Chapter Three: The Captain Meteor Experience
I have absolutely no
idea where I am. First day of survey. I am out of food.
Funny how not being
blown to a singularity stimulates the appetite. I am in a dimension of stagnant
air, dust, darkness and no crackers. I am not this neat. Normally there’s
something in here. Not even a candy wrapper.
Pop it.
The canopy lifts.
There is a slight disparity in air pressure. I have discovered a universe of
dust. However, there is a draft.
Glow.
The sloping skin on
the sides of my craft are now radiating a soft emerald halo. Revealed about us
is a room. A store, in fact. I am still at a loss to explain the noise the
kinetic inhibitor made. If that’s what it was. I have seemingly run through the
portal at 1/4th the speed of sound, only to come to an instantaneous
and mostly silent halt. There’s more than a little something wrong with that.
I would take the ship’s
status, but that’s not a read out that I have right now. I think I can turn the
ship’s front skids left. Everything else is iffy. Also I don’t need to bounce
out signals, so it’s all manual until I know more.
If it is a store, it
has no merchandise. Walk around of the ship is first. Check on my triangular
queen of space. Right front skid, ok. Prow, nice and pointed up. Left front
skid, crumpled. Typical. Left rear tread array, all three wheels properly
aligned and tread loop intact. Right rear tread array, all three wheels
properly aligned, tread loop broken and melted into floor. That’s a new one on
me. Floor is concrete. No, it’s marble. Marble veneer at least. No, it’s
marble. Ivory with rose mottling. Very pretty, except for the part where I
melted tread loop into it. Although it is filthy.
Not much of a
housekeeper, are you Sulfur? No sign of additional equipment. Did I break your
only transmat teleporty? I am so very sorry. Why don’t you come on out and
Captain Meteor will make it up to you?
No response to my
hollow threats. Possibility that he is behind a very tall counter. Counters topped
by fence of metal bars. Behind the counter is a large round opening without a
door. Ceiling is fifteen feet up. Lots of marble showing. Ceiling is marble
with several prongs jutting down out of it, probably some sort of power
connection.
No apparent sources
of illumination. Or sign of any sort of power being used.
Door to area behind
counter is grey, metal, cage-like, probably painted steel. No doorknob or latch
or handle. Hole there makes it seem as if such has been removed. Door is open.
Area behind counter
has no furniture. Marble floors less filthy, as if carpeting or runners may
have been present. There are four stations here. Each one has an area for the
clerk to be standing and an indentation before them on the counter. Evidence of
drawers having once been on this side, one at each station. Whatever it is they
were selling isn’t present.
Passive sensors
report some four hundred thousand low powered broadcast transmissions from
separate sources in my immediate area. It seems I have a sensor problem.
Large circular
opening leads to a small room which is lined with compartments for what seem to
have been drawers of various sizes. Entryway is a foot and a half thick.
Evidence of extensive balancing required to hold now missing door in entryway.
On floor in room,
mattress with blanket and linens on it in a disordered manner. Dozen or so
small bottles beside it on floor. Also on floor, commercial level spaceman’s
tool kit, TransFile manufacturer’s brand, in the somewhat rare original
carrying case.
Tools are powered
and have been used. No evidence of having been recalibrated since time of
manufacture. Brain box in kit has listing for jury rigging an atorec, but no
evidence that such has ever been accessed. Confiscating kit.
Bottles. Various
sizes. Palm sized. White, translucent brown, clear. Thirteen of which contain
pills. All have labels, mechanically printed, which I cannot read. One bottle
half filled with thick pink fluid. Cannot get stoppers off bottles without
breaking them. Seems pointless, however I should note that some bottles have
raised symbols on the tops, which I also cannot read. Bottles themselves are
made from some sort of pliable, resin material.
Bedding does not
seem to smell. No signs of stains. Found square cybernetic transfer module in
bedding, seemingly medical in nature. Monitor of some sort. What seems to be
dried fluid in valve. Confiscated.
