A Moon Called Sun
Chapter Two — Taming of the New

Ice Mountains, 7005.

"You haploids will not re-enter until you can behave in a more civilized manner!" The door slammed shut in their little faces.

The five young males, designated Haploid Assembly Four-fifty-one, stood in a straight line outside the door of their morning lesson room. Their instructor, Love Craft, had abruptly sent them out and wouldn't allow them back in. Not until they had proven themselves capable of a more mature code of conduct. So, once again, they were instructed to stand quietly in line until granted a reprieve from the hall.

Snow White hated the dimly lit, cold stone corridor, mainly because they hadn't ascended to full dress at this point in their lives and wore only synthetic leggings. The leggings covered them from the waist down. And being just thirty inches tall and weighing no more than twenty-five pounds, it wasn't long before all the tiny haploids began shivering and rubbing their arms to warm up. Snow White missed the comforting warmth of the lesson room.

This often-repeated punishment would last until their legs buckled beneath them and their lips had turned purple. But this morning he was exceptionally eager to get back inside to resume the lecture. It was more than simply wanting to be warm again because this particular lesson centered on Biologics. More importantly, they'd be dissecting their first full-grown Grendel.

Their little group was always arranged with the most industrious haploid at the front, and so on down the line. As was the norm, the order would be Snow White followed by Occams Razor, Kama Sutra, Stanley Cup and finally, Bullwinkle bringing up the rear. And so goes the typical order for HA-451.

"I warned you not to puff a mubble out your snout," Kama Sutra whispered, giggling.

"This coming from a hap who shoves vita-nips up his nose to puff them at Grendels," Occams Razor said as matter of fact.

"Please," interjected Bullwinkle. "We can't go back in until we're quiet, and I'm freezing out here."

"Shut it, mono," snapped Stanley Cup. "This is between binaries only."

"Who needs two names?" asked Bullwinkle. "When one is strong enough?"

"Is that so, Bull-tinkle?" Stanley Cup towered over the much smaller male. "And are you strong enough to stop me from puffing a mubble on you?"

"Bullwinkle is right," said Snow White. "Leave him alone and be quiet. I wish to resume this lesson right away." As the unofficial leader of HA-451, Snow White commanded respect from the rest of the haploids. Bullwinkle swelled with obvious pride that Snow White's opinion coincided with his own.

Fortunately, they were soon allowed back into the warmth of the lesson room.

"Over the centuries..." Their instructor, Love Craft, resumed the lesson as he stood behind a low-rise counter blanketed by a large piece of gray fabric. The haploids sat quietly on the floor in the sanctioned position of lotus. Because of the recognizable lines, Snow White knew full well there was a dead body underneath the dingy gray fabric. "Our scientific community discovered that genetically defined females could not be reproduced in the lab as efficiently as males. Ninety- four percent of the females created were barren, mutated, with varying degrees of insanity, and with relatively short life spans."

One of the haploids silently nodded his head forward.

"Inquiry number five for Occams Razor," Love Craft announced, acknowledging the sanctioned motion. "This is your last for the lesson, so keep it simple for a change." "Why is this, Master Love Craft?" the little haploid asked. "Is it because as the male ingredient physically prevails it draws the female ingredient into itself?"

"No," said Snow White. "The biology of gender determination has more to do with the dosage of the genetic material. They must be overloading the mix with..."

"Quiet please," Love Craft said, halting their free exchange of ideas. The instructor's liver-spotted forehead was littered with hundreds of thin wrinkles each time he furrowed his brow in anger or bemusement. And more out of habit than need, he regularly adjusted the tiny octagonal spectacles that rested on the bony bridge of his pear-shaped nose. "The answer is clear, Four-fifty-one. Splitting the chromosomes into disparate X and Y is far easier to achieve than maintaining a stable pair of accordant X chromos. The incompatible gene sequences break down, causing severe mutations in the DNA structure and thus, a female monster is created a living atrocity, what we affectionately referred to as a Grendel." And with an unsanctioned flourish of theatrics, Love Craft yanked the gray fabric off the dead body and threw it to the floor.

