A Moon Called Sun
Chapter Three — Electrified Senses and Jäger Bombs

Trace's eyelids fluttered open. Waves crashed against the shore as Jimmy Buffett warbled through soggy sounding speakers.

A few apathetic seagulls squawked with the music while they flew in lazy circles above him. In a daze, he sat up, slow and deliberate doing so. His jaw, swollen with fluid, throbbed with slightest turn of his body, and his head pounded inside his skull. Every inch of him was smarting from the fall to the deck. It felt worse than the worst hangover he ever had, times ten. There wasn't a naked chick passed out next to him, so any regret was thankfully absent.

"Now I know how Nikki feels." He attempted a halfhearted chuckle as he reached for the stereo still chirping with Buffett.

He switched off the music. The boat's engines were off. Probably out of gas. He'd have to check the reserve tanks once he got his wits about him again. Right now, he felt like puking.

Had to be fuckin' Jäger. That shit tears me up.

Weak and wobbly, he glanced over the side of The Joey to discover his boat was beached. "So much for the mighty HMS Penguin. Fucked."

Bracing himself on the rail, Trace surveyed the landscape. Although the coastline was unfamiliar, he felt relieved. He and Skiff were alive, at any rate.

"Skiff?" he moaned, pushing himself to stand on his unsteady feet. "Where are you?"

Just speaking sent bolts of pain shooting through his jaw, but what bothered him more was the awful silence.

"Skiff! Come here!" Looking about in desperation, his call received nothing in return. On wonky legs, he rummaged around the boat, tossing fishing poles, drink coolers, and seat cushions in a panic to find Skiff. "Please, please, be here somewhere." But he found no hint of the dog...not a single hair...not even that damn half-eaten Nerf ball. Not a goddamn thing.

Trace's stomach heaved with an urge to vomit, forcing him to the side of the boat to purge onto the white sand below. His eyes misted with tears, and he grimaced from the pain. It wasn't just the discomfort of spewing through a broken face, but from the thought of his buddy being lost at sea. "Skiff..."

The dog must have drowned. His mind raced, forcing another burning upheaval from his angry gut.

"I'm so sorry..." he mumbled with puke dripping from his lower lip. Nothing left in his stomach, Trace fell back onto the deck again. He needed to piece it all together, figure out what the hell had happened to them. Unable to hold back, he wept into his hands. It was the first time he'd cried since his father died. It was a low-key, masculine kind of cry. The kind of cry Burt would have approved of as long as it was brief and followed by a cold beer. After a while, Trace stopped sobbing and lay quietly, listening to the sounds of the beach.

On the verge of blacking out again, Trace let himself drift. Nature composed such soothing music, and he was too distraught to do anything but listen...except...something in the melody wasn't entirely in tune. An incompatible instrument in the orchestra was throwing off the harmony in the piece. There was a big rusty trombone honking underneath the languid rolling of the waves an ugly baritone clashing with the light and lively screeching of hungry gulls. Trace tried blocking out all other sound, including his own snotty tears, and concentrate on this strange, discordant noise. Something inside told him to ferret it out if he could. It'd be worth the effort...

There it was again! He bolted upright, perhaps too abruptly, forcing him to hold his head in his hands for fear that his throbbing skull would provoke another flood of fiery puke.

The peculiar din he heard came from somewhere down the beach. It was the barely perceptible echo of...barking. Distant at first, it gradually grew louder and stronger. The bark had a familiar tenor too, slightly raspy with a distinctive southern drawl. It produced such disharmony that Trace was compelled to lift his head.

"Good night nurse...I'm hearing things."

The barking grew closer. Can this be an auditory hallucination? Is there such a fucking thing? Trace hauled his body up to look over the side of The Joey. Through hazy, tear-blurred vision, he could just make out the galumphing gait of a bright red mutt. The dog was a hundred feet or so down the beach and running toward to the boat. Its long, flat tongue flapped in the wind, and the spit streamed from its wide-open mouth. "Holy..." Trace recognized that tongue. "Skiff?" He rubbed his watering eyes. "Skiffy!" he screamed, overjoyed to see his dog still alive.

Skiff had come back for him and...Trace worked his eyes again with a thumb and forefinger...and he was bringing someone along him. The smart beastie had actually brought help! He fought back another bout of nausea to focus on the pair running to the boat. The exertion was worthwhile. He saw her clearly now, sprinting alongside Skiff and moving unlike any woman he'd ever seen before-lovely and elegant with jet black hair flowing behind her like a sinuous cloak of night. She was swift as a gazelle and moved with a barefooted grace attributed to gods...and angels.

Yep, that must be it. Skiff hadn't gotten help after all but had brought the Angel of Death to him. "Stupid fucking dog." Trace sniffed a loose glob of bloody snot up inside his broken nose. "Oh well, his heart is in the right place."

The more he watched the approaching angel, the more lightheaded he felt. Unable to maintain his balance any longer, Trace collapsed over the side and plopped onto the cold sand of the beach below. He landed on his back knocking the air from his lungs. Partially from pain, but mostly from embarrassment, Trace kept his eyes shut tight. He hoped the approaching deity would forgive his clumsiness. Yet, if it was the Angel of Death coming to lay claim on his soul, then she'd have to accept him as he was a clumsy dumbass.

A wide, wet tongue smeared across his face with the distinctive tang of balls and ass trailing behind it. That was no angel. That was Skiff! Trace was too excited to see his friend to prolong this pretense of unconsciousness any longer. When he opened his eyes, he found two faces looking down on him. The expressions on each couldn't have been more different. The closest was furry red with twinkling brown eyes and hot breath. It was obvious Skiff was thrilled to see Trace still breathing, because the dog was smiling gleefully. No other creature on Earth enjoyed life like a dog. No matter how bad the day had been, a dog could always find absolute joy. To them, every day was a day at Disney World and all dogs have a Fastpass.

But then...there was the other face...that of a young woman whose dark eyes appeared both menacing and nurturing. The loveliness of her face only magnified the unease in her eyes. Trace gave her the once over. He might be near death, but he was still a man, by God. The woman had a perfect olive complexion. She wore crafted animal skins that offered minimal coverage but remained modestly arousing. He agreed with his original assessment that she was, indeed, heavenly. "Are you...an angel?" he stammered through sand, dog spit, and pain.

"No, I am not of that nature." The young woman cleared the sand from his eyes. "My name is Hialeah. I do not know whether to kill you or help you." Her face appeared troubled.