No food. Left your
stinking spaceman’s tool kit and used bile duct bypass monitor behind, but not
even a candy bar. I will kill you twice, Sulfur.
Placed confiscated
items in aft hold of my vehicle. Checked vehicle’s sensors. Still reporting
hundreds of thousands of transmissions, reportedly mostly voice. Diagnostics
indicate ship’s systems are at 20% function which is well below the trust
threshold for sensors.
Wall across from
counters is covered from waist high up with boards, seemingly made from
compressed natural fibers. Similar to what I saw at the saw mill, but boards are
a composite laminate of fibers and glue. Are nailed into what I judge to be a
large window frame. Similar boards covering what seems to be a pair of doors
next to window. Offhand, I think they are closed for business.
Draft is coming from
a narrow short hallway next to room with circular opening. On floor before
metal door at end of hall are shattered remnants of boards. Draft coming from
missing window in transom.
In a hurry, Sulfur?
I hope not on my account.
Unlocked rotational
bolt device. Lowered blast shield of helmet. Not sure how my dark blue skin and
glowing gold eyes are going to go here. Doorway leads to narrow avenue. Road
seems to be concrete slabs. It is night or very dark here. Hear numerous
sounds. No stars in sky, probably due to prevalence of artificial illumination.
Stepped out into
alley. Ordered helmet to lock door behind me. Lock clicked. Ordered helmet to
unlock door. No response. Door is firmly secure.
Excellent! Now that
I have given Sulfur my spaceship, let’s see what else I can do!
Activate floaty
thing belt and float seventeen feet up to roof of building. Maybe there is
another way in?
No. Roof is flat. There
is actually a grate of metal bars in front of the front window. The same with
the two front doors. There do not seem to be any other windows. The only other
entrance to the building is the one I went out of.
I knew that I was
not going to be able to get my ship out of the building by conventional means.
I could always charliq a wall, but that’s being destructive. Not that having
Honey inside there is going to be exactly good for anyone’s business.
Helmet reports door
is now unlocked. Seems to be a bit of a delay. Relocked door. Unlocked door.
Relocked door. Unlocked door. Relocked door. Unlocked door. Relocked door. Ok.
I am now happy.
It is night and I am
on the roof of a one story building which has other one story brick buildings
to either side of it. The door I left by empties into a narrow service avenue. The
building faces a rather broad diagonal street. Held up on pylons at the center
of this street is a catwalk of some kind. This is the tallest structure in the
immediate area.
In keeping with
procedure, mine, I seek the highest ground immediately available. A one second
burst of flight later and I am there.
It is not a catwalk,
or at least only incidentally a catwalk. Sets of metal beams arrayed in twin
lines run at the middle of the platform, which extends for miles. Most of the
platform is made from thick fiber planks, seemingly a common material here.
I am struck by the
similarity of this planet to the one I have just come from. They also had these
tracks. The tracks are for trains of large vehicles.
A look down from the
platform and into the street shows more vehicles, also somewhat similar to what
I had seen before. These have lights on them, two white spotlights in the front
and a pair of red ones on the rear. That’s different. The vehicles on the other
planet didn’t seem to have lamps. Not that I ever saw one functioning.
From what I was able
to ascertain, the people of Tiamore were not big on going out at night. That
could have been because of Sulfur. These people have no problems being out at
night. Haven’t seen one full yet. Just shadows in vehicles.
I hope they have
snacks.
The city’s avenues
are laid out in grids. There seems to be a larger avenue every six streets or
so. The catwalk is running at something of a diagonal, so it is hard to say.
On the other side of
the tracks, somewhat ahead of me, is a more illuminated, broader section of
platform. It is hooded. Seems to be attached to a building or a staircase. Many
signs and boxes around the area. Possibly a place to wait.
Making my way across
the tracks, I can see that there are three rails per set. One rail seems to
carry current. Have noticed lots of wires aloft.
Lights in the
waiting area are of various sizes, all aloft, all seemingly for illumination.
