The Belle of the River...short exercise_30jun19

The triumphs of erect stone, molded in the likeness of their creator.  Pinned against the clouds, raised on colonnades each.  To enhance their own loftiness, they point to above.  All told, 'do not think of the firmament below, it is nothing compared to the spaces above'.

Agreed.  The human mind has its limitations and assuredly its self-importance.  Myself, as lowly as I am, still am victim to the same.

My hands sweat and I shift my kit of oils and canvas to the other.  I would relieve myself of my woolen jacket, but I have not formally asked anything of the gardens and I am still desperate to find the Head Gardener.  A fellow I'm told is Michaels.  I've no idea what he looks like, but I suspect I would find him nearer the estate.

The Villa Liatris had survived the [Civil] War, nestled on a bend of the Mississippi near Ama.  It had a rare garden of contemporaneous European varieties of Lady Slippers, with yellow and purple hues that I'm told are quite unique and not easily reproduced in oil.

I had not come across them yet as I tracked across one side of the garden and to the other.  An ominous green house had stretched perpendicular to the main house, but I dare not enter without Michaels.

Frustrated at the endeavor and the heat, I found the shade of a cypress that was flanked with thick brush, creating an unnatural form of shade and coolness.  I could always find one no matter what backwood forest I find myself.  I sat and allowed myself to cool.  Sweat and humidity weighed my suit down.

"Sir?"  The call of southern hospitality.  It was a young voice.

I smiled before I opened my eyes, "Forgive a man some shade, son.  It is awfully warm out today and I have exhausted myself on effort of finding Mr. Michaels."

"Mr. Michaels, sir?  The Head Gardner?"

"That's him."

"Let me fetch him for you."  The boy ran off behind the arboretum.  I committed myself to the spot until he showed up.  In some time, the boy walked out with an older man in a light white long shirt.  I stood up and straightened out.

We shook hands.  "What can we do for you Mr. --?"

"Mr. Michaels, I simply wanted to ask for your permission to mix some oils and a bit of canvas painting.  I hear tell that the Lady Slippers are available this time of year.  I'm particular for the yellow and purple 'uns."

"Oils?"

"Painting.  See sir I work as an illustrator for the Post.  They are doing a fall piece for summer flowers.  I guess for folks hearkening back on the weather.  They gave me a stipend for your time to sit and paint for a day or two.  That is, if you are agreeable."

"Well, son, I t'ain't ne'er hear of such a thing, but as long as you are just painting them and not disturbing them I don't see no harm."

"Won't touch them.  May I pay you or the manor for the privilege?"

"Wouldn't hear of it.  We are happy for'n your interest.  Just put in where you seen it - we do have tours come through here and the Lady is keen on it.  Maybe send us a copy?"

"Sir, I'll send you three and you'll get all sorts of credit."

With that Michaels took me to another section of the garden I wouldn't have found.  It intersects under a portion of where the trellis of the arboretum spans to the Manor, it's quite beautiful with all sorts of orchids lining the walk-way.  Just enough sun is good enough.

And there they were, in full bloom.  I was eager now to take off my jacket, oblige myself on some cool tea (no cubes, they hadn't any electricity), and a stool.

I made two first runs on the yellow and the purple, making swaths from the corner to the center - arriving at a fair conclusion.  I will do the second one on my visit.  I put the color on my finger and put it near the flower.

"Close?"

"Colors change with light.  Today is a bit cloudy, but hot.  Tomorrow may be different.  I'll get it close it enough."  With that, I took my thin charcoals and sketched their forms.

Whistle.  "I t'ain't e'er seen one draw that quickly afore!"

I had what I needed even I didn't come back.  But I like the place and the tea is fine.

"See you tomorrow!"

...

As I walked off the estate with tools in tow and my jacket hung off my shoulder, I sported a young belle on the walkway.  She was peculiarly out of place for the time.  I guessed it was a costume ball of some kind.  She was absolutely perfect in every way.  Flawless skin, proud cheekbones, glimmering green eyes and fiery dark red hair.  She walked with pride, with back as straight as the statues I had just left.

"Sir."

"Miss."  I wanted to pull her aside for even a second, but her gait was such I didn't expect to stop her.  She did keep me in her periphery for the slightest of seconds before moving on.

I paused.  I couldn't help watching her walk away.  As a lady should, she did not turn around once.  God bless her.

Another reason to show up tomorrow.
...

Es lässt sich nicht lesen...10jun19

Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir etre seul. - La Bruyere

"The Man of the Crowd" - Edgar Allen Poe

"Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes - die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed.  Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a [burden] so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave."

Furtive.  That was the word the ghost of Samuel Burbage struggled for as he floated about the bed of Lawrence Count, age 72, New Shoreham RI.  Lawrence here has a furtive look about his eyes.  It was pitch in the room, but a ghost can see everything.  It was an attribute only available to the dead.  It was once a specialty to spirits, but the technology age did a great injustice with the invention of night mode.  Not that they can see everything.  Old Saint Michael had told Burbage over a game of bridge, "They may try to see the weakest of a light spectrum, but they'll never be able to capture feelings."  Burbage and a cohort from old Maryland, Tanner, watched Saint Michael closely.  "Watch how he counts the multipliers: I think he mixes clubs for spades."

Lawrence had *the* glow.  A guilty man.  A man who has to live with himself everyday.  He hates the world because he doesn't operate within it.  He cannot amend himself to life, so he makes mistakes.  He stacks guilt atop missed opportunities atop minor indiscretions.  He thinks he prays.  "He prays only to himself, he knows no GOD."  Saint Michael pointed him out and through the fog of miasma came to Lawrence.

"Why do we do this, Arch Angel?"

"All we can do is try Burbage.  If Tanner did haunt you, and you didn't repent, well, you wouldn't be here to do the same."

"This isn't a reward, Michael."

"Didn't say it was Burbage.  But it is the RIGHT thing to do."

So Burbage came to the creeping hour half-heartedly.  As Lawrence finished thoughts on the day's events, then a binge through a half-baked series on a streaming service, he started for bed.  Lawrence knew Burbage was there, even just a little, because the lights would come up in a blaze to make the trek up the stairs and down the hall.  Oh, he acted brave, but I could see the gait change, the odd periphery glances.  Burbage put his hands on Lawrence's back and he could feel him shiver.

Lawrence would 'read' before bed (if you catch my drift men) which Burbage was thankfully pulled from.  "Yes, we can see it...but, do you want to see?"  The answer 19 times out of 20 'no'.  The others were reassessed, you see.

Then the lights would go out and Burbage would whisper in Lawrence's ear, "Fluffernutter, fluffernutter."  Use words that make no sense to the living.  They hate that.  Except for fans of Sid Caesar.  Use the word 'sausage' then.  [Jonas Sinkletter was a grand writer of the Guide.]

Lawrence would grind himself into his blankets.  Burbage could sense it all in his glow: Count treated others as 'below' him, although the dissonance in that attitude is weighed in their own trappings.  Count had no real friends.  He had a wife that left him, running off with Anyman ages ago.  (Anyman had an interest and that was all that was needed.)  Count collected things and we know where that leads.  In the end Lawrence Count had little, so he expressed it in an ego so fragile it could balloon and break several times in the course of a day.  And so late in life to boot.

"Fluffernutter, dummy."


"It's not too late, Michael?"

"I didn't say that, Burbage.  You have to do what you can.  They make the choice."

"Fluffernutter, idiot."

"I'm not being graded, Michael?"

"You're already here, Burbage."

"Good.  I can't say I'm particularly good at this."

"Burbage."

"Fluffernutter."

...

The new day came and Burbage was long gone: the twilight and witching hour passed.  Lawrence Count noted his silliness at the nightly fear again.  But true rest escaped him and it did gnaw, even just a little.

Remembering the world is a bunch of idiots gave him the energy to start his day anew.

...

short: Chambersburg, Trenton, 1994

Rook rolled a gum wrapper between his right thumb and forefinger, over and again.  The Juicy Fruit had lost its flavor long before.  It was like chewing Silly Putty.  It's keeping me warm though.