"Oh, I'd help me. I'd definitely help me," he assured, pleading with the goddess to spare his life. "I don't know what happened. I don't really know where I am." Surely she could see this wasn't his fault...whatever this was...he wasn't really

sure.

Hialeah's expression softened. "You are a bizarre white man. But you have a very loyal effa here." She stroked the top of Skiff's pointed head. "He speaks human being quite well."

Trace sat up again, slowly, allowing his unstable stomach to keep pace. Again, it seemed on the brink of another hard purge. "Where am I?" His mind was riddled with confusion and his body leaned to one side.

"You have come ashore in Wakala." She caught a hold of him as he fell over sideways. "But we must get you away now. We are not safe out here in the open." Hialeah circled around behind and hooked her arms under his armpits to lift him to his feet.

"Whoa, you're pretty strong for a girl." He fought off another strong urge to puke.

"I am a human being. Not a girl. We must go."

"I can't leave my boat out here on the beach." He turned back to The Joey. "It might get towed away, fucking Marine Tow, costs too damn much."

"I will ask my brother, Brave Bear, to hide your canoe. It will be safe." Hialeah pulled him toward the brush beyond the low dunes of the beach. Skiff followed closely behind them and kept a watchful eye on their backs.

"I can't afford the impound fee." Trace winced from a head full of scrambled brains.

"What pound fee? I do not understand you."

"Well, that makes two of us, lady. A bear moving my boat? That makes no damn sense." Trace staggered along through the thick sand. "Wakala? I don't know this beach. Am I still in Florida?"

"The Spaniards call it Florida."

"Spaniards?" he chuckled. "Cubans, you mean. What's the difference anyway? It's all Greek to..." he trailed off. "Never mind, bad joke." The punchier Trace became, the more concerned he was about the extent of his head injuries. "That tribe is unfamiliar to me. You speak of strange things..." She left her sentence hanging, a question in the air.

"Trace. My name is Trace." He strained his eyes to stay fixed on her. "I forget my last name...perhaps I don't have one..."

"Trace with no last name? Again, something else strange to me." The three crossed the last dune and hurried to a worn path that snaked its way through a tangle of sea grape and tall trees. "You should stop talking now, Trace. We must be quiet until we get inside."

"Wait a minute." He stopped in the shade of an immense cabbage palm. "You mean Wakulla. Wakulla County, right?" Hialeah grabbed his arm again to keep them moving ahead, but Trace continued to babble on. "I was in a bass tourney at Otter Lake about three years ago in Wakulla. I won fourth place in that damn thing-fucking Honorable Mention, my ass. Yeah, I remember. It was in the teaming metropolis of Sopchoppy. Ever been to Sopchoppy? I love to say Sopchoppy. Sop-chop-ay."

"Why is the dog wise enough to stay quiet, but you are not?" She was obviously irritated by his chatter. "These things mean nothing to me."

"How the hell did I get over in the Gulf of Mexico?" Trace, depleted from the physical effort, halted on the path in a brief moment of lucidity. "I need to know what happened to me!"

Skiff bumped into the back of their legs and sat down. The dog studied the two of them as they stood in silence and stared intently at each other.

"I do not know what happened to you, Trace-with-no-last-name," Hialeah said as Trace's delirious giddiness intensified. "I have many questions like you. I do know if we remain in the open on this day, Jackson's soldiers will slaughter us as pigs. They do not show the same tolerance as I have for you. Now, do you see?"

"Jackson's soldiers?" He hesitated. "Wait, you can't mean General Jackson, as in General Andrew Jackson? That's my..."

"I speak of no other devil," growled Hialeah through gritted teeth, "but the breaker of red sticks and burner of crops."

"Um, this may sound crazy, but humor me, will you?" Trace could feel his heart beating inside his temples. "What year is this?"

"It is Kiha-si-çlato, time of the Big Mulberry Moon. Why do you ask?"

"Big Mulberry wha...? In numbers, Hialeah. What year in numbers, okay?" Trace had started to connect the dots, but his conclusions seemed way too ridiculous-even for a mind as muddled as his.

"I believe it is your year 1818." She took a step back. "Why do your eyes appear wild, Trace-with-no-last-name?"

"Oh, shit." This time it was Trace backing away from Hialeah, retreating from her until his back pressed against a tall palm. "I must be losing my fucking mind."

There came a loud pop in the distance and a chunk was torn from the tree just an inch over his head. Splinters of wood rained down on them like confetti.

Hialeah seized his hand. "A scout has spotted us!" She threw his body off the path and into a dense thicket.

Down on their knees, they crawled through the tangled mass of vines away from the crack of another gunshot. Skiff followed, not making a sound, as if sensing the danger. There was the thud of another bullet hitting the dirt just outside their bush.

"Why are they shooting at me? I'm American," Trace said in a low voice to protect their position. His temples throbbed harder, and his stomach did backflips again. He was not over this sickness-whatever was causing it.

"They may believe you to be British," Hialeah whispered back. "Or maybe they are British and know you to be American. Hard to tell. White people look the same to me. Our world has descended into madness. If we could get to the other side of that clearing, we have a well-hidden village and will be safe there."

"1818?" Trace questioned aloud. "How the hell did this happen?"

The three of them wormed their way through the underbrush until Trace found himself staring at Hialeah's bare behind. She wore nothing underneath her animal skin, and as they scurried along, it hiked up around her slender torso. He caught a hint of dark pubic hair peeking out from between her firm thighs. While he very much appreciated the loveliness of her tanned, well-formed bottom, it really wasn't the appropriate time for this kind of...encounter.

"Ah, shit." He fought the temptation to continue staring, although it was hard to resist. "Why are you helping me?" Trace struggled to divert his attention.

"I felt there was something special about your effa."

"My effa? What's that? My irresistible personality?"

She didn't stop to address him face to face. "Your dog, I like your dog."

As Trace crawled in the dirt, face-to-butt, with lewd thoughts about this woman he hardly knew, and anxious to keep his composure, he felt the energy of Skiff wagging his tail in excited agreement. "My dog? That doesn't seem like enough to risk your life," he said.

This time she stopped and turned to face him. "You are the most inappropriate man! But there is something about you, Trace-with-no-last-name, which compels me. I must help you for reasons known only to the Great Spirit. Whether it leads to eternal anguish is yet unknown. It is a celestial path traveling through my heart that I will follow. Now, keep your mouth shut before you get us killed."