Haploid Assembly Four-fifty-one took a collective breath and leaned in to view the corpse of the Grendel sprawled upon the low-rise counter. It was just as horrific as it was fascinating. The odor of decomposing flesh permeated the lesson room. All the rest of the tiny haploids pinched their noses to block out the smell-except for one...Snow White. He loved it.

"These mutated females did happen to notch out a place in our world as drones or brute enforcers of societal law," Love Craft said, continuing instruction. "Although, most do not live beyond twelve years post-bursting, which would be eighteen years of full life." Love Craft droned on, though Snow White had tuned him out, entranced by the body before them. "And currently, there are less than a hundred normal fertile females left in the human population. Unfortunately, the gene pool has gotten quite shallow, my little Four-fifty-ones. In fact, so shallow that most of these viables are only one genetic pedigree removed from one another. So, I ask you, which are the monsters, and which are the mutants?" He gently poked at the dead Grendel with a slim, retractable baton.

"Why, the Grendels are both, Master Love Craft," exclaimed Bullwinkle.

"That was a rhetorical question, suckling," Love Craft said without looking up from the corpse. "And you shall suck on soaproot after the lecture for speaking out of turn."

Snow White tried not to flinch at poor Bullwinkle's ill-timed faux pas, fearing he'd be required to ingest a chunk of foul-tasting soaproot as well-yet another oft-repeated lesson.

"As you can see," Love Craft continued. "This Grendel suffered from a severe disease of the skin and mucosa resulting in numerous blisters across her sternum, torso and pelvis. Many of these eruptions appear to have been sloughing off to form large sores."

Snow White nodded his head in proper protocol.

"Yes, Snow White," said Love Craft, sounding slightly annoyed. "What is it?"

"Where are the bite marks?" he asked.

Love Craft looked up from the corpse, leering at him over his specs.

"Very observant, Snow White. As luck would have it, we discovered this one long before the rats did. They didn't even get a sniff! Now, take up your edgies and approach the counter. I will give each one of you a section to make your first incision." And with that, Haploid Assembly Four-fifty-one did as they were instructed and cut into the corpse of the miserable Grendel.

***

All Fluid Objects.

Atlantic Ocean, 2012. Trace

tled do once he identified the vessel as a Coast Guard Defender. The Defender, a twenty-five-foot patrol craft commonly seen in these waters, was circling the odd I he'd zeroed in on earlier. Only it was more than an odd swell. In fact, it wasn't a swell at all. It was a bubbling bowl of spinning rings around the center of an expanding vortex-a whirlpool to be more accurate and highly unusual. There were slowly rotating elliptical rings on the outer perimeter that churned in the opposite direction. This would seem impossible, as physics would not allow fluid objects with dissimilar properties to occupy the same space.

Skiff whimpered as he jumped off the bow and scampered inside the step-down hatch under the command console.

"What's the matter with you?" Trace dropped the engines to neutral, letting their momentum carry them forward.

The Coast Guard Defender bobbed up and down on the waves like a Styrofoam cup in a boiling pot. Trace noticed the boat was unmanned, unanchored, and gradually being drawn into the intensifying whirlpool. It was about fifty feet from the vortex, and the distance was closing as the disturbance grew larger and more violent.

"Good night, nurse!" Trace threw his engines into reverse, worried they'd be pulled into the frothy mix. With her engines growling, The Joey fought against the forward inertia. The boat shuddered, rattling the fillings in Trace's teeth. The instrument panel flickered with the needles on every gauge bouncing erratically from side to side. The GPS flat-lined, but the beautiful twins never quit churning. The Joey refused to surrender even an inch of valuable sea. "What the hell?" Trace gunned the Yamahas still in reverse. The power of the engines was enough to break them free from the grasp of the vortex, but it sent Trace tumbling over the side. He splashed into the ocean. The jolt from the cold water sent ripples of shock up his body.