Electric. Wired. Very advanced.
I have made contact.
A little box with a lens is pointed in my direction. I take a step right. It
doesn’t move. Looking around, I spot several others, none of them particularly
hidden or seemingly actively tracking.
A mechanical voice
speaks and I freeze. The helmet searches but finds no consciousness to connect
the voice to. I can’t really talk to machines. I need a brain.
There is a distant
rumble. A claxon sounds.
I am not immediately
arrested, which is a good thing. In fact, the entire situation seems rather
indifferent to my presence. This is a fairly large city.
Am I visibly armed?
Yes, I am. Silly me. Still have the nightstick strapped to my leg. I suck the
nightstick into my right arm.
That might alarm
whoever is watching through the cameras, but I have a subtle feeling that I
should get over myself. I have only done this sixty other times on sixty other
inhabited worlds. If this is a police state, it’s rather lackadaisical.
A three car train
with a white top and a green bottom rumbles into view. I catch a glimpse of the
person operating it, but just a glimpse. They have a head and probably two
arms. Good. Might even be able to use the bonded substance to impersonate them.
The train comes to a
halt and I come to the white doors. They fold apart in a curious way and I
enter. Interior is lit to the extreme and white to begin with.
I am having a helmet
problem. The blast shield is amplifying light as opposed to deadening it. I sit
down on a low chair, seemingly made from the same material as the bottles that
I found. Very uncomfortable—and I don’t care what your anatomy is like.
They couldn’t be
that much different from me. My ass fit in the seat. Perhaps their rear ends are
void of nerves?
The man in the
enclosed compartment one car ahead of me could care less that I am here. Unless
I set myself on fire, his only concern is reading signals. This is the fifth
trip he has made this evening down this line. At slightly before dawn, his
shift will be over. He hopes that he can find a store to replenish the chemical
in his personal vehicle, since it has run dangerously close to being out. And
other such thoughts.
I am starting to be
able to read the signs in here. There are translucent signs covering the curved
lighting array which runs above the windows. At first I thought they were
unmatched designs, perhaps seasonal festival decorations. Most of them are
fairly dire warnings, each offering some form of cure. Nothing immediate or
personal, unless you are a person who has these problems, I guess.
We lurch away. We
rumble. We clank. A round something in the ceiling says something
unintelligible and we slow. We haven’t gone that far.
It dawns on me what
this is. Where I am from, we call it the crawler. It doesn’t go anywhere you
want to be, really. Just around where you want to be. But it goes all the time
and makes all of its stops. Of course, where I am from the system is so
intermittent and its stops so remote that it has become an afterthought. Here,
it rides on an elongated exalted pedestal, its venerated pylons interrupting
the avenues below.
We stop. I can see
figures through the door’s glass. Time to be motionless. This is personal
contact one.
Zeds. Three of them.
Two male. One female. Impressment age. Not in military dress. Not in a uniform
mode of dress at all. They enter, laughing. The three sprawl into seats facing
me.
They flash their
teeth at one another. Not Zeds. The off pink skin threw me. The teeth make it
certain. White teeth. That may be hard for the bonding substance to duplicate.
Then I see their fingers. Five. Not webbed.
I ball up my hands
to conceal my four fingers.
The two men are
talking about someone they have just seen and are not taking much notice of me.
The female, who has substances painted upon her lips and eyelids, has taken
note of me, but has no hostile intent.
From what I can
gather, someone named Dave has made an ass out of himself and the two males cannot
stop from commenting. Dave puked on himself at a tavern and then washed his
upchuck off by pouring the remainder of a pitcher of beer down his shirt.
Perhaps his manner was more amusing than his actions?
These three people are
wearing highly machined natural fiber,
dyed and configured by mechanical processes. This is all worn in layers, the
open buttoned shirts above a tighter fitting pull over. The woman has upon her
head a tilted stretch fiber hat. All three are wearing blue, rugged pants, but
that is the only sign of uniformity. Only the female has a case with her, a
small black bag with an animal hide handle.