He shifted on the bench at the corner of Hamilton and Chestnut.  Columbus Park couldn't be emptier.  A cold Saturday morning like this.  I stick out like a boombots.  He pulled his wool coat over his leg, he continuously shook it off.

From here, Rook could see all points.  But the boss wanted him to keep an eye out on the Pharmacy.  

"This time of morning?"  Mauro answered with a scowl.  He was being questioned dummy.  Rook quickly followed with, "I got it."

He measured the next question, "What am I looking for?"

Mauro opened a drawer and Rook instinctively shifted back, a plastic bag packed full with script bottles.  He sat back and turned his head to Chuck.

"What time does the owner come in?  We know they open at ten on Saturday, but maybe the doctor comes in earlier.  Is it even the owner that opens up?  Does he come alone?"  Chuck gave him a $50.  "Don't get picked up is all.  Don't look like a disgraziat."

I got here way to early.  His watch had 8:23.  I gotta sit here another hour?

Rook had stopped smoking a year ago.  Cold turkey.  He had a rough couple of weeks after that, made it up with fries.  "Time to quit smoking, ah."  It would be perfect now.  Calms the nerves.  It's forty degrees, no wind.  Perfect drag and then get a coffee.

Twenty minutes went by.  Something ain't right.  It was too quiet.  He scanned all points again.  Stood up and walked over to use the trees right on the corner as cover.  Nothing.  But not a good nothing.  A nothing like something was going to go down.

He left the car three blocks over, like he was told.

"You know what he should do?"  Mauro put the bag of bottles away.  "He should sit in the park, the one across the street."

"Yeah, maybe keep your car a few blocks down though."  Mauro snapped his fingers and agreed.

His chewing slowed.  It's a fix.  Rook spit the gum out and scanned the walk back toward his car.

"Shit."  Mauro set him up.  Fifty dollars.  He saw the grill about a block down from the Pharmacy, a cruiser grill shining in the sun.

Rook crossed the street toward the Pharmacy, just as the cruiser pulled out at the same time.  He broke into a run, making a hard turn around the building, jumped over a small fence and through an alley to the other side.

Think.  Can't go back to the car, they'll have another car waiting there.  Maybe.  Chuck had him out in the open, so they wouldn't have thought about the car.  Car.  His run broke wide and he met the street again.  He hadn't run that fast since middle school.

The car was not watched, at least by what he could see.  Stay or take off?  He started the car, did a 'u' and headed south toward Clinton.  If I can get to Broad I can lay low for a while.

Mauro.  He gave him up.  He meandered purposefully down the streets, making his own switchbacks, but each time trying to get to Clinton.  He thought he saw pulotti once, but going cross.

He made Clinton and then Broad, he lined the speed limit but didn't go a mile above.  Can't go back home for a while.  Have to go West or Upstate.  Rook figured to put 20 miles north until he had to get gas.  Mauro.  What do I do about him?

...

[short] Mega Force Ultra Imaginauts 8

Makoto's wrist communicator alarmed.  Tweee-eeep, tweee-eeep.  He leapt from his seat at school, which alarmed all the students and Mr. Tetsu.  Heads swung around to look.

"Forgive me, Tetsu-san!  I have urgent matters to attend to.  As you can hear, my communicator has alarmed.  It must be a city-wide emergency.  Professor Uri is asking for all Mecha R's to report at once!"

Mr. Tetsu likewise rose to his feet, as did the class, "Go Makoto!  Proceed at once and may the kami be with you!"

Makoto bowed and ran from the room, as he leapt from the doors of the school he quickly noticed the eerie calm that fell over his city, Yokohama.  The clouds were grey, but mottled oddly.  The ever present breeze was stilled.  What monster are we dealing with today?  His eyes narrowed as he saw that no one was watching.

"Mega Force Ultra 8!"  He shouted as he made the kanji of 'power' and 'wind' with his hands and arms.  The Mecha R super robot armor appeared on his body, protecting him from harm.  His wrist communicator made a victorious noise and Makoto knew he had successfully transformed into one of eight powerful robots that protected the metropolis of Tokyo.  He could hear Professor Uri in his headset.

"Makoto we have a profound emergency!  Mecha R 3 and 7 are already fighting in Saitama - there are three sea creatures there.  We need you, Mecha R 8 to get to the port as we see at least one creature there, overturning fishing boats.  Mecha R 2 will be joining you shortly!"

"Yes sir!  I am on my way!"  With that Makoto triggered power jets in his back and feet to launch into the air, and toward the port, which was just south-east of his school.  While he made the leap, he bent his arms to turn the jump into flight.  He checked his munitions and noted that he was at full strength.  He nodded the validation and made a call to his teammate, Hex.

"Hex!  Please report on the situation at the harbor..."

Hex had a wheeled chair that helped him move through-out the cavernous control center of the Imaginauts HQ.  He had to be able to turn the right dials and start the right mechanics if they were going to win the fight.  "Makoto!  Good to hear from you!  There is a Class B creature from the sea.  It has overturned several fishing boats and threatens to make it to the city.  You must stop it from extending beyond the port.  Lives are in the balance!"

"Thank you Hex.  I see the creature now!"

Below Mecha R 8's scanners, a large creature, made from seawood and oil, was writhing its long tentacles all over the harbor, crushing some fishing boats, while overturning others.  People were swimming to pier and scrambling up the netting.  Luckily, the creature doesn't appear to be concerned with people, just the boats.  Then, the creature dismantled key sections of the ships and made itself make-shift armor.  Makoto gasped.  He is making himself more powerful with the addition of the steel from those ships!  He noticed that the creature could also use the oil and gas from the harbor as a powerful weapon.  I must be careful!

Makoto turned on Mecha R 8's amplified speakers, "Creature, I do not know if you understand me, but you must stop this unprovoked attack.  Do you hear!?"  The creature only returned a barrage of oil and fire at him, which singed his armor.  If Makoto had not made an unparalleled movement at the last second, he would have been destroyed.  So that's the way it will be...

Mecha R 8's chest opened to reveal a series of missles, "Let's open with fire for fire!"  Makoto released the missles at the creature.  The explosion was fantastic and lit the bay for a short period of time in red light.  The creature screamed.

Makoto drew Mecha R 8 from the port, hopefully to lead the creature away...the plan worked!

The Class B creature then used all of the ships it had captured to create a body.  It stood on three legs and shielded its body.  It didn't work!  This time, it was the creatures time to attack - it was able to produce small bombs, launching them all at Mecha R 8.

Makoto was barely able to survive the attack, but did sustain damage.  He did have wrist guns.  He fired them at the beast while slowly receding toward the ocean.  I must get him away from the city.

The guns didn't do damage, Makoto could tell, but it did keep the attention of the beast.  It was then he heard his teammate on his headset, "Mecha R 8 this is Mecha R 2.  Do you need assistance?"

"I do, thank you Mecha R 2.  Missles don't seem to work, do you have any ideas?"

"Hm.  You've done an excellent job leading him from sure.  Perhaps we need to figure out a way to put this seaweed creature on ice?"

"Excellent!  What do you propose?"

Mecha R 2 flew across the path of the creature to keep its attention toward the ocean, "We can do this, we just need to think!"

The creature enveloped more boats and was making its way to a container frigate.

"Whatever the plan is, we must find it quickly!"

[end of section]

short (draft): Commander of the Parnassus

I.

When you've spent enough time on a star ship, the hum became its 'signature' - a unique combination of systems running nominally.  Chirps, persistent hums, even the occasional easing of hull frames - combined, they form a bit of a song.  As captain of the Parnassus, I pause constantly to attune myself to the correct correlation of multiple, persistent sound.  At this instant, it had the right combination...particularly from the ready room.  The engine, the vibration of the surfaces in the room, the feel of the air and, one area I was sensitive to, the very pressure was at a rate that was nominal.  Nominal may sound an odd description, but the variances of a star ship were such that nominal would only be about half of the time.  Dangers persistent at all times, unless you were in the embrace of dry dock.  [Not to say there haven't been accidents in dock.]  The whole business was precarious to the core.