Having emerged from his hiding spot, Skiff barked down at Trace from inside the boat. The engines had fallen back into neutral, but this failsafe let The Joey be pulled back toward the swirling tempest. Trace swam against the current to his boat now drifting toward him. No, not really drifting but being dragged into the maelstrom.

Trace tasted blood in his mouth and figured he'd bitten his lip when he hit the drink. Skiff remained on the rail, barking his fool head off, as Trace tread water.

"I know, no time for a swim." Trace grabbed for the gunwale. Just as he got purchase on the rail and was about to hoist himself up, something seized him by the torso. Luckily, whatever it was got more shirt in its grasp than skin. "Holy shit!" Trace imagined any number of critters from the deep wanting to snack on his flesh. "Skiff, don't let me be lunch!" Whipping his body around to confront any aquatic attacker, Trace found himself face to face not with a shark, not even a pissed-off octopus, but a man in a Coast Guard uniform with a look of sheer terror on his face.

Skiff, enraged by this stranger's impudence, launched himself out of the boat onto the back of Trace's attacker. The dog bit down on a shoulder, causing the man to tighten his grip on Trace's side. This time he got plenty of skin. The stranger tried to speak but merely gurgled an incoherent stream of panicked gibberish.

"Skiffy, stop! Jesus barkin' Christ, no!" Trace shoved the dog off the desperate man still clinging to him in fright. "Hold on buddy, we'll get you onboard. Let me get my dog! Hang onto me." With his arm now around the guy's chest, Trace pulled the Guardsman to the stern of The Joey while pushing Skiff toward the ladder. Thank god the dude wore a life vest keeping him buoyant, or it would have been a real struggle for Trace to do both. Skiff clawed his way up the ladder and jumped back onboard. With the fur on his back in full mohawk, the dog continued to growl a warning. Clearly, he didn't trust this stranger from the deep.

"It isn't natural," groaned the Guardsman. "They...aren't real." He choked on a mouthful of seawater.

"Just hang on man. I'll get you onboard." Trace tried his best to stay calm. Yet, the fear in the man's eyes and the ghostly white of his skin was shaking his composure, making it difficult. "Grab hold and don't let go!"

The beaten, fatigued Coast Guardsman seemingly mustered the last remaining bit of his strength just to grab onto the stern ladder. Trace scurried up the ladder and reached down to pull the stranger onboard. As Trace pulled the man up the ladder, he happened to glance upward. It was then his stomach knotted in real fear. The Joey was inside the swirling, violent abyss...and the Defender had vanished.

***

Images of Treachery.

Paris, 1942.

The train farted a gush of indignant steam as it slowed into the station. Josette smoked a quick cigarette at the top of the car steps as she awaited the right moment to disembark. To avoid the Nazis stalking the station just ahead, she planned to hop off as soon as the train slowed enough. From there she would easily move around the city without being recognized as the threat she actually was. After all, she was young and beautiful-no threat at all, really.

The Nazis never considered what a young woman could achieve given the proper incentive and the talent to back it up. They were too blindly concerned with the big picture of conquest to notice even the smallest holes in the woodwork. Those small holes were sure signs of a rotting foundation, yet they still couldn't see them.

Josette was early in her career with the Resistance but rapidly on the rise within its ranks. In just a few months, she had slain twenty-six of the enemy and helped several hundred refugees escape the onslaught of Hitler's legion. The last Nazi she killed was at a fuel depot while rigging explosives. He must have heard her footsteps coming up behind him and turned around at the most inopportune moment. And looking into her big emerald eyes the soldier lowered his rifle, smitten as she drew her blade and sliced cleanly across his throat.

"The folly of all follies is to be lovesick for a shadow," Josette whispered into the dying man's ear to ease his transition into the afterlife. She had hoped that the soldier mistook the warmth of his own blood as the rush of new love as he died in her arms. "May you burn in hell." She left him with this parting shot just as the soul departed the body.