As is true of Zeds,
or all Araks for that matter, the males and females closely resemble each
other. In this instance, the males are larger. This is true of most Arak types.
None of the three physically resemble each other. Not sure if the female is
dominant nor which of the males is dominant. Given the technology level I am
seeing here, anything is possible. This doesn’t have the feel of a tribal
society. These three do not have the feel of a familial grouping. Probably an
advanced culture. Probably ancient.
Not sure if they are
Zeds or Araks of any type. Closely resemble Arak Betas, of which Zeds are a
subset. Near Zed, Arak Betas, seemingly warm-blooded.
We go. We stop. We
go again. The doors came open, but no one came in and no one left.
The female has
attempted to make eye contact with me. Not to draw my attention. Just out of curiosity.
I am not sure what
the hell I am passing for.
She waits until
there is a lull in the men’s conversation, leans in my direction and asks
“Excuse me, are you in a band?”
Here goes. This vocalizer
worked on thirty-three other planets. Why not here? I hope it has the acoustics
right, otherwise it’s going to sound like I am talking out of my belt. Which I
am. I also hope that I sound more like one of the men than her. “A musician? I
have been accused of worse.”
One of the men,
Andy, says “Base player.”
Steve agrees. “Gotta
be a base player.”
“Then where’s his
base?” Adrian
My instrument? I
played it yesterday. Which compartment did I put it in? It’s in the bandolier.
I am wearing gloves, so perhaps they won’t be so prone to count fingers. I
remove the box and tune it way down.
I play about seventy
seconds of my Night Under The Springs composition. I made it a point to tilt
the device towards me so that they couldn’t exactly track my plucking of tiny
strings.
“Whoa. Way cool,”
Andy says.
Steve says “It’s one
of those things that Jap guy invented. I saw it on U-Tube.”
I carefully, but
quickly, put it away.
Adrian says “That
was very nice. Sounds sort of like an obo.”
“Sax,” Steve says.
“Alto sax. How many voices you got in that thing?”
“I depends upon my
mood,” I explain. That’s what the monk who gave it to me told me.
“Street performer?”
Steve asks.
“That has the smell
of ‘begger’ all about it. Let’s just say one step up,” I say.
“Nothing wrong with
paying your dues, dude,” Steve says.
“Other than the
street, where is the best place to pay these dues?” I ask.
Andy says “It’s a
little late to be going to a gig. It’s 12:35, man.”
I say “You know us
musicians. We sort of keep our own time.”
“You got kind of a
WNUA new age jazz thing going there,” Steve says. “I don’t know. Rush street
“Rush street
“Wake and bake,
dude?” Steve asked.
I let that go.
Thankfully Adrian
“I just need the
right stop and the right direction, really.”
Nice folks. Very
helpful. Two stops later Steve asked me what I really did for a living—quickly adding
that he thought I was a gifted musician and all. I told him that I had just
gotten out of the army and that I had been wandering ever since. Which is true.
If you define ‘just’ as twelve years. Not to dwell on things I can’t do
anything about.
The cover of
darkness has been very helpful. I got away and out of the light as soon as I
could. When standing, my contours and posture are not at all like the natives.
Not that it is my
intention to attempt impersonation. But it is an option. Once I have Windy
channeled, she can perform wonders with my appearance. Her and Honey have made
me look like all sorts of things. Currently I am coming off as “bird-like”, per
Adrian’s impressions.
Oddly accurate
impression. More of a bird-frog. That said, with a little filling in of the
chest, shoulders and aft, plus a some alteration in my movements, I might be
able to pass as one of them. Right now I rather accurately resemble someone
attempting to look like a space alien. Oddly not evoking much fear.
Midway into the trek
to Rush Street I am mistaken for a motorcyclist. I have achieved a location
near the eastern boarder of the city, a shoreline. The man who mistakes me for
such is riding a motorcycle. These people are gifted with acute empathy and a
tendency to project.