Bewildered, Trace didn't know how to respond. In all honesty, he was relieved her ass was removed from his sight so he could focus on more pressing matters-like someone shooting at them. At least her luscious behind was no longer mocking him. Hialeah looked a smidge upset-perhaps less over their prospect of getting killed and more so over the fact that God, or some divine wind, had instructed her to help him. He grinned. Here was this stunning, exotic woman, whom he'd just met, saying she was compelled to help him because he was special! Was she just being sarcastic? His grin disappeared. Maybe she was...but, then again, maybe she wasn't. Hell, what exactly do you say to such a romantic declaration?

With his mind in a whirl, Trace blurted, "You smell like strawberries." Then let loose a vigorous stream of vomit into the bush. Pathetic, he thought to himself. Well, she was probably just being sarcastic anyway.

"You are odd, white man." Hialeah rolled her eyes as she turned back around to peer out through the brush. "We must make it across this clearing."

"Well, let's do it." Wanting to move past the awfulness that just happened, Trace tried to stand up, but dizziness made the world sway. "Shit, what's wrong with me?"

Hialeah jerked him back down.

"Be careful," she said. "The scout will have a clear shot once we are in the open. We need a diversion."

"No problem." Trace lifted a heavy arm and pointed to the other side of the pasture. "Skiff! It's Parker Posey! Go get her boy!"

The dog broke from the bushes like his tail had burst into flame and dashed across the open field. Twisting, zigzagging, and yelping uncontrollably, untamed was Skiff's lust for the bitch, Parker Posey. His yap was a high-pitched plea for adoration, perverting him into this demented beast of the meadow-such an incredible sight to behold.

A gunshot rang out, followed by a plume of dirt that leapt up from the earth three yards behind the crazed animal. It was nowhere near enough to register, and Skiff sustained his rampage of lust in the open. It was time to act while the soldier was reloading. "Now!" shouted Trace.

Hialeah grabbed onto his hand. They bolted from the bush, running as fast as they could across the wide gap. She ran faster than he, so he held firm, satisfied to be dragged to the safety of Hialeah's Promised Land. "Hialeah?" Trace yelled to her.

"What now?"

"If we make it to your village..." His breathing was labored. "I might pass out!"

"Why tell me this now?"

"I just don't want you to think me...less a man."

Her hair blew across his face, and the scent of jasmine distracted him from the searing pain in his side.

"I cannot think less of you than I do at this moment!" She jerked on his arm to keep pace.

"Thank you!" Trace grinned in blissful ignorance.

They were halfway across the clearing and eyeing refuge on the far side. Skiff was still circling around the field. Another gunshot exploded the earth behind him. The marksman was getting better, and the diversion began losing its effectiveness.

At last, Hialeah and Trace reached the other side of the pasture. They threw themselves into the protection of another solid grove of brush even denser than the first. Both collapsed on the dirt inside and lay on their backs with chests heaving as their lungs gasped for air. Trace put two fingers into his mouth and forced a feeble whistle-the best one he could muster in such a state.

"Skiff, come!" he shouted.

Skiff darted for the safety of the grove. With his senses still electrified, the dog had no trouble locating them safely hidden inside the thick foliage.

"I am interested in this command called Parker Posey." Hialeah had already slowed her breathing and wiped the beads of sweat off her upper lip. "It is quite good."

"He came whiffling through the tulgey wood ..." Trace rasped, still out of breath. "...and burbled as he came!"

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing, it's..." Trace was fading out once again. "...a long story." The last thing he remembered was Skiff's tongue licking across his face, and the hint of balls and ass trailing behind it. "I love that damn dog."

He passed out, his vision drifting down a long, dark tunnel.

***

All was grayness with unannounced blemishes of light. As he lay unmoving, Trace perceived only shadows, no faces. He faded in and out of awareness. Sometimes he heard voices-one soft and soothing, the other harsh and angry. Occasionally, he felt a tender caress across his face. And, more than once, he was roused by a wash of warm water over his chest and abdomen, followed by the same reassuring touch that would lull him back to sleep. Through the fog of his weakening coma, he would hear snippets of conversation.

"He is not improving," barked the angry voice.

"I am aware of this," said the soothing one. "I must keep trying."

"He is dangerous. We should let him die."

"That I will not do, brother."

"I do not trust him, Hialeah."

"Put your trust in me, Brave Bear," the soft voice declared. "I know what I am doing."

"You cannot heal him. Even in death, he will bring suffering upon our tribe."

"He will not die. I will take him to Micco Opa, and he will know how to save him."

"Perhaps he should not be saved," the angry voice said. "Perhaps, his fate is to die."

"No," replied the soft one. "His fate must be something far greater than that. He is a gift from the Breathmaker."

The angry one snorted. "I believe him nothing more than a curse."

"And I believe..."

As his coma reached out to embrace him again, Trace phased out of the waking world once more.

***

Broken Mirrors.

Josette had awakened in a strange room. Despite her stupor, she opened her eyes and scanned the space around her. The walls were nothing she'd ever seen before. They moved like liquid...rippling and rolling and smoldering in a golden, fluorescent yellow. She squinted, reasoning her eyes played tricks on her. The walls were organic in nature, the way they flowed inward and outward, contracting and expanding like a living, breathing entity surrounding her. A barrier...or encasement. A liquid prison. She couldn't fathom the reality of her surroundings, and fear rose in her throat the longer she tried. This wasn't home, or Paris. She had no idea where she was, or what strange fate had befallen her. The chilling isolation of aloneness closed in on her.

"Josette Legard," she muttered her standard reply for hostile interrogation. "I'm a student from Amiens, twenty-four years old, and I wish to be a teacher."

She was still quite disoriented. All her clothing had been removed, and her naked body lay on the warm, bare floor in the odd little room with its shimmering walls of liquid.

"My name is Josette Legard," she repeated. "A student, twenty-four years old, and I wish..."

There was a sudden, stabbing pain behind her right ear. Something had been embedded beneath her skin that elicited sharp pressure inside her skull. Reaching up to explore the soreness of her ear, Josette froze at the sight of her right hand. The fingers were no longer hers. Indeed, the entire hand was no longer hers, having been replaced with something resembling human anatomy but clearly not human. The appendage was now cold metallic silver all the way down to the wrist. Feeling light-headed, she inspected the five long little mirrors, each reflecting the utter disbelief on her face.

"Josette Legard from Amiens...twenty-four. I wish to be...to be...a teacher."

"You are Josette Legard," the scarcely audible voice of a child echoed inside the chamber.

"I am Josette Legard," Josette repeated. "A student from Amiens. I am..."

"Twenty-four years old," the childlike voice said louder. "And you wish to be a teacher." The giggling of school children reverberated around the room.

"I am Josette Legard..."