Josette learned never to take foolish chances. Her ability to slink around the wolf's den without being perceived as a threat had been invaluable to the Resistance. But this advantage could end at any time, and for any reason. This was war, and the only way to survive was by being cautious and shrewd. She could only hope her father had gone down fighting, because he was the smartest man she knew. He never would have made a careless mistake to expose his cover. Hell, maybe he just grew tired of it all and finally let go. She often felt the same way-ready to let go.

"Let's call a cat, a cat." Josette stomped her discarded cigarette on the step of the train. "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

She picked up her suitcase, jumped from the car, and scurried under the nearest turnstile. Hiding among the shadows, she blended into the jumble of people, luggage, murals, and bulletin boards of the busy train station. Three Nazi soldiers who maintained a halfhearted watch were very much unaware of the celebrity creeping behind their vision. With footsteps no louder than those of a dove on a windowsill, she easily slipped past them. And like a ghost, she slid through the closing double doors, out to the deserted streets of Paris.

Streetlights flickered to life as dusk surrendered to evening. It was the time of day difficult to distinguish between the dog and the wolf-when Josette was at her most dangerous. Staying lost in the shadows, she turned a corner to make her way toward the center of town, where she'd find the office of René Bontecou. It was all very dangerous but, of course, all very necessary.

The blade tucked into her stocking cut into her thigh. In fact, she felt a strong tug from her pistol too. Her comrades were warning her. Both weapons fought against their restraints as if wanting to leap from underneath her clothing. The sensation was so tangible, so corporeal, that she doubted her own sanity. In the alley, Josette spied some nasty looking SS heading her way. She decided the best way to shake herself free of any threat, both real and imagined, was an unexpected change of direction.

She ducked into a random doorway, through the dingy green door that led her down a narrow hallway and into a darkened tavern. The establishment was one of those typical, intimate French taverns perfect for secret meetings between spies or lovers. The darkness inside enveloped her like an embrace, both comforting and smothering. Josette had to pause to allow her eyes time to adjust to the gloom.

"Mademoiselle?" A masculine voice came from the darkened silhouette in the back of the room. "Mademoiselle, please. You must turn around in order to see."

"Pardon?" Josette spun to find herself standing in front of a trifling, scarcely lit stage. Again, the weapons on her body bit at their restraints, screaming to be set free. At last, her eyes adjusted enough to make out what was happening on the stage. She stood transfixed by what she saw. Dropping her suitcase to the floor, watching the scene unfold.

Josette felt dizzy as she gazed spellbound by the figure of her missing father, who stood upon the stage inside the seedy little tavern. The specter of him was so convincing. Yet...it couldn't be him. Maybe it could be him...only...those eyes weren't the brilliant blue she remembered. The eyes up there were dull and lifeless. And his once thick head of hair was now grayed and matted with dirt and dried blood. Josette could faintly see the shell of her beloved father, except...his handsome face looked gaunt. The man's spirit had been drained away. Most disturbing of all, outlining the body of this poor soul was a sickly aura of putrid yellow like a halo of decay. The man up on that stage seemed so sad, staring at her- pleading through his suffering.

"Mademoiselle," the voice in the back of the room directed her again. "Talk to him."

"This isn't my father. This can't be him," Josette stuttered, reeling from the emotions flooding through her, horrified beyond belief.

"But it is him," continued the soft, deep voice behind her. "And he needs you."

The grisly apparition reached out a decomposing right hand, its fingers nothing but amputated stumps of gangrenous flesh, smoke rising from each exposed knuckle. Josette whiffed the rancid bouquet of burnt muscle and sinew-something all too familiar.

"Ja...zeh." Its voice crackled as it strained to speak through desiccated vocal cords.

"Papa?" She felt herself being drawn to the grotesque form, even though her rational mind couldn't fully accept the reality before her. "How can this be?"

"Joo...seth." The ghoul managed to speak her name somewhat clearer this time. Josette noticed something else about this imposter. Its eyes were secreting an unusual fluid that wasn't anything close to tears or even blood. It was more of a syrupy amber pus-perhaps corrosion inside its buckled skull. "J'she...pleeee..." Spitting out dust, it muttered a few more mangled words. "Tade m' han."