Being sensitive to changes in pressure is a critical trait for me.  It has saved me, and thus the crew, on a variety of occasions.  The same sensitivity I require in my own executive staff.  Tanishe is my nose, Karl my skin, Farshad my ears - so much so my less sensitive staff relied upon the four of us at crucial times where emotions were high and the proclivities of the Parnassus AI, Daedalus, were not so easily trusted.  AI, after all, has no nose, skin or ears.  It can easily tell you the composition of the air, but mild variations did not trigger where a human's does.  We are trained to trust our instincts...Daedalus simply couldn't be relied upon in the same way.

My desk was a mess and it bothered me.  There was a ceremony where the Parnassus and its crew were honored guests and required to be the emissaries for the Federalist Government.  I have about 25% new staff and 'new' in they just walked off the fields of Academy.  They were taking a crash course in diplomacy from my best.  "Better to keep one's mouth shut in all cases where a glint in the eye and a pleasant smile are what's wanted."  I had to remind them that we are star hoppers and not politicians.  Thank God.

The ship had just dodged a bullet when a piece of NRD, naturally recurring debris, had struck a radiation vent.  We had to immediately stop the ship and the whole procedure required that we hold down, no engine use for at least 36 hours.  Givvy and the engineering crew got us back up and running within 5 hours and Focus [special tactical teams that were called upon based upon skill, shift and situation] allowed us to move on...only because of the time table to get to Trious for the ceremony.  I shifted the reports around a bit, and that was a dangerous move, as the work may have been truncated, but we risked having an issue that would make the 36 hours look like a drop in the hat if it cropped up.  'Focus' was critical - we assigned a crew and they were responsible for the calls, easing the burden on the rest of the team to continue their normal duties.  I took a page from Admiral Chartain in that I always assigned a Maverick.  A single person to monitor from afar and let me know if Focus was off the mark.

"Engineering?"

"Sir?"

"Is this Stafford?"  She hailed from Angel's Nest.  A right functioning cadet - quick and bright.

"Yes sir!"

"Did Givvy put the radiation venting on a monitored cycle?  And what is our current through put?"

A pause.  "Yes, we are monitoring every 5 minutes with an AI and a visual check.  We have a glass on the vent and it looks clean at the moment.  Still have the damage around it, but it is wide enough not to heat up.  Our current through-put is .26.  We cut it back and it has been holding."

"Very good Stafford.  Please contact the bridge for any deviation from .26, we'll shut the engine immediately.  Also, please express to the crew that I've personally asked for the five minute intervals.  I don't want us gimped or dead because someone could respond to a timer."

"Yes sir.  I'll re-express it the crew."

"Can you ask Valerie on our current time deviation with Trious?"

"Stand-by."  Relative time was ascertained against the Earth quantum time, the ship clocks (mean, determined, relative), and a deviation time given against the way-point or destination quantum.

"Twelve hours, 36 minutes.  It is currently April 3rd, 11:00a relative to Earth."  It popped up on the screen.  Valerie was quick.

"Thanks Stafford and Valerie.  Out."

I turned attention to the status reports of the various governments convening at Trious.  We have the Federalists, and only the Parnassus in attendance, we are a hybrid ship, so we don't upset anyone expecting a particular flub in diplomacy.  We represent engineering, command, science, operations and military.

The Trious were hosting.  The world was well known for its cultural significance.  It was playing host to two primary factions...those of the inner and outer colonies.  The ceremony was nothing new, it was seven years old at this point, but all agreed the discussions needed to still happen to keep that fragile piece.  There was some outskirt skirmishes still popping up here and there.  Mineral and water rights were always under fire.  Poor haulers.

The third focus was on reports of real troublemakers, particularly those that saw the Federalists as empire.  We do our best to remain neutral in almost all things, but we do put domain on all commodities as a matter of course.  This star ship, as lovely and right lined as she is, only existed because of these commodities.  In turn, we kept the peace.

I read the status and viewed some extranet vids.  Trious had a general warning, but nothing specific.  

I knew some of the folks at a nearby trading station...Keystone was one, a trader, and Lamphrey the other, a fueling specialist.  If we have time, I'll put to the XO crew on my intention.  I'd like to take the Parnassus to refuel and to fix the vent.  Meanwhile, I'd use the trip to gather more information for the Federalist docket on this issue...they've named it ZDIE0384.  Hopefully my information may provide more help on finding their point of origination.

I rubbed my eyes.  I needed to sleep.

"Sev?"

"This is Console."

"What our eta to the next waypoint?"

"2 point...34 hours."

"I'm going to strap down in the ready room.  My shift is up in 5."

"Roger sir.  We'll chime you if there's anything out of the ordinary."

"Out."

I immediately shifted the seat down and strapped myself in.  I needed the sleep, and it came quickly.
...

"Huntress: Maps (2)" (03JUL17)

...last was here...

She left the bar with a buzz she hadn't been able to enjoy in three standard months.  Focused on Gamon's case - alternating an inner dialogue of 'I need this' and 'I really need this'.  The pay would help her even out Kharma - the ship needing a good two weeks in dry dock.  Air it out.  Overhaul the sub-light engines.  CO2 scrubber leak.  Her AI, Flask, needed the latest soft upgrades.  A right bath.

She wobbled out into the S'G'en hallway, ticking off the myriad lists rolling in her head.  She had the money now so the list rolled off her brain like a dumpling on a tongue.

"---?"  She paused at her name being said in such an official tone.  Her blood instantly chilled because, in her experience, that typically was not a positive sign.  She had to focus to see the four figures in front of her.  Possibly two behind her.  *Station security?

"Don't understand you."  She took in a deep breath and instinctively squared up.  She saw two of the figures square up as well.  There was a good half-second of actual effort in thinking she could take them on.  'No way stupid.'  She put her arms out slightly from her body, but stopped short of making it look like she was guilty.  Not that she was, at least what they thought she may have been guilty of.

"May we please relieve you of your weapon?"  *Definitely S'G'en security.  Very proper.

"You may not relieve me of my weapon unless you can dignify the request with the...the..."  The Hausenfleur came up in a small pop.  "...appropriate and legal..."  The one figure, very dignified, stood forward.

"---, we have the Sartorial Minister of the Fersion here that has offered evidence that you have a crime of material omission against crimes not only in the Fersion Sector but minor crimes in the Verse.  It is because of this..."  He went on.  She weighed options.  Too many guards.  A S'G'En station.  A right proper Chief.  All not in her favor.

"Ok. Ok.  I hear you."  She slowly raised her hands above her hand and landed the tips of her thumbs together.  Imperceptibly, she tapped a small button hidden underneath the flap of her fingerless gloves.  *Please let the AI know to call Toddy.  "You may take my weapon, but you are doing it only based upon your evidence and I do this NOT to qualify your charges but upon my free will.  I ask that the S'G'En further recognize this is not an admission of guilt."

"We do.  Thank you for your compliance."  The Security Chief stood back and allowed the two guards behind her to remove the weapon.  They brought out binders, but the Chief waved them off to the dismay of the Fersion Minister.

"Now I ask that we go discuss this discretely - as an esteemed member of the Brueger Freepilots, I ask that we do this with dignity and respect."  She could hear the Fersion Minister scoff, its tentacles clutching together to the sound of little flaps.  The Chief looked down on the sign of disrespect and smiled warmly to her.  "Of course.  I assure we only want to get to the bottom of the matter."

"I would like a witness."

The Chief nodded and one of the four strode forward.  "I am not an unclothed citizen of the S'G'En asked to help witness the matter.  I am Farthou."

"Farthou - please witness my compliance and that I am willfully inebriated."

"I witness."

"Witness to that I would like to make a call before we proceed with any questioning as is my right."

Farthou looked over at the Chief, the latter nodding.  Their blue skin dry as a bone.  *Well, they aren't outwardly lying.

As they walked the Fersion couldn't speak to her, Starports would not allow for it.  It instead spoke to the Chief.  "May we please ask her who she was in contact with?  Time is of the evidence."  The Chief did not acknowledge him and they strode on.
...
It had her name there, on his primary screen.  Shaun scowled at it.  He crossed his arms and leaned against the kitchen cabinets cursing the day he met her.  *What's this now?