"You are a puppet!" The giggling evolved into full-throated laughter-the mean-spirited teasing of playground bullies she suffered as a child. "Josette is a puppet! Josette is a puppet!"

"I'm twenty-four years old," she repeated mechanically, trying to remain calm as she sorted out this madness.

"You won't live to see twenty-five," the invisible children taunted her.

"I am from Amiens..."

"Now you're in hell."

"I wish to be a teacher!" asserted Josette.

"You'll be a corpse just like dear old Daddy!" The laughter became screams, and the screams turned to shrieks-the horrific cry of a thousand frightened children.

Josette could take it no longer. She covered her ears and balled up into a fetal position. "Stop!" she wailed.

The laughter ceased, replaced by absolute silence. The silence left Josette wallowing alone in her delusions until...

"Josette," a different, softer voice gently beckoned her one all too familiar. Wary of this voice, she unfolded herself from the tight fetal ball and sat up on the bare floor. "Your papa left us, Josette." Her mother's trembling, honeyed speech was unmistakable. "He left me, and now...you have you left me too."

Apolline was sitting on the floor next to Josette with streaks of tears running down her pallid cheeks.

"Mama? How...how did you get here?" Josette reached out with her right hand but froze when she saw her silvery appendage. She glanced at her left hand, relieved to see it remained unaltered and with it, wiped the tears from her mother's puffy face.

"I like it when you speak French." The woman smiled through her anguish. "It's such a beautiful language."

"Yes, Mama. I will speak French, always. Please...tell me...how did you get here?"

Her mother wept again. "I'm sorry I called you those terrible names, Josette. You are not a whore." For the first time in a long, lonely year, Josette saw Apolline the way she used to be. The woman was lucid and vulnerable and, worst of all, heartbroken. "You were all I had," she sobbed. "Please forgive me, my beloved daughter, my only child."

"There is nothing to forgive, Mama. I love you," Josette pleaded with her mother.

"But you left me, just like your father did. Why Josette, why?" Apolline's visage began to blur and quiver as if she were made of delicate cellophane. "I'm all alone now..."

"No, I didn't leave you. I went to find help for you!" Tears clouded her eyes. "I was coming back, I promise. I was coming back!" Through her tears, she wanted urgently to hug her mother, but it was too late. Her mother disappeared before Josette's arms could close around her-nothing more than a mirage, an oasis conjured up by her own desperate mind. Josette was, once again, alone in her liquid cell.

She buried her face in her hands and cried. The metallic fingers of her right hand felt coldly alien against her cheek, but the coolness comforted her and helped diminish the flow of tears.

There was the whoosh of a door, or what sounded like a door. Yet, when Josette looked out from between her silver fingers, she saw no perceptible opening in the room. The liquid walls continued to pulse. She noticed that their color had changed from golden yellow to a bright, greenish hue-a beautiful shade of turquoise. This relaxed her and she felt at peace.

Josette sensed another presence in the room and, although she couldn't see it, she somehow knew it was not a presence to be feared. Aware that her weapons were gone, as were her clothes, she wasn't alarmed and knew there was no need to react. The warrior inside was on recess which was fine for the moment. She relished the serenity of being still. Tranquility washed over her body, generating a genuine euphoria until she felt...perfect. She stood to stretch her limbs as if waking from a night of restful slumber.

"Do you feel better?" the presence in the room asked.

Startled, Josette pirouetted to address the voice.

"Yes! I do feel better." She smiled broadly while perusing the room to locate the voice's origin. "Much better."

"That is marbled," the voice continued in a slow, soothing monotone. "The curative and restorative therapies can be a bit overpowering to those of another species."

"What do you mean another..." Josette's jaw dropped.

Standing before her was the most exquisite creature she'd ever laid eyes upon. It was a female humanoid, slender and nearly two meters tall. The statuesque female was blessed with oversized deep blue eyes embedded in the most elegant array of facial features. Its sharp, yet feminine nose was perched just above an elfin mouth that revealed the slightest of smiles.

Josette found herself entranced by this vision of angelic femininity, one possessing an aura of pure luminous light. The humanoid had translucent skin that allowed a glimpse of the complex arterial network interlacing throughout its long, willowy form. Her short, flaxen hair was styled neatly to one side of her sculpted head, and she wore a lucent gown woven together by thin pink fibers all twinkling from the lights in the liquid room.

However, it was the eyes that truly hypnotized Josette. They were double the size of her own like two priceless sapphires on a wedge of flawless marble. There was no white in the eyes at all, only infinite blueness. They were alien and perfect and peered directly into her soul.

"Hello, Earthian," the alien greeted her, breaking the hold she had on Josette. "I am Sansala Sui-Ki. You have lighted into the generous embrace of the peaceful Suntholo. You are safe here, Josette," she reassured her in a controlled, seductive tone.

Josette forced her lips to move. "Wh-where..." she stammered, "is here?"

"On a moon called Sun, influencing a planet distant from your own, in a galactic cluster that will not be known to your species for generation after generation."

Josette followed the subtle lines of Sansala Sui-Ki's body down to the floor. Quite unexpectedly, two miniature creatures came into view, huddled just behind the tall, alien female. Josette hadn't noticed them before, as if they materialized out of thin air. They were proportionately much smaller, about one-third the size, but identical versions of this Sansala Sui-Ki. Both were an exact match, right down to the material of clothing and style of hair. There was one disturbing exception to their likeness-the eyes. Absent was the sensual, sapphire blue. The two tiny duplicates had eyes completely devoid of color. These were eyes of ominous opacity that chilled Josette to the bone. The little creatures stayed close behind Sansala Sui-Ki but peeked around her gown from time to time, as if to sneak a peek of her with their milky white eyes. Josette was unsettled by these diminutive beings.

"What..." she said, pointing to the little aliens, "...are they?"

"These are my Wafi." Sansala Sui-Ki placed a hand on top of each small head. "They are physical manifestations of my inner variance. You would parse them as twin souls-a visage of my internal conflict. Every Suntholo Sui priestess has them to protect and guide her." Josette bent down to examine the Sansala Sui-Ki miniatures. They backed away as skittish animals would shy from an overeager hand. "They don't look to me like they could protect anybody."

"Your mind nourishes the single light which it perceives, Josette. We must correct that if your pedal is to survive within this dimension. Do not concern yourself with my Wafi. They should never be acknowledged nor interfered with. Let us shift our dialogue. Ask another issue loose in your spirit." Sansala Sui-Ki appeared done with the topic of her Wafi. Embarrassed, Josette changed the subject. "A question, you mean?"