"This isn't natural." She struggled with her composure.

"Nothing is more natural than the love of a father for his child," the dark voice in the background calmly affirmed.

"Jo'sh...muh ga naw. Tade...mmm...han." With its right hand reaching out for her, Josette's mummified father took a step toward the edge of the tiny stage yet would not come down. "Pleee..."

"You're not my father!" Josette was full of conviction, although tears belied her confidence.

"He is your father, mademoiselle," the voice said a bit louder. "He needs you to be strong. Please take his hand and go with him."

"But my father is left-handed!" Josette stepped back and turned to face the mysterious voice. "Who is pulling the strings on this sinister puppet? You are the true threat!"

She was primed to strike at the actual menace sitting in the back of the little tavern when the shunned specter on stage exploded in a flurry of caustic debris and entrails. Josette flew to the corner with her blade in hand. The edge of the knife already ran red with the blood from her own leg, yet it needed to taste the blood of a stranger. The blade demanded the throat of her enemy and wouldn't rest until rewarded. Josette was now the puppeteer, and together they'd put an end to this freakish puppet show.

"I will not be played!" she snarled.

In a rage, she tore across the room, flinging tables and chairs from her path while targeting the silhouette seated at a small table in the corner. The figure never flinched at her approach. This indifference made Josette's blood boil. She'd force him to respect her with his last dying breath!

Reaching the little round table, she grabbed the stranger by his thick, muscular throat. Even so, the man refused to recoil from the assault. Infuriated, Josette raised her knife to slash with all the anger welled up inside her. But before the blade could execute its purpose, the veil of shadow lifted from the room, and the light revealed the face she was about to cut to pieces.

It was the face of her father. It was the face she remembered...clean and beautiful. His sparkling blue eyes danced at the sight of her, and his handsome face was full of life as it was in the days before the war.

"Come to me, my angel," he said in his rich, reverberating voice-the same soothing voice that had sung to her to sleep on so many restless nights.

Josette's heart leapt in her chest as she lost the strength in her legs. After dropping the knife on the table, she fell into his arms. "Papa, please be real." Josette allowed tears to flow without restraint. She was a little girl again and safe in the arms of her hero.

"I'm very real, my darling," he whispered, holding her to his massive chest. Her precious father caressed her head while brushing ghoulish remnants from her auburn hair. "It is all real," he said, "but not in the way you are prepared for..." The last thing Josette remembered was the excruciating rush of electricity paralyzing her nervous system. She stiffened as erratic flashes of blue light popped across her vision. The pain was profound, and she swooned, listening to the fading rhythm of her father's heartbeat...or perhaps it was her own. She blacked out before she could decide.

***

Josette Legard disappeared from that seedy little tavern inside occupied Paris. She departed her beloved, war-torn France and left mother Earth. The few traces that remained of her were a bloody knife, a loaded pistol, and a pile of ash. A waiter would clean up the mess once he reported for work, which wouldn't be for another six hours when the tavern opened. He'd eventually give the unclaimed suitcase to his grateful wife.

***

Beyond the Dog Nose.

Atlantic Ocean, 2012.

Blood from the Guardsman's nose, mouth, and ears stained the deck of The Joey a miserable pink. Trace grabbed a towel from his captain's chair and wiped the stranger's face, attempting to stem the flow. He noticed the man's fingertips were bloody stumps. It wasn't that his fingernails were gone, but the end of every finger appeared to have been chewed off.

"What happened to you? Shark? Did a shark do this?" He tried to keep his body language composed to avoid distressing his passenger any further.

"They wanted...to take me," the man struggled to speak. "I fought them off...I...I fought...my wife..."

Skiff stopped growling, cautiously approaching the stranger lying on the deck of his boat. The dog took several exploratory sniffs to determine friend or foe. Once convinced the man meant them no harm, he licked the Guardsman on a bleeding ear.