'She's in trouble.  That's the only reason.  And why should I care?  She's not done one bloody thing for me...ever.  She's only given ME trouble.'  The intrigue is what calls him.  Almost a standard year and she doesn't even send a status - his heart was broken, then the anger, then the resolve, then the dull reasoning required to get over it.  Then, all over again.  He knew the ultimate question, he's done this four...five times now?  The question, "Is it worth it for her to be in trouble when I can do something?'  He resented the question more than anything else.

He begrudgingly qualified his jacking into the net, 'The last f-cking time.  The last f-cking time.'

...

"Huntress: Maps" (16apr17)

..last was here...

Concourse 9570TAE typified the gleaming sensibilities of the S'G'en sector.

No one could conclusively state an exact timeline: if the 9000 Concourse design came before the Cambridge sector, or, if two hundred and seventy standard years before it was a response *to* the Cambridge Concourses.  The latter were well derided across the lightways for dozens of years.  They were compared to the strip malls that cropped up all over the United States right before the 21st century.  The intersection of convenience and lack of aspiration. The affluent yacht jockeys would burn more fuel than step foot in a Cambridge.

S'G'en had, for thousands of years, been religious techvangelists.  Their walls without a single seam, meeting each other in a curvature with a molecular degree of angle that was legendarily machined.  The lengths of the starport were calculated to a degree that took several different supercomputers to compile the variances.  All were designed to maintain airflow like a planet.  The air felt fresh and not recycled.  The tech would eventually convert toward personal use, helping those with respiratory issues that could not be resolved otherwise.  The angles perfected to maximize the gravitational uniqueness of the structure.

She strode the gleaming white halls like a black shock on a blank papyrus.  Stares followed her along the thoroughfare, she brought her obnoxious blaster.  The laws around the Verse may vary, but the ability to protect oneself at a port were immutable.  Factions counted in the thousands.  One had to protect themselves.  There were constraints: the blaster could not fire projectiles, lest the station suffer.  Only energy weapons that ranged in a certain spectrum [even then those could be spoofed].

Gamon wanted a neutral station.  Not to protect himself from her - she was a Hunter not a Merc - it was from his prey that Gamon knew there was no safety outside the confines of the peaceful S'G'en.

She stood off when she spotted him.  Gauging.  *Was he alone?  Was this a trap?  Were there anyone else watching them?*  After an hour of focus, she determined that they were, indeed, alone.

He pulled into himself when she walked into the bar.  A roboserver strode up immediately, without a word.  "Hausenfleur.  Ice."  It strode off, only a momentary nod indicated it took her order.  The bartender was keeping an eye on them, not obviously, as it would be a sign of disrespect for a S'G'en.  As they were open people, it was nude, it's blue skin shimmering in the glow of the bar.

"How're you?"  She threw at his nervousness.  *He hasn't been sleeping.*  Perspiration beaded under the three primary eyes.  The other dozen were half-closed.  An Asripian cannot hide it.  That information saved her life once.

"Do you have what I need to clear my name?"  He wiped moisture from his face.  Her dark hair fell forward, and, learned through years of necessary parlor tricks, she left two metal plates in front of him to study.

"Is this...?"

"It's what you paid me for."  Gamon shifted forward and put three-fingered hands around it like castle walls.  His gills shivered.  She gently pressed the back of his hand, it was clammy.

"But.  Let's be clear, I have the information that shows you were definitely not in the arena that night.  You didn't steal what they said.  *But* they have this information too.  And by knowing, they could use it against you, especially if they knew you had it."

His hands dropped in failure.  *He's weak.*  "What do I do?"

"Get to a Laohshian bank and have this uploaded immediately.  Notarize it with a S'G'en acolyte, as I assume you wanted to meet here for that purpose.  Get a Verse lawyer.  In that order.  File a motion before they have a chance to respond.  You have hours, not days."

He shivered and shook, "You're pay?"  She nodded, "I took the liberty of taking it from your account.  I don't like doing it, but it's part of my line of work."  She passed him her pad.  "Enter your number while I look away."  He did so.

"Now go."  He stood up and left without a word.  The bartender's posture shifted as he watched him go in the mirror.  *He's being watched.  Interesting.*

The Hausenfleur came, the honey-colored liquid shone with a deep shimmer of light.  It smelled of bees in the summer on a Terran Alpine slope.  Grass.  Melted snow as it runs over granite.  She sipped it for a while and decided that Gamon owed her a little bit more on the advice.  She charged the drink and asked for the bottle.  It took three weeks of intense work to get Gamon that information, she figured he would owe her just a little bit more.

She pressed the pad.  Gamon made her day without knowing it.  If the Hausenfleur kicked in before she left the station, he may make it one more time.

...next is here...
...

"Beth" (a snippet)...26mar17...

San Marino.  The Huntington Library is alive in the late winter.  Especially as Pasadena, at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains, warms to a pleasant 80 degrees.  The tens of thousands of roses are not adorning their plants yet, but leaves are sprouting from thick straight stalks.  The branches are dark, a type of green that one has to closely inspect to believe it has any color at all.

Where the roses and lily pads are still dormant, the camellias are in full bloom.  The Huntington has colors I had yet to see otherwise, including a camellia with pink and white strips, almost as if the Queen of Hearts had not yet finished with her chores.

rikioscamera flickr

And, where one may miss the smell of roses, they are easily forgotten by the smells of a hundred other variety of flowers that sit across the property.  Wisteria hangs heavy from the trees, draping over the water, it's light purple majestic and appropriate with the Mountains not far away as a backdrop.  The swimming stone sculptures of limestone towered up into the clean, blue sky.

Beth sat with her leg crossed, a serious look upon her face.  Her hair was pulled back, the dark brown and chestnut highlights were accentuated by the sun.  The straight lines and her matronly demeanor drew her pensive look into deeper focus.  Her eyes never lost their luster, they still glowed with an intensity - a shadowed topaz, that didn't lighten despite the sun sometimes alighting her face.

I had to catch myself constantly, as if the past didn't exist - and, for me, I didn't feel it.  It had been eight years.  We were in our later twenties then and full of fire.  We stayed up all night wordlessly making love, in a time when we didn't know sleep as intimately as we do now.

I loved lightly brushing back the strands of hair from her temples and staring into her eyes.  She stared back with an equal intensity.  If it hadn't been for her job, and mine, we would have stayed together.  At least that's what I tell myself.

The truth is that it was better this way.  Better to have that distance where we didn't have foresight.  It made us better.  She was married, no kids, and I got close to both, but my career ruined a string of chances.  And, equally honest to myself, none of them held a candle to Beth.

She had that mysterious allure that held my respect.  The classic touches on her face, the ever present shadow in her hair, her eyes and even in the earthen color of her skin - a mixture of Vietnamese and Polish descent.

"Where's the doctor at today?"  I smirked slightly, awaiting her to turn to me.  She didn't.  This was odd.  We sat at the Chinese Garden House.  We had stewed pork belly in coconut sauce and a few odds and ends.  I sat with a Buddha Beer.  His exaggerated smile looking into me.  He got the joke.

"Why didn't we stay together?"  Great.  A hard question first.  My mind bounded to keep this day light, I felt like a boxer trying to keep the fight going, at least in the best way possible.  I shouldn't answer lightly though...

"I can assure you it wasn't for lack of thinking it over."  It was true: we both tried to make it work, each on their own, but returned to the same point and the same decision.  She still didn't look at me.  Try harder dummy, I spoke to myself, the sweat starting to come.  "But here we are...now.  At this moment."  I shifted the food away.  "The Tao would say this is where we needed to be.  Together.  I don't think you've noticed, but I'm holding in an elation that I've had for two weeks."  I didn't want to reach out, but I've wanted to hold her hand the moment we walked unto the grounds.

We left the food behind and walked back toward the Japanese Garden.  Along the footpath, the camellia fell low.  The shafts of sunlight dappling our path.  I know what she was thinking.  There were too many variables for her.  She was a doctor and of high analytical mind.  There was too much baggage.