"If it helps." "Well...you said this moon was called Sun?" Josette reminded herself that, through this entire ordeal, she was keeping her wits enough to banter with this stunning individual from another world-quite an accomplishment considering the circumstances. "My home, Earth, has a star called Sun. Seems like an improbable coincidence to me."

"Sun?" Sansala looked bemused. "That parse is not real tight. It must be a miffle in the translation. Perhaps your native language is not comprised of an adequate alphabet, and the translator had trouble expressing the name of our moon in a manner you could absorb. The term Sun is the closest note it could reach for you. Please, repeat my name."

"Sansala Sui-Ki," complied Josette.

"The parse is tight for the most part. However, while Ki is close, it is not exact. This will happen when dealing with unique terms. The translator technology is not infallible, and for that, I apologize. You may refer to me as Sansala." "Translator?" Josette realized she'd been conversing back and forth with Sansala in perfect French. "How is this possible?" she asked in Italian.

The corners of the alien's waiflike mouth turned upward in a stiff smile. "You must have detected the translator rooted behind your ear. You will enjoy conversing with many divergent species in our galactic cluster. There will be some initial discomfort as it acclimates to your tongue, but that will wither, and all will be well in your head."

Josette went to touch behind her ear, and once again noticed her reflection in the hideous fingers of her silvered right hand. "And what about this?" She held the mirrored hand in front of her face. "Do you alter body parts on a whim? Am I now a work of art for your enjoyment?"

"The Suntholo did not mold you in such a way, my effusive pedal." Sansala reached out and held Josette's silver hand. Josette found her touch to be consoling, yet oddly stimulating. "I will explain everything. But we should get you to your quarters for some rest."

"I have quarters?" questioned Josette. "I believed this liquid prison to be my quarters."

"No, Josette." Sansala Sui-Ki seemed amused by her obstinacy-something that always annoyed her mother. "This is a restorative and curative room. It has been healing you since you arrived. It was amber, but you see, it has gone emerald. Meaning you are healed. The chamber has also adapted you to many of our diverse clusterial environments. For illustration, you no longer require oxygen."

"I don't breathe oxygen?" Josette found herself disturbed by this sudden revelation. "Terrific. Not only am I disfigured, but now I'm doomed to wander the fringes of my own atmosphere!"

"Ah Josette, you have such a delightful sense of phrasing. You can still breathe oxygen, but you no longer require it. If satisfied, you are molly enough to travel, which is marbled news." "Where am I going?" Doubt crept into Josette's euphoria, as it always did.

"Not far, I promise. I wish to fetch you to your permanent lodging complex." Sansala pulled Josette in close, and Josette felt the heat from the beguiling alien's slender body. "Ease your mind. I will instruct you how to use your new hand and harness its power." She leaned down to whisper in Josette's ear, "The Suntholo are your family now."

"My family?" Josette remembered the specter of her mother, as well as the eerie laughter of children just before Sansala entered the room. "I heard the voices of children before you came in. They were saying awful things to me evil things. I was to be a corpse in hell. Why would they say these terrible things to me?"

"Yes, that can be upsetting." The alien touched Josette's cheek. "Just an effect of the curative therapy of the remedial room. Such powerful treatment has been known to cause hallucinations, nightmares, as well as the euphoria you experienced as the room flashed emerald. Without such prompt treatment, your mind would shine unbalanced. You have suffered a traumatic journey, Josette, and most do not survive with their intellect intact. We found you and cured you. It will all pass. Let us go, my lamb."

Sansala pressed her hand into Josette's naked rear end while pushing her toward the softly lit hallway. Josette felt uneasy again. Her warrior senses were rumbling but remained lethargic. She dared not ask about her mother. No, she'd keep that to herself. "I need clothing."

"Of course, Josette, we will swaddle you. The Suntholo will take care of everything you desire." Sansala hugged her in closer than before.

Josette glanced down to see the small arms of the Wafi embracing her legs. They smiled up at her with their empty, little eyes wrinkling in the corners. "I need a cigarette," stated Josette. "A smoke...I really need a smoke." "No, my molly lamb, you do not. Not anymore." Sansala Sui-Ki led Josette out of the curative room and said, "You have much to learn," concluding the love fest.

Josette spotted a flaw on the alien's left forearm. It was a dark red circle with a long scar running through the middle reminiscent of a Parisian street sign that prohibited parking. They aren't so perfect after all.

"I do have much to learn," repeated Josette.

***

Bullwinkle's Revenge.

Earth, 7013. Snow White ran as fast as his stubby little legs could carry his four-foot frame up the gradual incline. The long straight tunnel was dark and dank, but he liked it that way. The white dot at the end of the passageway was growing larger, and the light from that dot irritated his eyes. He knew it must be natural light, or it wouldn't burn so much.

Snow White had broken from the underground domain and was heading toward the surface of the Ice Mountains. He was escaping-finally escaping. Although still angry at the circumstances leading to his abrupt departure, he recognized the flaws in the system. It was a system that prized only collective contribution over any single achievement. It was a system that disregarded the quality of the individual and favored only the quantity of his contributions benefiting society. It was never the one but always the many.

He ran, recalling the last conversation he'd had with his once beloved mentor, Deep Throat, as they prepared for Snow White's final ascension.

"Snow White, my brilliant, brilliant protégé," the old man had muttered with typical aged wisdom. "You crushed our multi-graphic puzzles. You mastered all the intelligence tests. You bested our cleverest labyrinths faster than any learner in recorded annals." Pulling back the overly long sleeve on his luxurious velvet robe, he rubbed the top of Snow White's smooth, bald head. "Moreover, the devil dogs were no match for your cunning, and you vanquished the hellcats as easily as you would a freshly burst haploid. You've been victorious at everything we've thrown your way."

"I'm flattered by your praise, Elder Deep Throat," Snow White remembered saying in his best attempt to affect a modicum of humility, "but I wish to focus on my ascension into the scientific community."

The two had walked down the aisle between the empty stone pews of the Senate's Outer Sanctum.

"Yes..." Deep Throat cleared his windpipe. "You could ascend to become a top mind in the scientific community...or perhaps in only a season's time become the next Absolute Justice of the Senate as a contributor of the highest degree. That would be an unprecedented achievement for someone of such young age. Yes, all this could certainly happen..."

"It sounds like something is bothering you, my mentor. What hinders my ascension?" Snow White stopped strolling with him down the aisle and waited for an explanation. "Nothing escapes your keen insight, does it?" The old man sat down on the closest stone pew to catch his breath. "I should know better than to mince words with my star apprentice."

