.

Allowing the periphery to drop away, his eyesight became as thin as razor wire. And through this narrowing focus, Trace's vision created a line of sight that penetrated the mysterious environment throughout Narkissos. Soon, the leaf was no longer just clear, amorphous glass, but began to twinkle like a newborn star. And from this subtle twinkling grew a sparking of charged molecules that flowed through its veins to form a netlike pattern of dynamic color. This animated net of energy bled into the leaf until its broad blade radiated with an electrified rainbow of color.

"It's working," said Trace as he studied the brilliant sprig. "I can see it working. I see a leaf...full of color and sparkles."

"Wafers," she said calmly. "Now, keeping your focal point intact...look beyond the leaf." Trace turned his attention up and away from the lively little crystal leaf. That's when he saw them the terrible Trihedrals. Three of them stood next to an enormous boulder of solid quartz. They were tri-pedal monsters that towered to heights of eight feet or more. Each Trihedral had three lanky arms that flapped on their lean bodies like kites in a storm. Worst of all had to be the claws that glinted at the end of each flapping arm-fearsome steel stilettos that shimmered with deadly

menace.

With undersized mouths and no eyes, each Trihedral's large, flat face reflected uncountable pinpoints of aimless light. It reminded Trace of a huge hand mirror full of cracks held against the rays of the afternoon sun. Indeed, everything on these creatures sparkled as if bejeweled with sequins all over their enormously freakish bodies.

"Holy crap, fucking disco balls," said Trace in disbelief. "I can see them, Widgit." He watched the three beasts closing in him. "They're pretty damn terrifying."

"Bang up job, T. Jackson," Widgit rattled to him. "Now bring them down."

"What? I don't have a weapon." "Bug nuts, must I tell you everything? The Zeratee will compress the ambient particulates in your immediate vicinity and mold them into tangible weapons. Remember the leaf? Now that you've mastered it, just concentrate on what you want."

"An RPG will do just fine or a flame thrower."

"It has to be a simple striking weapon. You can't conjure complex machinery from thin air, you slagging dung heap."

"Of course, how stupid of me!" He staggered to his feet, feeling the creeping panic prickle up his spine. "A simple, striking weapon, huh? I'll try."

"Trying is not an option at this point," she replied. "They are upon you."

"Fine." Trace tried to imagine a big powerful weapon in his hand but was unsure on what kind. A baseball bat, a crowbar, a fucking nine iron! Whatever! Can't matter if it does the trick, right? He found it tricky to concentrate with the angry grunting of pissed-off Trihedrals, accompanied by the thumping of their massive footsteps.

"Uh, I need a weapon...any kind of weapon will do." Yet, nothing happened. To his horror, his hands remained empty. "I got nothing, Widgit!"

"Carps, you're not being specific enough." Widgit's rattles had more gravity in their tone than usual. "You must be exact on the weapon needed to take down these terrible beasts. Try to utilize the gray matter in your noggin and grab a

solution!"

"Right," answered Trace. "Ah, shit, think Trace, think, think, think. What would I need to take down three beasts at once? Grab a solution. Three at once...one for three, three for one...and one for all."

That's it! His thoughts turned to those of a sword, but not just any sword-a rapier. A Musketeer rapier. The kind he remembered from The Three Musketeers, a film he watched a hundred times as a boy. He loved that damn movie-the '73 version with Michael York and Oliver Reed, of course. Not that godawful Charlie Sheen-Kiefer Sutherland crapfest. Pure brat-pack masturbation, that one. The Zeratee strikes again!

With this unmistakable weapon cemented in his mind, dim multitudes of animated molecules began swirling about his hands. It was measured at first and picked up vigorous momentum in a hurry.

"Yes," Trace said, a half-assed confidence beginning to swell in his breast.

The more his mind dwelled on the sword, the tighter the swirling electric specks, now teeming with vibrant colors, packed themselves together to construct a perfect outline of the Musketeers' rapier. The sword's hilt was forming itself in the

palm of his right hand.