"It's unfair to think that our past could command what could be."  She still hadn't made eye contact.  The sweat came down.  I'm not going to lie, I wanted this to go right and exactly what I thought could not is happening.  Having been a known quantity killed the chances for spontaneity.  "It was a life time ago, before all of this."

"And you could so easily take me back?  You don't know what I've done..."  We walked up a trail that was cooled by bamboo, right next to the traditional Japanese House.  I couldn't take anymore, I swung her around and looked confidently into her eyes, "I don't care."  As I held her by her arms to turn her toward me, her eyes relaxed and I could feel her body soften.  She put her hand on my face and searched my eyes.  I fought every urge to say something - but I knew it would fall apart.  She said nothing as well.

She turned and sunk her body into mine as we walked past the House.  All the walls were open today and you could see from one end to the other.  It must have been that way in the dead of summer, allowing any breeze to flow through.

On the other side of the House there was a zig zag of bridge that cut through twenty-foot-high bamboo.  She deftly moved our bodies in that direction.  Her hips and her side felt impeccably right against me.  My chi had filled, embarrassingly so...but there was little I could do to control it.

Beth moved me, as if I was led like a dancer, against the railing and pushed against me.  Her eyes were wrought with abandon.  I didn't know what it meant for tomorrow, just as I thought that she wanted, I wanted assurances for me as well.  I couldn't stand to lose her again.  She pulled her lips up to mine and we kissed until the warmth of the afternoon fell and the sting of the cold evening brought us back to reality.

...the last breath...31dec16...

The verge of a cry grew heavy, right above the bridge of her nose, but she refused it.  She had never cried as an adult.  Never cried in Academy.  Didn't cry when her pelvis was smashed in a training accident.  She would not do it now.  She flatly refused.  Limited air.  She knew better than flail her arms.  Time and energy were her world right now.  Distance was a star that she would shoot for.

She was falling, end over end, away from the hull of what once was the Halifax.  Mei was blown clear when the exterior hallways collapsed, depressurized by the explosions of the unknown capital ship.  She could see them now, a brown flat dot in the distance, flaring with a few missile hits, mere dots.  They were 20% declination to 30,0 to the Halifax - a minor blind spot - but an effective one.

First stop momentum.  She poised her body as if she were taking off in a rocket pack from the ground, her hands and feet at a similar angle.  Mei watched the Halifax as it swung out of view.  Easy.  No need to waste air.  The oxygen bag enveloped her body on the abrupt change in pressure from the hallway into space.  It had about fifteen minutes worth of breathable time.  The battery had enough to get her back to the Halifax.  More than likely picked up as a prisoner.  Better than death.

She closed her eyes into squints and focused on her position and fall away from the ship.  She could see others, still in death, floating away.  There was debris.  Chunks of the asteroidic skin that enveloped the capital ship.  Steel.  If one had the chance to hit her, she may as well give up.

Slow.  She released oxygen toward the direction of her spin, easing it out of her hands with a small release button.  Instead of overcompensating the entire spin, she let go of the release once the ship was out of view.  It saved energy.  Energy that was going to be needed to give her momentum back toward the ship.  If she blew it all at once, that was it.

Her Academy drill officer, Andrews, came immediately back.  This will save your life.

Let's see, Andrews.  Mei was calm for being minutes from death.  You have to be.  Living in space for over seven years now, you were only inches from death anywhere on the ship.  This was a war, not a field trip.  Their losses, like the Halifax, would be yet another blow for the Bureaucracy.

After three spins, slowing each time, she made a direct line for herself toward the Halifax.  Escape pods were popping from ventral.  That's where I'll head.

She very easily released more air, this time pushing behind her, toward her legs.  It started to bring her forward, pushing against the initial momentum that led her here.  She did not look behind her, only forward.  She didn't look at how much energy and oxygen were left.  It would be a distraction and panic will make her heart rate soar.

She started to move and felt the cold of space start to creep into the suit.  It was only rated for so much, and it had already gave a lot of itself.  A little more.  Once she felt she had the momentum, she stopped the release.  She slowed her breathing.  The Halifax grew larger.  Fires had broken out all around it.  No large debris seemed to be ahead of her.  She fixed herself to the bottom of the ship and toward the floating pods.  They did not push far from the ship, just close to rely upon the Halifax's incidental gravity.  It must not be in danger of exploding, that is good.  But fire must be the reason the ventral crew left.

Twenty minutes from the ship.  Her air would not make it, but, if she could will herself to pass out, she may make it.  She had a flechette that would knock her out.  She pulled on it from the outside of the suit and it just needed to be pulled away and angled toward the soft of her forearm.  She made sure that she was correctly angled.  One deep breath, and she injected herself.

The cold of the needle and the icy liquid as it ran into her arm was a shock, but only temporarily.  Mei instantly felt the effect of the drug and passed out.  She watched the Halifax and could see the small silhouettes of the crew as they busied themselves in putting out its fires...

short:"Magpie" (4 of 4)

[part 3 here]

He didn't go to work Tuesday.  He had drifted in and out of sleeplessness.  Overeating.  He felt on the verge of sickness but nothing clearly came to hurt.  A funk.

He tried not to think of her.  Yet he made another outing Monday after work.  This time he did ask.  It's amazing how little people even pay attention.  The guy at the comic store said he didn't even remember me.  I've been going there every month for three years.

He switched to straight cigarettes, as much as he could not afford them.  He went through the whole pack ("stockade" cigarettes, the cheapest he could find in the vendie), sitting on his balcony, the sky knowing it wouldn't rain, but stayed grey anyway.  He went through his current playlist twice ("grey_18sep32"), almost two hours per.  Every part of him cried out now that she was gone.  His skin ached, his eyes burned, there was a mild, nagging pain in the back of his head, right above the neck.

He went to work on Wednesday and got chewed out for not making quota.  "You are non-functioning, Charlie, you are on the verge of being on assistance."  He wanted to laugh at that.  Everyone was on assistance.  It only meant getting a little less.  I don't care.  Who does?

...

The call came on Thursday, after work.  He was just getting a bit better, back on track a little more.  He was at his console and his phone glowed green.  Eversong Administration Plant.

"Yes?"  Glowing spring tides and butterflies came to him when he realized that Eversong had her: they would only call for that reason.

"Charles Johann?"

"Charlie.  Yes."

"We have her."

...

He had to wait until work was over but he got there right at dusk.  He tried not to look too anxious, but the week of worry had done enough.  She'll know that I missed her, then.

He walked into Eversong and had to wait for a technician.  "You should have had an appointment."

"No one told me of an appointment."

"You hung up before I could tell you."

He waited for an hour and forty minutes.  A kid came out, couldn't be a year out of university.

"You here for Magdalena?  Follow me."

When he walked into a little diagnostic room, she sat with her back to the door.  He didn't say anything, hoping that she would turn around and pour tears into his chest.  Her face was already half-turned, but she did not move.  She did not blink.

After a few minutes of silence, he saw the kid was staring at him.  He bristled in his skin.

"Where...?" Charlie asked, not knowing what to ask otherwise.

"As far as we can tell, she wandered all the way to the Cape.  There's a beach there that is all rock."

"Fleur Point."

He nodded then looked at his screen.  "By what I could tell by GPS, she was there Thursday afternoon.  She didn't move.  A park ranger found her underneath some rocks.  The exposure made a mess of her recorder."  He walked around her, still discerning, "I ran diagnostics.  I could see that she fell into rampancy spiral.  I know this means you both were very close.  I..."  He trailed off, they both knew there was a falling out.

Charlie just nodded and put his hand on her shoulder.  She was cold.  Her flesh was not the usual gelatinous feel, it was as if rocks were underneath the surface.  She did not move.  Her eyes were open, but cloudy.  There was no power.

"I'm sorry.  She was a grant?"

He nodded in response and that would end the conversation.  She was provided by the Counsel on a grant.  If you lose one, you cannot get a replacement.  Charlie would never be close to buying his own.  He was escorted out of the room, but he stood near a door where he could look in at her.

They ran a circuit to Maggie from a service port, which made her go into a fetal position, easier for movement.  They covered Maggie in a translucent bag and that was it.