The man calls to me
from the street “Hope you locked it, baby.”
“Indeed,” I say.
“They’ll throw it
right on a truck and steal it.”
“Thank you. Would
you happen to know the names of those two largest buildings?”
“That’s the Handcock Building
and the other one’s Sears
Tower
“What does Handcock
do?”
“I honestly don’t
know what they do. Sears is a store.”
Good. Not the Tower of Torture
or the Hall of Vengeance or Temple
I asked the squat,
bald man on the two wheeled machine one last question “Do you know a place on Rush street
“Now? The Back Room.
Open until four,” he says, and then adds “I like that station.”
The Back Room is a
long shaft of red bricks, leading to a square room. The man at the head of this
rather extended hall had a darker complexion than those I had seen on the
train. Like the man on the motorcycle, he was also bald and also growing hair
above his lip.
“Man, that’s a hell
of a get up. Can you play?”
“The people on the
‘El’ seem to think so.”
“They’re going to
take a break in the set in about five minutes. You go in there.”
The man at the other
end of the corridor just laughed. “Well, that’s making an effort. Just the
suit.”
Three men were on
the stage, one behind an arrangement of drums and cymbals and two with what at
first glance seemed to be exaggerated stringed rifles. I sat on a stool and
tried to take in as much of what it was they were playing as I could. Obviously,
even with everything I had at my disposal, aping the form this quickly would
have been impossible. I was focusing exclusively on the range of acceptable
sounds. And then I gave up on that.
The room held thirty
people, sixteen male, fourteen female, all adults. Seven were employees,
serving or making drinks. Three performers. The rest, probably patrons.
The dark skinned man
behind the drum kit stood up and the music went silent. One of the rifle
players, also a dark skinned man, came to the microphone and said “Back in
fifteen.”
He then waved at me.
We met at the edge of the stage. Like the others, he laughed at my appearance. “Wow.
That’s something. What’s the name?”
“Captain Meteor.”
He went to the
microphone and said “Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain Meteor Experience.”
Before taking the
stage, I asked him “Do they throw things?” referring to the audience.
“Not usually.”
Damn. I was hoping
for snacks.
I faced the audience
as the other performers had and withdrew my instrument. I then proceeded to
play the entirety of Night Under The Springs, virtually without modification.
It was the best I could do. Although I have played it a hundred times, I had
never done so in front of an audience. The piece itself was inspired by a
drowning incident I had several years ago. The melody is based upon a noise my
ears were making at the time. The base line and rhythm are from the machine
which pumped out my lungs.
The monks said
playing would help me. What it is I seek has yet to appear, but I am getting
better at playing. I have several compositions, but this is the one I know the
best.
The tune did not
overstay its welcome. I had their thorough attention. They were wide eyed with
their mouths partially open. I thanked them and left the stage. As I left, they
banged their hands together.
My parents would
have been so proud of me. Not that they
ever were anything but. But this is the type of thing that they would have most
approved of.
I did not get a step
from the stage when one of the other musicians, a man named Reynold, stopped
me, saying “Hey, you’re going nowhere.”
Skip, the
percussionist, added “You gotta sit in.”
A woman from the
audience, a seeming friend of the band, said “Oh, come on.”
I did not know what
to say. Then the person with the four stringed rifle, another dark skinned man
named Carey, stood before the amplification input and said to the crowd “Give
it up for the Captain.”
“I mean, can you?”
Reynold asked. “Or is that thing like programmed?”
“Only by my soul,” I
said, which brought a laugh. In retrospect, I think he was inquiring as to
whether or not my instrument was electronic.
On a deeper level,
everything here was programmed. The lights on the streets were programmed to
change colors at certain intervals. The train I rode in was commanded by a
remote system which churned the track’s signals. Unthinking objects swarmed in
circles about the heavens, chirping back predestined missives. Their personal
radios contained devices to help them remember the exchanges of other devices.
Even their money rode on electronic bands, which could have posed a problem.
Luckily, there was a back up system to their currency.