"Yes! The Zeratee is working!" he shouted in victory. "I am D'Artagnan! All for one and one " Trace was swatted on the back of his head. He toppled over onto the unforgiving surface of the Crystalline Forest and tasted the icy nothingness of a glass terrain. Dammit! He chided himself as blood collected on his tongue. I forgot to keep an eye on the monsters around me.

Trace rolled over onto his back to escape the inevitable onslaught. But it was too late. Looming over him, one of the giant fiends held a clawed mitt high over its flattened head. The creature shrieked as it brought its clinking claws down upon its helpless victim. Trace held his hands over his face and closed his eyes, expecting the excruciating pain of his imminent mauling. However, it wasn't Trace's screams that reverberated throughout the Crystalline Forest. The shrill screams that followed were those of the Trihedral as it howled in agony.

Opening his eyes with apprehension, Trace saw the monster cradling one of its sinewy, sequined arms in the other. The injured arm was severed at the wrist and missing its massive mitt. Amber-tinged fluid spurted from the grisly stump. Next

to Trace's head, a disembodied claw lay in a pool of thick plasmic fluid, still flexing from a short-circuiting nervous system. "Bungers, Trace!" Widgit's rattles had relocated to another side of the conflict, but she was still somewhere close by. "You've hurt one, and they've lost their shrouding ability. Keep it up!"

In his right hand, Trace held the sparkling brass-cup rapier. Its blade dripped with Trihedral amber. It wasn't an authentic copy of a cup-hilted sword, being composed of millions upon millions of flashing particulate atoms. But it was damn near

close, beautifully shaped, and effective.

"It's a miracle.” Adrenaline now overpowering his fear, Trace seized the advantage and leapt to his feet. He lunged forward and impaled the injured beast with all his strength. The particulate sword easily penetrated the monster's mid-section and poked out through its silvery back covered in more amber syrup. With a feeble wail, the Trihedral slid off the end of his blade and fell to the ground with a great thud.

"I did it!" Trace said in triumph. "One down and two to go! Harboring a new respect for the Earthian's rapier of death, no doubt!" he shouted. Buoyed by his success, he searched the area for the remaining Trihedrals. Unfortunately, they had already scattered and were hiding among the quartz tumblers and wineglass trees. It was an eerie quiet in the Crystalline Forest.

"Hey, Widgit." he called out, but heard nothing. "Widgit?"

There was only the tinkling of crystallized branches and a soft curious rattling noise, like maracas filled with uncooked rice.

"Widgit? I can't understand you." The unusual rattling grew louder and more frantic. "Ah, good night, nurse!" He whirled around. "My translator isn't working. Just fucking terrific, I'm on my own."

A sequined Trihedral pounced from atop a large boulder and emitted a blood-curdling screech as it descended on him. Had it not screamed, Trace could've been caught off guard and perhaps, dispatched. But then again, the Trihedral's foolish

screech

was a perfect heads-up. Trace sliced off all three of its wiry legs before the beast even hit the ground. Body parts plopped down around him, hitting the glass as heavy drops of rain. Trace felt a pang of sympathy for the creature

squirming about the floor of the Crystalline Forest. It was a fleeting pang-very fleeting.

"Let me put you out of your misery, my mirrored friend." And with one swift stroke, he lopped off the flat, faceless head of the second Trihedral.

With his confidence topping out at dangerously high levels, he called out to the third monster. "Bring it on, rhinestone!" His shout brought the last Trihedral from around the giant acrylic oak tree. The beast charged down the path littered with crystal leaves, all shattering under its heavy footsteps. It screeched that same damnable shriek as the others and clearly

not concerned about the fate of its brethren. The enraged monster barreled ahead, showing no fear. Trace stood his ground with his rapier of effervescent energy held steadfast in front of him. The Trihedral had no intention of stepping aside, but Trace remained just as resolute and unyielding. "Good," Trace said, smiling. "It's time to separate the men from the monsters." With a primal scream, he rushed headlong down the path to meet the last Trihedral's charge.