...

They tell you to never to take pictures.  They tell you not to get too close.  It's a joke, they do this to control us.  They put us in a cocoon until we are broken and we don't care if they pull us out.

There were many pictures, he didn't realize how many.  He dug through two thousand until he found it.  The time they went there.  She wore her hair up.  It was a brisk day, but she only had on a black vertical shirt and white cut-offs.  She had these little, cute white boating shoes on.  She smiled at him and he remembered smiling back.

...

[start from the beginning]

short:Magpie (3 of 4)

[part 2 here]

As he predicted (although he mixed the word in his head, a miswire in elementary, to "predicated") Maggie disappeared.  It had been three days.  Three days and I only just thought of her.  Work, drinks, dinner, home, repeat.  Three days since she paused in the doorway.  He slept in on Saturday morning, stretched and enjoyed the freedom of no one there.

...

That night.  "Where'd she go?"  He didn't look at Bryon.  Instead intent on the thick drops of condensation on his mug, turned into dark lines.  They ran down the glass and across the glass top.  This was the worst kind of drunk.  Too angry to feel good, too nauseated that the swooning hurt.  An induced swirl, like riding the teacups at gunpoint.

"Do you c-?"  The bartender hit the flat of the sink with a frozen bottle.  It pushed grey slush to the bottle's lip.  She cut it with ouzo and stirred it into a tall glass with a handmade black licorice.  Who the f*ck would drink that?

"What?"

"Do you care?  I mean do you really, really care?"  Ugh, that word.  By pulled the rest of his Killians down and fingered for another.  Til' didn't even need to acknowledge, her curly dark hair swirled around as she expertly grabbed, pulled and mixed for everyone.  Her eyes had a green tinge on their extremities, as did her lipstick.  She was awful at conversation.  So bad that no one even bothered anymore.

"I..." don't.  But he couldn't let it out.  It was overly brash.  He did not care, but it wasn't right to put it out there, not like that.  It's not a fair thing to ask, not yet.  "And you, By, do you care if Lola left you, then?"

He smiled his crooked, stupid smile.  He was pissed tipsy, hovering in place.  A lumbering giant of a guy, with wicked crooked teeth, like how he pictured the Artful Dodger should look.  Crooked teeth are the sign of a crooked heart.  Byron smelled like sh*t, too.

"You know their kind right?"  And, then "I don't let her leave."  He leaned into the bar to stop the rotation.  Take off your jacket, you smell like Doritos and piss.  Byron stared ahead and didn't say a word for a few minutes.  His face struggled with something, then grew dark, "Who wants to be lonely, then?  Eh?"

He waved to Til' for another one.  The bar top glowed with the bill.  I hit the limit.  He quickly flipped Byron's drinks off of it, approved and pressed his finger down.  A new bill flashed in front of Byron and he bristled straightaways.  "What's this then?"

"I can't afford you, By.  I didn't make quota this week," it was true.

"Well, sh*t.  I don't have skrill."  That was true too.

He sipped his drink, "Not my problem."

...

He left right after, not knowing if he would ever see him again.  Edifying = no.  I just fell into hanging out.

He swung around the places he knew that Maggie would go, only stopping short of asking around.

At the Juice he walked around the solid walls of sound, the lights turning in and out of color, texture, or switching to laser.  They walked all around him, taking it all in.  It worked better if they moved.  The music was what you would typically expect at a club, but it was off by one bar, it was off on a back beat, or just that little something so you knew it was not right.

He made a beeline straight for the bookstore.  He felt the instant ebb of warmness that his hunch was right.  She would be there (like solving a puzzle more than anything else).  What would I do if she is there?

He stopped and peered through the window.  It was a spot he knew no one could see him and he didn't look like a creep.  I would just say 'hi', perhaps she would say something alarming enough for me to sit.  We would talk for fifteen.  It would be nice, actually she would make sure to keep it light, light enough to have him sit and enjoy the conversation after so long a week, after so many drinks.  They would talk and realize they should order a tea.  I wouldn't even have to ask, I know she likes English Breakfast with creme and sugar, no honey.  They would talk and then, after a time she would talk about one of his favorite books, something deep she would offer and he would, almost unknowingly, ask her to explain her posit.  Then, they would walk and find themselves at home.

"Come up."

"No."

"You should, come on, it's late and its silly not to.  Just sleep, nothing else, I swear."

But then they would talk more, like old friends.  It has been three days.  And they would stare at one another, or feel one another's hands.  The warmness, the loneliness rushing over his member and it all would go.  And it would be that sweet love.  Slow and tender, thoughtful and when she came she would pull a little tuft of hair on the back of his head and breath into his face.  Her breath was always incredible.

He felt himself get hard and shifted.  She's not here.

He walked another two miles, hitting parks, stores, a 24-hour pizzeria.  Wherever Maggie was, it was not in this little part of the world.  Where the f*ck is she?  He would call, but she didn't have a phone.

...

[part 4 here]

short: "Magpie" (2 of 4)

[part 1 here]

And that's how it went.  He satiated her, somehow, by simply being present.  He floated around her as she went on, oblivious.  He was a ghost to her living, There is a point where it is easier to remain quiet and allow life to happen otherwise.

She hung on his arm as he floated to the bakery in the morning, the library or the bookstore during the day, and making love at night.

She has to see that I don't exist.  He only caught her eyes in fits, never admitting that he was not looking at them at all.  If he had noticed, he would have seen them through the filter of his own dissatisfaction, her eyes would have been black orbs.  But she went on and talked and sweated and came.  He came infrequently, and only when he forgot himself and the friction of sex took over.

"Where are you?"  She grabbed his face and made him stare at her.  Her deep brown eyes glowed. She smile so perfectly he had to admit feeling.  Then he sunk it down, pushed the feeling below the three weeks of inertia.  He remembered to feel nothing and stared at her.  "You don't love me anymore?"  She lay back away from him, instantly cooling his chest as she did so.  Her breasts lilted back and her nipples pointed to the ceiling.  "Did you ever love me, I wonder?"

He lay there and a feeling of losing her came upon him, and he thought that it did multiple times the last three weeks.  And, when her perceived threat to leave came, he felt it pull upon him like an anchor.  "Of course I love you.  I have said it many times."  Maybe too many times.  That was true.

She turned away from him to expose her roundness.  Her curves from shoulder to thigh were impeccable.  He wanted to reach out touch it, knowing that this was going to end.

"Saying is one thing, dear.  Did you really mean it?"

He turned in his skin, he hated the word 'really'.  It was unnecessary.  It seemed to be a word loaded with narcissism, loaded with the need to justify.  "I said it," flatly.  He got up, sat up.  His back cooled and it felt good.  He half turned his head to her back, "What do you want me to say?  Aren't we together?  Did we just make love?"

"These are actions.  You have not shown me any affection."  Silence at truth.

She started to get dressed.  I didn't know she could show shame, he thought.  She pulled her breasts into the form-fitted soft cups, their shape ever appealing to him as he watched.  "Something changed."  She pulled up her stockings and he rose, happy that she was going to leave.  Happy so he wouldn't say what needed to be said.  She would go away for a day, maybe two.  He would cool off, forget about her.  Hate himself when he caught the fact that he hadn't thought about her.  Make some plans with his friends.  Read a book and be alone.  No one nearby to ask an insipid question.  It's as if the questions get more inane the more this goes on.  Why doesn't see get frustrated and not come back.  Why do I have to be the one to do something.  He didn't see through his own weakness.

She was dressed and he was naked.  He had blankly pulled on a vape stick, which seemed to be ever near.  This week was gin.  Not only did it have the high, crisp smell of it, but apparently it was infused with a bit of the alcohol.  He blew it to cover the smirk on his face.  This part wasn't bad: she goes away for a few days, however and whatever 'they' do.  It didn't matter.  It was the coming back that was getting more difficult.