"Who tried to take you?" Trace said mystified. "None of this makes sense."

"So beautiful...they're not human." The Guardsman's consciousness wavered as he sank into shock. The last thing he must have seen before closing his eyes was a big, wet, twitching dog nose as Skiff moved to his face. The Joey pitched, nearly capsizing. Fishing gear fell off their mounts and crashed onto the deck. Trace realized he had let them be drawn deeper inside the vortex, and they were about to be pulled under.

"Ah, shit, I'm a fucking idiot!" He jumped to the console, spun her wheel hard over and jammed the throttle forward. The twins wailed in anger, whipping up a heady froth as they succeeded in delaying the inevitable at least for a few more seconds. "You're not taking my goddamn boat, you son of a bitch!" Skiff scurried underneath the console to the safety of his hiding place. "Chickenshit," commented Trace on his partner's lack of cojones. "Pure chickenshit." "She's dead!" The injured passenger sprang to his feet with adrenaline coursing through his veins. "Look!" He pointed frantically to his wristwatch. "See!" Through the shattered crystal, Trace could see the hands of the watch spinning around the dial. "But I won't go!" The man backed away with panic in his eyes. "They can't have me!"

"What the fuck are you talking about, dude?" Trace fought against the swirling eddy. Battling the incredible current, he spotted what appeared to be a big blue rock at the center of the disturbance, hovering inside the cyclonic cone of water. The ocean around this glowing chunk of rock undulated with an intense sparkling diamonds glinting in the hot Florida sun. This was accompanied by a high-pitched hum that surrounded them. Trace couldn't tell where the hell it came from. "What is this shit?"

"Them!" The Guardsman made a surprisingly graceful dive off The Joey and back into the ocean of chaos. With renewed vigor, the man swam away from the whirlpool. "Get off of the goddamn boat! It's drawing you in," he shrieked over the noise of the increasing winds, barely treading water just beyond the fringe of the disturbance. "It's the boat!"

Trace caught sight of his own watch, the hands spinning on its face-hours became seconds and time unraveled around him. "That's enough of this. Nothing is taking my boat or my damn dog! And I'm not going to let anyone drown either! I have an idea!" he shouted out to the weakened man in the sea. "I think it will work!"

"Nothing will work!" His burst of energy dissolving, the Guardsman gulped for air, flailing his arm and screaming at the sky. "Let me go..."

Trace returned to the console and took firm hold of the wheel. He could break them free, but it'd be risky. He'd have to angle the boat toward the center of the commotion and then throttle down to let the vortex suck them in. Once they got to the point of no return, he'd gun the twins so their inertia could slingshot them out of trouble. In essence, he'd use the watery trap's own force against itself. It could work. It had to work.

"I'll circle back around to get you!" Trace said with resolve. "I've got to do this, or nobody will make it! That thing wants the boat, not people, right?"

"Don't listen to them! They want it all!" The man in the water raised a fist to the sky.

The midday sky darkened with the unholy sheen of midnight, oily and unnatural. The wind clawed at him with all its fury, slashing at his face with its stinging spray. For the first time ever, he detested the salt in his face. "Heezzzzzzzz..." the storm hissed, "...laaaaawssssst." Trace knew he heard it.

"Fuck that noise." He spun the wheel, orienting The Joey toward the whirling pool of supernatural ellipticals. Throttling down, he let the vortex take them. The boat lunged forward much faster than expected and Trace lost his footing. As he tumbled forward, his chin hit the console. The bitter taste of iron pooled on his tongue. He slammed onto the deck of The Joey, cracking his skull in the process, and he heard the crunch of fractured bone. Through blurry eyes, Trace glimpsed a big wet dog nose. Skiff lapped on his face in a frenzy of worry.

Out beyond the dog nose, there was a profound blackness full of stars. The vortex must have consumed them...he wasn't sure. There were millions of stars twirling around The Joey like snow falling on the blackest night. The boat shook, rolled, and rattled. Thrown by the force assailing them, he and Skiff slid across the deck to crash into the fish cooler mounted at the stern.