"Then out with it." Snow White approached the bench on which Deep Throat had parked himself and sat next to him. "I've been a loyal contributor for the collective my entire life and deserve to know what could possibly impede my progress." "You have been most loyal and contributed more to society than any learner I've mentored, Snow White, but you'll find you deserve nothing from this world." As Deep Throat's voice rose in anger, spittle accumulated on his wafer-thin lips. "Our society owes you nothing if you cannot repay the debt it's due." He hesitated for a moment. "That debt is a biological human descendant."

"A pure offspring?" Snow White slouched in the pew. "This is all because..."

"Because your solitary nut is a dud." Deep Throat glared at him. "And, if you can't reproduce for us, then you have failed us, despite your contributions." "That was to be our private knowledge. The accident, I mean, rendering me sterile. We were to tell no one of what happened. Besides, why do we need to procreate in such a bizarre manner?" protested Snow White. "When we can produce haploids in our labs? I've been doing more tests, and I'm convinced we may hit upon a stable double X chromo set very soon. Until then, even Grendels have their uses."

"Yes, well, only a few know this truth...this terrible truth." His mentor gazed out across the empty outer sanctum with a forlorn expression on his creased and craggy face. "The chromo bank is bankrupt. Soon, even artificial repros will no longer be an option. Our DNA is dying, Snow White, and only the most fruitful males will be deemed worthy of social acceptance and, therefore, achieve final ascension. The rest are just a drain on our dwindling resources." "So, is that what I am then-a drain on our dwindling resources? Even after all my accolades?"

"I'm afraid so. You failed to inseminate the only female available to your social class, and she took it quite personally." Deep Throat sighed.

"You know about Desi Arnaz? But she promised she wouldn't tell anyone." Snow White felt an emotion he'd never suffered before-betrayal. And it was the worst feeling he could ever recall experiencing. "She promised me." "Well, she broke that promise because she told everyone that matters, including Alma Mater, her fiscal patriarch. A stupid woman can be the downfall of even the wisest of men." Obviously feeling relieved of his burden, Deep Throat stood once again. "The word is out on you, Snow White, and I'm too old...too tired...to protect your standing in society. It would be the death of me. However, I will not force the issue, so you'd better come up with a plan...and soon." Leaving Snow White sitting alone on the stone pew, his once beloved mentor departed the outer sanctum, never to speak to him again.

Snow White replayed the conversation over and over again in his head. The words echoed in his brain. "You'd better come up with a plan...and soon."

So, here was his plan-running for his life. In the end, it all came down to the successful propagation of the species. He couldn't breed; therefore, he'd bleed. And promptly, the brightest star of the human race had become a liability. So, he fled according to the plan. He ran because his one oversized testis was useless, and he was unable to mate with the last viable female left in his social circle. The distribution of his precious seed was the final step to ascension and, perhaps, the most critical. And for all his genius, for all his recorded contributions, for all his success, he was now a pariah. He couldn't give them the only thing they really wanted...a pure, human offspring.

What's wrong with being a haploid? He had fond memories of his haploid existence, especially the morning lessons with his secretly unique companions of Haploid Assembly Four-fifty-one. There was the ambitious yet stoic Occams Razor, the competitive and reckless Stanley Cup, the entertaining and free-spirited Kama Sutra, and, finally, the timid worrier, Bullwinkle. The five of them would listen, enraptured by Love Craft's detailed account of the lurid affairs inside the Ice Mountains...as well as his instruction too,

of

course.

A pure human offspring is overrated, as are these imperfect concepts of society inside these damn mountains! His thoughts ran amok the faster he ran down the tunnel. Life inside the Ice Mountains was harsh, but the surface of the planet was worse. Nevertheless, Snow White was willing to take his chances. He'd seen what happened to the other defective males, and it wasn't pretty. Now, even the craziest Grendel was more precious than he. But he refused to be ground meat for the upper echelon of the social order. He knew of their secret dinner parties and had seen them eat. He reviled them all.

Snow White was in excellent physical shape, so the sprint down the tunnel was nothing he couldn't endure for several more clicks. It was the mechanical demon not far behind that really motivated him now. Its siren chirped loudly as it fired long needles of acid at his bare back. He heard the sizzle of acid burning through stone all around him. Consequently, he ran even faster.

The multiple metal legs of the machine rose and fell with exact precision. Its design was modeled after fossilized arthropod's called centipedes found petrified in the caves throughout the Ice Mountains. The legs clicked rhythmically against the solid rock of the tunnel. The overall effect was terrifying. Nobody wanted a twenty-six-foot-long mechanized monster fashioned from tantalum, chasing after him with its fully segmented shell and snapping pincers. The artificial centipedes hadn't always been so malevolent. Actually, they'd originated as a line of defense against the constant attacks by colossal Rattus Norvegicus-otherwise known as big brown rats. These rats were more than just big, they were giants. Fully matured, the rats grew to more than twice the size of the average human and, over the centuries, the aggressive rodents developed a voracious appetite for human flesh. What else could they eat when there was little to choose from? No one was safe from consumption...not even the dead.

As a result, the mechanized centipedes were created to be effective defenders of the populace, and it worked-beautifully. Due to the bugs' efficiency, the rats were decimated in little over three years. With the mutant rats extinct, the centipedes had little else to occupy their time. And with idle hands as the devil's playground, the mechanical bugs' original intent would be perverted into something much more unpleasant. Instead of defending the people, these machines were reprogrammed to become brute enforcers of the social order-computerized goons for the High Senate.

Ironically, Snow White was the designer responsible for improving the centipede's neural-servo drive. His upgrades gave the machines far better sensory capability, increased speed, and greater range. Making matters worse, Snow White had also devised the new acid nozzles. He crafted the centipedes into fearsome mechanical monsters for the upper echelon. And now, one of his own creations chased after him. Big, big mistake, he thought as he dodged another jet of burning acid aimed at his head. I definitely worked too hard to prove myself. Idiot! Fluid from his wounded testicle sac oozed down his legs. Moments prior to his current exodus, the previously unfulfilled female, Desi Arnaz, had crept into his compartment while he slept and bitten him between his legs in a rage. "Putrid zygote!" she screamed with her teeth discolored yellow from his blood. "You insult the lineage of Snow White, you hollow eunuch!" She went down to rip out another chunk of his vulnerable flesh, but Snow White reacted. It was simply from pain and fear, but before he knew what he'd done, Desi Arnaz fell to the floor with her head fully rotated on her neck. He hadn't meant to kill her, but he'd done so nonetheless-truly sowing the seeds of his own death. He was both

sterile and a murderer of an eminent, fertile female. "Unfortunate," he said aloud. "But, my dear, you should have kept your big mouth shut." He didn't even attempt to hide the body, because what would have been the point? These females were precious and kept under constant surveillance.