She didn't even say 'bye' this time.  She always had to get the last word in, but this time was different.  He felt the pang, the small little ache he was going to lose her this time, but it was sadly getting better.  Maggie paused at the door, for a good few seconds.  At this, he stopped breathing.  He hadn't seen that before, Maybe she finally had enough.  Maybe she cannot go on like this.' She walked out, slamming the door slightly, but didn't say a word.  One thing he did stop himself, every time, was never belittle her verbally.  It was too cruel, even for him.

"Hm," he said and took another drag.  The exertion of sex, the coolness of sweat as it dries...it mixes so well with the pull of a stick.  He didn't have any more real alcohol, but that would've rounded out the feeling he needed.  Instead, he sat, naked, in the dining room, pulling on the vape until he ran it dry.  He stared out at the quiet city.  The gray light and white dots, spilling white light on the sides of the buildings.  Oddly, there were no sounds of either car or sirens.

[part 3 here]

short:"Magpie" (part 1 of 4)

"You don't look at me the same way anymore."

Her hands trembled.  Trembled slightly but perceptibly.  She pushed a knife through a small green apple with her left hand.  The uneven weight saw the apple teeter back and forth upon its edge.  With her other hand, a green vape.  It glowed along its length, a thin stripe that ebbed with use.  It glowed anew when she took another pull.  That hand trembled too.  She tried to hide it by balancing it on her knee, "It's fine.  It was bound to happen after all."

Her legs pulled into the cushion of the kitchen chair, black Converse tucked underneath her.  The black stockings were ripped in places, in small circles.  Her pristine pale skin underneath.  Her comfort was the overlarge denim jacket.  Maggie.

"Who says?  You?"  I took a drag on my stick.  Where hers was green apple, predictably, mine was a weekly change.  This time it was 'chrome'.  It had a steel taste on the finish, finely tuned with the tobacco.  I let it drain out slowly, vape covering my face.  It gave me a second's peace.

I felt crowded.  I felt restless and unhappy, which did not bode well for me or for my generation.  We
fight against it constantly.  I fought against the urge to pull out my phone and read whatever.  It was already 9:18 and I would have gone through my pattern already.  As the smoke cleared, she hadn't answered my question.  It turned rhetorical.

Her, "It's Saturday."

I let her declarative lay there.  What it meant was, 'What are we doing today?'  I had no answer.  I want to get out and run.  I wanted to get out in the air.  I wanted to go upstate.  I wanted Saratoga Springs.  I wanted Yaddo.  I wanted to cut a vein and let it bleed along hand hewn paper.  Scream. Breathe.

"Your face is dark,"  She took a drag and finally got the pinion on the knife, slicing a quarter of the apple.  She picked it up and her half gone lipstick enveloped it.  She chewed and made it always look cool.  Her sunglasses, round and dark, never budged even when crunching on fruit.  If I did it, they would bounce like a f*cking kangaroo.  I sincerely am not cool.

"You're wearing sunglasses, darling."  She made a grunt like a 'hm' and cut another slice.  The smell of the apple infused the air.

Maggie.  We first met, as was planned on the app, at the Parlor Pachinko in Fontana.  She intoxicated me even before we met in person.  Her breathing on the phone, heavier than most, came across with dazzling answers.  The breathing sounded like she unmounted a wildebeest.

Me, "What are you into?"  Dumb.  Why?

"What am I not?"  Pause.  Breath, "Opera.  Arcades.  F*cking.  Temperance.  Old movies.  Walks in the rain.  What kind of f*cking question is that?  It's so broad as to be worthless, it's so general as to be boorish."

"Shit."  It was like a punch.

"Yeah," I had to meet her that day.  And she walked in, as she looks now.  Dark and denim.  Hose and tennies.  She walked with a swagger, not like a CG character.  No offense, but there was femininity here.  I'll f*cking say that in public, even if I am fined for it.  I embrace my masculinity, and why shouldn't I?  I may not have the right as dictated by the Clorventate, but I have some rights of free will, as warranted by the fussy fashions of the Assemblage.  Whatever.  Her body suited me.  Her breath, a mix of vape and last night's lemonicello tea had me instantly hard.  Her lips were like pillows.  God bless us young and our prime.  We f*cked like rabbits for weeks.  I lost track of time and responsibility.  I only remember hydration.

"Let's go to the comics store, Maggie," I said ignoring her.  She got up to expose her lack of undergarments and my remembering, throbbing member made me wake up.  Not enough to grab her and have her, like she was slyly trying for, but she had me again, at least for the day.

...

We wandered around The Dash, but I was found it better outside.  I sipped at a crisp, cool red ginseng soda (I didn't recog the label) and it woke my slogging behind.  I breathed in the city.  DLA was clean this time of year - not quite summer, not quite fall.  It was cooler air coming off the north deserts through the buildings.  It mixed with the languid humidity of the Pacific.  It woke my mind (finally) to the day.  The smell of udon and a dark, rich soy sauce (frying?) lofted along the street.

She surprised me by jumping into my back.  Her arms around me, her cheek resting on my neck.  It was then I knew.  It was then she bothered me.  She broke my oneness with the moment.  I let her hang there but I looked at the triangle of sunlight down the edge of Factory Place as it met Alameda and mildly cursed the weight on my shoulders.  Knowledge is a dull, monotone thunder.

[part 2 here]
...

read:Number's Game (next)

As described, the center of the Harper's housed the bridge, shielded by miles of a natural occurring asteroid, a 'sub derma' preparation dampening layer, a double-folded tesseract metal super-structure...the engineers of the Plutonian class claimed it to be the safest place in any habitable system for a human.  The interior of a Plutonian ship was nicknamed the 'core'.  The class, and even the Harper's by name, was battle tested and famed for its safety rating.  Although the engineers would never agree, the legend was that it could survive even scaled planetary catastrophes when it was put to rigorous modeling.

Surrounding the bridge, which itself was in its own metallic pod, was the Den.  The Den was designed to hold the entire crew if there were any such catastrophe.  It was a multi-use area, with hotelling outfit - survivable and operational if all else had failed.  When not the exception, it served as the commons.

Cal was called to the Den along with the rest of his stick.  The stick which Cal was assigned on the Harper's was designed for pre-battle, so the logic fell along those disciplines.  PRE was how they were known, although the highers would term them 'strategy'.  So, there was a very minute dissonance in this.  The ranks figured themselves as PRE, the brass treated them as strategy.

The leader of the stick, Danker, as he was called (no one knew exactly why, he preceded them all by three years), leaned up against the wall and let them chatter for a bit.  He had a pad in his hand, but he was not touching it in any meaningful way.  Cal watched him, as Danker would sometimes remark, 'like a cat'.  He's just listening in.  It's a smart thing to do, listen.  You will find out more about your crew then than a dozen interviews.

The stick had eight roles: mixture, operations, engineering, control, stations, response, comms, and trajectory.  Danker had them all under his leadership: eight as his own.

Cal sat in proximity of a conversation, to pretend he was a part of it.  He nodded at random times to make it appear that way.  Cal knew Danker didn't care.  Cal did what he was supposed to do and constantly read up.  He didn't need to be a friendly dog.

The conversation was between Lariot and Kaylee, control and trajectory.  They were talking about the news, comparing notes, since they were part of the black operations, comms were limited, and, at best, fragmentary.  But, pieces of the Interior, the regular life, came to them from family.  It was much more intimate this way.  They spoke about their respective pets, or their siblings, very rarely of their parents.  Cal had none of these things, so he would smile if they looked at him.  He had heard the patterns in their speech enough to know when to do that.

Danker finally put the tech tablet down and asked them to file up.  They took the single table, a bench on either side and him at the center.  He scraped a chair underneath himself and kept an eye on all of them at once.  It was a talent that Cal envied.  He saw people, but not all at once.  Danker did a decent job of keeping them in step, almost effortlessly.

"We've got a mission, but you know the drill: I don't have enough details yet for us to break off in a silence room.  But I can tell you to get ready.  Know the Harper's.  Know more about it then ever before, as I know you can.  Charise, I need you to embed with the other operations teams immediately and start talking through post-stage.  Garland..."  Danker went through each.

"Cal, how are your mixtures for multiples?"

"I have them, but, you are right, I've ran them, but not enough.  I'll get on them right now.  Any idea of the numbers?"