All went quiet.

The space around them spiraled out of control as the stars lost their individual sparkle to become long lines of iridescent light. His world was now in a blender. The pain coursing through his body was unbearable as electrical currents raced up

his spine. Through his agony, he hugged his beloved dog close to his chest. All he could do now was hang on and leave everything up to fate.

Fate decided to take them...

***

Courtesy of the Galactic Systems Translator.

A Different Galactic Cluster, No Timeline.

"Carps! I really miffled that nooblie a big sucking miffle, indeed!"

"What happened, Widgit?"

"Loose pedals of lightness just happened, gum guts. My intended target expired in the expanse. The transfer was lost."

"You lost him?"

"Yes, Murphy, that is what I just rattled. He is minced and mottled."

"How did it happen this time?"

"A smaller craft interfered with the conformal map. Where it came from with that man and his stupid red beast, I cannot fathom. I never heard the slightest rattle."

"Oh, Widgit, another miffled transfer? My mistress will not be happy with you. She desired that particular Earthian, mitt-picked for his long shadow. He would have suckled conflict like nectar from Rasa's supple breast."

"I guess Rasa's quivering tit will have to wait then, will it not?"

"Hush, Widgit! Sacrilege is dangerous around here."

"Their dogma is their downfall, Murphy. I do not trust such bunk, deceits and drivel."

"Then what about recompense for mishandling the Halcyon, yet again? A technology so ancient and powerful requires recompense for even turning it on. You cannot just hop over the dimensional fence and come away with nothing but a dingus in your mitt. The Halcyon does not purpose in that way. You taught me these truths, Widget, you trained me in its way. It must be set right."

"Fine then, Murphy, moisten me with your magnificent idea to realign my miffle."

"Simple. Let the Halcyon take the two bioforms on the interfering vessel. They could not have been tossed too far from the salad. Track the holomorphic residue of their silly little craft and pull them through the conformal socket. Fate of the first will shift to that of the second. Two for the price of one!"

"Bunk, deceits, and drivel, you hunk of Moofty dung! The lineage of these targets is a mystery. There could be eventuality ripples. You rattle like a lunatic duffet to be sure."

"Eventuality ripples will only rule those ill equipped to fondle the ribbons and streams of the Halcyon, Widget. You and I can make sure there will be no butterflies. No effect. Even my own comportment across the fence was a miffled nooblie of yours, my gynoid friend, to no ill consequence. Am I correct?"

"Yes, I do recall the shock on your ugly mug. You wear those waggish pajamas still."

"Widgit...that is hurtful."

"Such is all truth, Murphy, such is all truth. But rattling of hurt...what if your mistress cracks open our little deception?"

"Well, yes, she would be quite talliwonk if that were to shine apparent. There would be no sexy tickles for me on those Tahitian islands I so enjoy."

"Bug nuts, man! Sexy tickles would be the least of it! She would hollow out our husks over such a hoax."

"But she will never glisten upon our little deception, now will she, Widget? Because you are champion of the receptor conduits. Control of the Tertian cluster may drip honor among other humble lambs, but it is so very pedestrian for a gynoid

of your greatness."

"Which is why I would get all the blame! Carps, you could just..."

"What did you rattle?" "Nubbins, Murphy. I meant nothing except we must handle the receptor conduits with a more caring light. What if these imitation pedals cannot meet even simple requirements for combat?" "What do you care if they blow their last breath in conflict or thrust a distended paunch as a discarded husk? My loving mistress measures success with quantity rather than quality." "Granted, those who depart their shell are incidental to them. Accounting for their species is more the mountain of concern as they launch their final assault on the enemy." "Good. Then we will erase the miffled transfer from inside this sacred temple and retrieve the Earthian and his beast for my mistress-my life, my light, the reason for my being."

"Carps. Yes, we will do it, Murphy. We must do it."

"Thank you, Widgit."