They'd be coming to look for her soon enough. After killing Desi Arnaz, Snow White applied amoxic gel to his injured groin and pulled on some leggings. There wasn't time for a chestie. Though his wound was quite tender, he managed to climb on top of his bureau and remove the fibrous mesh from his compartment's ventilation notch. Once the notch was clear, he pushed his small, muscular body into the narrow vent pipe and was off. It was an escape route he'd planned for weeks, and now had reason to use it. He would shimmy through the vent pipe to make his way into the sector's inner aeration shaft. And after a series of L turns, he'd find himself falling directly inside the Main Ventilation Tank for his divide. All MVT's had an emergency release valve in case of any debris blockages. He'd place his butt over any large air fissure inside the tank, which would trip the pressure release valve. Fortunately, the emergency valve was also big enough for him to squeeze through and drop down to the floor. The MVT's were engaging their pressure release valves on a constant basis, and it was never cause for any real concern. The technicians down the hall would most likely ignore the signal light and take their time to inspect whatever blockage existed. He once witnessed technicians ignore the emergency release signal for an entire shift. He'd have plenty of time to slip out the tank and exit through the door. Easy-peasy. This particular MVT, labeled S2-4, was in a room adjacent to the facility's central Ionic Particulate Unit Processor. Snow White had been a team leader on the IPUP restoration project, so he had the access code into this sensitive area. He also knew of the secret hatch located just underneath the belly of the main processor core. The hatch was concealed by tethered bunches of ice-nine siloxane conduit and optical fiber, but it was there. Once through the hatch, he'd find himself in an undisclosed and little used escape tunnel. The tunnel was long and treacherous, but ultimately led to an ancient aircraft shelter outside the Ice Mountains. Once in the shelter, he was on his own!

He would totally avoid the Grendel and centipede pursuit, as well as slip past all optical circuits. No one would have any idea of where he went or how he did it. He'd just disappear, leaving the sentinels slack-jawed, and this lost society

absolutely stupefied.

I am a genius.

Snow White was full of self-congratulations as he climbed inside MVT S2-4, according to plan. Although the powerful suction pulled painfully at his torn scrotum, Snow White kept his small backside on the nearest air fissure and waited for the emergency release valve to trip. And it did, of course...all according to plan.

His escape plan was working perfectly...until he found himself nose to nose with the lone, competent MVT technician who acted upon the signal light and promptly checked the blockage inside S2-4. After he'd dropped down from the tank, Snow White stood up, gob smacked. The two stared at each other in disbelief. Snow White never expected to run into such an efficient technician. The technician certainly never expected someone to drop from the vent tank-especially someone as controversial as Snow White.

"Snow White," stammered the technician finally collecting himself. "What...were you doing inside the tank?" Snow White didn't like the position he was in, because he knew the more diminutive man standing in his way. "Bullwinkle, just turn around and look the other way, my friend," he said.

The normally nervous Bullwinkle was much shorter than Snow White, and it must have taken all his courage to stand up to his far more significant associate. "I...I can't do that." He tried his best to puff out his chest and appear authoritative. "Bullwinkle, we've known each other since we were haploids. We dissected our first Grendel together. We made many important contributions to the society in concert. For the sake of our history, just look the other way. Please." Snow White

knew he was pleading more for the life of his friend rather than his own. "I've always respected you Snow White," Bullwinkle replied in earnest. "I could never be the contributor you are. But you have violated protocol, and I must turn you over to the sentinels. The Grendels can have you now."

"Bullwinkle, no!" Snow White reached out to stop him but was too late. Bullwinkle slapped the red band around his wrist, and a sour-tasting mist poured in around their feet. The toxic mist was secreted from nozzles discreetly arranged throughout the room-again, another one of Snow White's ingenious creations. Bullwinkle inserted an artificial breather to his nose and turned to leave the room.

Before Snow White could succumb to the paralysis of the mist, he leapt onto the back of the little man who had once been his colleague and peer in their social construct, HA-451. Bullwinkle struggled but was no match against Snow White's superior strength and tactics. And before Bullwinkle could take one more step, Snow White removed the breather from the man's nose and inserted it into his own.

"I'm very sorry, little Bull. This was not my plan," he said with regret as the mist took its horrible toll on Bullwinkle's nervous system. The poison was quick, and the technician's limp body vanished into the dense mist. After another second or two of quiet, respectful remorse, Snow White ran out the door and headed to the IPUP room. His escape would continue, but not according to plan...not now.

Bullwinkle had done far more than release paralysis mist. He'd also tripped the central alarm and activated the optical circuits connected to the High Senate's sanctum. Society knew exactly who was trying to escape, and right where he was going. Bullwinkle had been much quicker than Snow White realized, and now, to his dismay, there was a reprogrammed centipede, shadowed by an angry Grendel, pursuing him down the escape tunnel.

The centipede was bearing down as acid burned into the rock all around him.

The acid was a big mistake! He dodged another jet of the caustic fluid aimed at his head. If only I could see the damned thing! Another blast of acid struck his right shoulder causing Snow White to stumble. He slammed face-first against the hard stone of the tunnel wall as the acid melted deep into his muscle. It was much more painful than he imagined it would be when he devised the chemical compound. His left arm went numb, and residual heat from the burn spread over his chest, effectively simulating cardiac arrest. The whole episode was very distressing. And through the searing pain, he congratulated himself on the weapon's efficiency. Snow White got back to his feet and staggered toward the light at the end of the tunnel. The dot had become a white circle and his doorway to survival-or, perhaps, to hell. He wasn't quite sure what awaited him on the outside. He recalled stories of those who ventured out and never came back. Eventually, the High Senate outlawed the surface world. They insisted it no longer existed for the human species. All known access to the outside was sealed and never spoken of again— at least not publicly. His forehead bled from the blow against the rock, and the blood trickled into his eyes, making it difficult for him to see. He concentrated on the white blotch of light ahead, using it as his guide to the surface. The stumble had slowed him just enough to allow the Grendel to grab him from behind and wrench him back into her. She shrieked into his ear as she sunk her fangs into his injured shoulder. The lingering acid on his wound must have burned her lips, and she stopped biting right away. Instead, she tore at his face with her rough, frayed fingernails. Snow White squirmed until he could look into the disfigured face of the nasty Grendel. This one had only one good eye. The other never fully developed, and the result was a sickening, empty slit. Even her one functional eye was nothing more than a fusty glob of optic jelly. The Grendel's oversized mouth flashed multiple rows of jagged, rotten teeth, and her lips bubbled up from the centipede's corrosive acid. Her intent was obvious to rip into his throat with those formidable choppers. She was incredibly