"Wish I can tell you.  I only mention multiples because I've been looking at action debriefs and you guys are on point for single engagements.  I worry about multiples only because you haven't done them enough.  The percentages come back and we need to shore them up."

"Can we live model?  I would suggest that."  From Lariot.  He knew his stuff.  Danker nodded.

"Yes, the stick heads are getting together on that.  Expect one, but only after we repair the damages from the last engagement."

"Time?"

"I'm going to give us three days.  We meet back here and all of the actionables are done by then."

"Harper's!" We cried out, as a single stick, and they all dashed off around the ship.

...

read:"Longing"

"How close is it?"

He shrugged, but instantly realized she couldn't see it in the dark of the beach.  "Dunno.  All I read is it is the closest it will be for another two years.  It's called 'Mars Close' for a reason."  The wind was strongest along the cliffs, but it was the only place to get a clear shot of the Cove.  Brush framed it on both sides.  He leaned on the rail so he could see her face more clearly.

She is gorgeous.  Perfect.  He smiled, not inwardly.  She kept staring forward.  She's allowing me to.  Hm.  He only wanted to think the best of her.

The tips of her hair whipped around, the rest of the light highlights were tightly pulled back.  She didn't make eye contact, staring up and toward the blank pitch of the sea.  He stared back.  There were a few lights flatly through the haze.  They were a line of tankers heading north toward Pedro.  They were stationary for the night.  Above them, it was the clearly red dot of Mars, a tilted line from the barely blue tint of Saturn.

His mind raced with what to do next.  How to make it all perfect.  This night.  So there would be a next night.  He could tell that she was used to this treatment.  Devon pulled all the stops tonight.  Five Crowns.  A little stuffy, but I am in a formal mood with her.  A literary mood.  Chateau La Grange Clinet Grande Reserve.  To fit the mood, an Old World Bordeux.  Peppered the conversation, as naturally as possible, with Marlowe.

"That perfect bliss."  When describing a recent trip to Tai O, in Hong Kong, and walking above the sleepy, lighted waterways.  "The planes coming in to HKG, as if skipping atop the waters.  The fisherman would occasionally look up at the thundering machines.

"What feeds me destroys me."  When she playfully said that he was too romantic.  He describing the first girl he fell in love with.  It was in third grade and she never knew.  Her name was Jessica Morales and it was spoiled by the stupidity of the other boys.  Devon was never able to recover from that.  He spend the summer completely destroyed, hoping to see her around town.  It never happened.

"...the topless towers of Ileum."  When she described her most recent relationship.  She tried to make it work, but the two simply didn't connect.  He said it in response to how no one has penetrated her heart.  She smiled and he took it to mean hope.

I am too much.  He sunk for an instant and felt the indecision of the night tear into him.  As long as she does not ask, what's next? then I should be fine.  But so far, this did not happen.  He struggled for something else...he roiled over the conversation and thought over a few things that she had mentioned.  She never elaborated on wanting to go to Italy.

"Italy?"

"Huh?"  She finally looked at him.  She was off on her own.  I am merely another admirer.  Her eyes were wet with thought.  He feigned a bit of easy laughter.  Oh, no.

"Where were you?"

She tucked her head down in slight embarrassment and pulled her hair behind her ear.  How I want to brush my lips against it.  "I was thinking of the mysteries.  Out there."  Her eyes nodded into the haze and pitch ahead.  She nodded toward it like a knowing lover, sharing a secret.

"Well he must hold many secrets.  You were positively enthralled."

She smiled as if to laugh but didn't.  She looked at him again.  "I apologize."

"Perish the thought."  He turned his back to the railing and looked instead to the light colored hills.  The traffic was a constant these days.  Time to play chicken.  Who was going to call it first?  "You're place, where you just were.  Out there.  It is not down in any map.  True places never are."  He smiled foxily, letting the wine control.

"Melville."  She laughed out loud.  She laughed for the first time in three dates.  "What was that smile?"

"Well, I'm either trying to pull you back from there, or join you."  Laugh again.

"I may begin to think that you have an unhealthy amount of knowledge for literature.  These days."

"I agree.  Now, let's get you home and out of this wind."  Slow.  The operative word tonight.  There's something she is hiding.  She does not need the wiles and my desires.

In the car, warmed by the leather seats and a mix tape consisting of Lauv, Just a Gent and Phoebe Ryan, she relaxed.  She fell into her Nita dress, a blue vintage number made of silk and embroidery, and pulled her frock like a blanket.  "May I sleep here?"

"I would be offended if you didn't, Miss S--."

"Then I shall.  Wake me when we've reached Neverland."

I love her already.

read:excerpt "Flask and Gritted Teeth"...

... Calamansi.  It's name in the Philippines, though I'm not sure if it is unique to us or not.  He sipped at it, a Kumquat Whiskey Sour.

"Lemon, lime, kumquats, gomme, Old Grand-Dad."  Stewart leaned into him to intimate it, fighting over Lauv's Reforget.  Gomme was simply syrup.  Old was bourbon.  Wart knows I know.  No one else would, or very few at least.

A pick-me-up.  Citrus has that affectation.  He stared out the window and wished for a moment that he didn't see the facade of another building.  It was as if every window looked out on a mirror.  Little variation.  He sipped again and let that thought go.

"We let it go now I'm full of rum and regret, I go out just so I can reforget."  The booth synced a bass hook and added some low end.  Familiar.  Bum.  Bum.  Boom.  Chainsmokers, that's what it is.  Roses.  Sip.  Menthol.  Crisp and sharp.

Fuck.  He loosened up and felt his shoulders relax.  Finally.  "I go out just so I can reforget"  The air felt new tonight.  Finally.  Looking down on the street he saw the mulling throng.

"You bored?"  Bailey.  He leaned over beside him.  He pulled on a vape.  It glowed purple then white.  The vapor filled the air, only for two seconds and disappeared.

His mind was actually racing.  He was thinking of flat desert.  Dark nights with only a few, lonely lights in the landscape.  Home.  Cucamonga.  The dark of the San Gabriels ever present.  "What did you want to do when you were a kid?"

Bailey laughed, "What?"

"All I ever wanted to do was fly a jet in the Air Force.  A pilot."  He leaned over the railing more.  "I used to read piloting manuals when I was a kid.  I understood none of it.  I had them open and I would read the words, but they would never cement in my head.  It was like trying to pretend to read hieroglyphics or something, you know?"

Bailey had disappeared.  He does that.  "Then it dawned on me: I just wanted to fly.  I had no commitment to do the work.  I wanted to play.  I wanted to go.  I never really put in the time."  I wanted to soar over the mountain, through the valley on the other side where the trains blew through, three times a day.  Across the hidden lakes where they were inaccessible, to the snow caps that were just as impassable.  I wanted to travel back in time and meet the natives and shove edibles in my mouth and wake up with the knowledge of the world in my head and they would say 'you have no eyes, because now you see everything...

The world was gone for a minute and returned.  Someone screamed on the street below and the mulling of people naturally made a circle around the source.  Homeless, a wash of uneven grey, and teetering along the street - the tourists from Boise and Raleigh making sure to put ten feet between them.  Some are laughing and laughing again when they realize  they have a story to tell when they get home.

Kitten, thank God.  They won't play them until the end though.  He'll play until before the bridge and cut to anything else.  "Give me the lights now, let me breathe."

"What was that thing you hit me earlier?  Something about a bad day?"  Oh, the text.

"A Joker quote."

Bailey laughed again.  He was on something and that something was annoying.  "What?"

"It's from The Killing Joke, I lent it to you back in 8th grade.  You read it and it blew your mind."

"Ok."  He waited with his face flat and his eyes glossy.  It wasn't alcohol.  Bailey stared until he got an answer.

"Joker says to Batman, 'All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy.  That's how far the world is from where I am."

"Just one bad day."  Bailey slapped my chest when he got it and did a quick hop into the air.  Now it was time for him to disappear.  All right, I'm done for the night.  He nodded to Stewart on the way out and threw a 20 on the bar for him.  The drinks were free because they were tight.   ...