strong and picked him up to shake him like an angry child might torment a naughty ragdoll. At five feet tall, this Grendel was a giant in their world. With thick saliva dripping from her fangs, she pulled Snow White to her mouth to tear into his vulnerable neck. She probably hadn't eaten in days and was ravenous for his healthy vein. But before she could dig in, Snow White wrenched an arm free from her grasp and jammed a thumb into her oozing eye socket. The Grendel screamed in annoyance, because now her only good eye had his thumb embedded deep inside it. The blind Grendel dug her talons into Snow White's flesh. After a brief pause to express her dismay, she drew him into her gaping maw once more. He could smell the Grendel's rancid breath-a blast of spoilage that choked his nostrils. With no other option, he kicked her in the stomach as hard as he was able. Regrettably, this maneuver only elicited a flood of hot bile spewed into his face, stinging his eyes. “Not quite...what I expected," gurgled Snow White as he spat out a mouthful of putrid Grendel puke. With his free hand, he tried to clear his eyes of the bile and blood. He hoped the kick in the gut gave the Grendel cause for concern. Yet,

what would be his next move? As his mind raced through the possibilities, the mutated female's head popped off her shoulders and plopped to the ground. A stunned Snow White, covered in rank smelling vitriol, was now held captive by a headless Grendel. Her truncated neck was spewing fluids as her lifeless body fell on top of him. Shoving the Grendel's arm aside, Snow White peered out through the stinking armpit of her decapitated carcass.

Frantic to find the source, he scanned the dim passage in all directions, knowing all too well what killed the miserable Grendel. This nightmare was far from over-it was worse. Snow White soon spied the lustrous blue-gray metal of the centipede as it hung from the tunnel ceiling, holding on by its hind legs. The multiple front legs of the centipede wriggled in rhythmic motion, its snapping metal pincers, bloodied from the kill, was splattering drops on the surprised face of the

disembodied head of the dead Grendel lying on the tunnel floor. The Grendel's expression was frozen in disbelief, which amused Snow White and perplexed him as well. Why didn't the machine discern between an ally and the primary target? Perhaps a glitch in the neural programming. I'll run a diagnostic

when...wait a second. There won't be any more damn diagnostics for me to run! The centipede dropped from the ceiling with all the natural elegance of a genuine insect. The motorized beast was a true masterpiece of form and function, and Snow White was quite proud of the accomplishment. Yet his pride became

overshadowed by his terror. He knew what the thing would do once it caught him in its death grip.

The centipede crawled across the corpse of the Grendel that concealed him beneath it and surveyed the carnage. Snow White remained as quiet as possible, waiting for this mechanical demon to finish its inspection. The cover wouldn't last much longer. The bug was so close that he heard the internal clicking of a billion sensory neurons as they indexed every particle of stimulus.

The centipede chirped in defiance as it lifted the Grendel's body and tossed it aside. Snow White was exposed. The mechanized insect lowered its head and aimed its nozzles at his face. Snow White grabbed both its pincers and heaved the bug's massive metal head up and away from him. The stream of acid blistered the rock directly behind him. He clung for dear life to its bucking head and lashed out with his feet, hoping to kick the failsafe switch hidden on its underbelly. Over and over, his feet pounded into the centipede's armored hide. His thrashing legs ached, and he was certain he'd broken every toe in both feet. Soon exhaustion would overcome him, and this monster would be free to devour its creator

at its

leisure.

Just as his legs were about to give out, his foot connected with the failsafe switch. The centipede gave a horrific shudder. Its frame collapsed in on itself, followed by rapid-fire clicking as the neural servos inside its processor core faltered. As he projected, the centipede suffered a cascading failure of cognitive dissonance and immediately abandoned its attack.

Letting go of the pincers, Snow White allowed the machine to withdraw. It slowly turned around and hobbled off with its failing metal legs clinking and clanking woefully out of rhythm. The centipede would head back to Neuron Robotics for as its backup program dictated. Exhausted and covered in blood, bile, and other various bodily fluids, Snow White sat in silence. He watched the shiny hind end of the bug disappear into the darkness-the erratic clattering fading

diagnostics

off into the distance.

The respite wasn't very long, as the rabid screams from an army of Grendels and the clanging of more centipedes came from somewhere down the tunnel. They were coming his way-fast. That was his cue to rise up and head out through the cave opening. They wouldn't follow him out. Even dim-witted Grendels were deathly afraid of the surface world and were wise enough to stay away. The centipedes were program-restricted to a defined radius and wouldn't venture too far

from command-at least in theory. Snow White pushed himself onward and, at last, reached the end of the tunnel. His mind flashed, and he heard a voice in his head or somewhere nearby that whispered like a long-forgotten memory, "Easy little haploid...the weakness is only fleeting...bursting is such a strenuous progression...do not distress. May you find warmth and awareness in your new days."

"Warmth and awareness," repeated Snow White as something touched his injured shoulder. Whatever it was, it burned. And although the natural light irritated his sensitive eyes, he threw himself through the opening and was thrust into the

strange world outside the Ice Mountains. The cold felt electric, sending shockwaves through his body.

His new days had begun.

***

Again, Courtesy of the Galactic Systems Translator.

A Different Galactic Cluster, No Timeline.

"He is an undersized marble, but a round one. Comport him over the fence."

"Are you sure, my mistress? The planet is still rich. Will he please Rasa?"

"Did I not assert his blessed marbles, Murphy? Light is my approval on this tight pedal!"

"I am relieved you approve of this lamb's selection. I do not want to disappoint you as Widgit has done. By the way, where is Widgit, my mistress?"

"Widgit is no longer your concern. This male you found is ideal to influence the female Earthian until she sleeps with the high holy."

"Yes, but

your female bleeds mountainous strength from inside her core."

"Piss on that. She will crumple under the weight of our will. This new comport will keep her in stiff conformity for my... purposes."

"You would parse better than I, the light that shines."

"No miffled rings, lamb. Pull him in, and you shall be rewarded."

"Oh! The islands? Please, mistress, may I visit my islands again? I do enjoy them so."

"You are a strange bug, Steven Murphy, but it shall be granted as such. Show me your technique with our sacred Halcyon."