Not that obtaining
money was my primary consideration. Just doing something peacefully with aliens
can be a challenge in and of itself. Violence, force, is the universal
language. Music is something of a refinement. In each case where a people has
music there was always a variety of it.
I was also lucky
that my band mates were playing set pieces. That, I can pick up with telepathy,
since there is a preconceived plan and pattern to it. It helped that they all
had the same idea of what the pattern was. There is so much nuance to a purely
improvisational form that I would have been lost and, worse, out of step. Per
standard procedure, mine, if you can’t play, at least don’t distract.
They also had a
fairly good idea of how I should sound, or more specifically what part I should
fill. The trio lacked a wind instrument. I was a sax. Or a flute, at least on
“Birdland”. It was that part, but not that exactly. I went between what Skip
and what Reynold expected. I changed the sound based on their approval. Not
that we spoke on stage. Rather, I just read their minds.
Not to say that my
performance was all that good. At least in my estimation. My instrument lacked
the presence of the guitars or the percussion set. It was just a “Gameboy”,
apparently a programmed entertainment device. The novelty of my uniform, which
got quite a few up close looks, made up for this, I think.
I am happy it went
off at all. My best initial reception by a group of aliens, ever.
At four o’clock the
liquor license expired. This was the context for us discontinuing the concert.
Lights came on and people began to grab their coats and throw paper on the tables.
Many of the patrons had cards which were slid into a little blue box. That
worried me, since at first I thought that was the only money.
I had spent quite a
bit of my time on stage attempting to ‘match’ my current inventory of trade
goods. I noticed that most of the women had rings on their fingers and dangling
jewels on their ears. Gold or silver plated, most of it. They also had
diamonds, of all things, prominently displayed. Even here, diamonds would have
to be rather common. They must have liked how diamonds look. All said, I had
enough matches.
Skip began a
conversation, seemingly on my behalf, with the place’s balding, pasty faced
manager. It began with “Four in the morning and no one left. Two people came in
and both had more than the minimum. On a Tuesday. In October.”
The man, Stu,
projected to me from behind his counter “Hey Cap, I’m paying you, ok?”
Yea. I just shook my
head.
“Fifty,” Skip said
to Stu.
“Out of yours,
then,” Stu said. They went back and forth and settled on thirty-five.
A moment later, Skip
pressed a roll of green paper into my hand. Hugging me, he said “Best I could
do.”
The universal
payment for an itinerant musician is enough for a filling meal and
transportation back to whatever hole you undoubtedly live in. Here and in nine
galaxies. I had a feeling Skip had done a little bit better than that for me. Not
wishing to press my luck that much further, all I said was “Thank you.”
Skip, who actually
sold boots for a living, asked me “Where did you get those kicks?” More than
that, he dropped to a knee and felt them. “Lambskin?”
I didn’t want to
lie, so I tried to change the subject. “I noticed yellow isn’t in. I have four
sets of these.”
Reynold, who was
putting his guitar into a black case, asked “What’s your cell, Cap?”
“I will have one by
tomorrow,” I said, being a bit optimistic. With Honey at 20%, that was a guess.
Reynold then hands
me his card. It has his exchange on it. His self-declared profession is
‘Promotions’. This isn’t his actual profession, but yet another sideline, a
nebulous vaguely music-related one. Like Skip, however, he is an actual
salesman. He tells me “Call me. I think I might have something for you Thursday
or Friday.”
From what he is
thinking, which I have absolutely no real context to judge, he does seem to
have some sort of possibly potentially money making opportunity. I thank him
again.
Carey wants to know
if I am from California
Carey also offers me
a lift home, but I decline.
I went back out the
long front hall of the Back Room. Yellow vehicles plied the street, but
otherwise activity was muted.
By this point I was
entirely convinced that whatever Sulfur was doing on Earth, it wasn’t overt. He
hadn’t seemingly launched any attacks on these people. I wasn’t certain he was
even on Earth. I had run through a Voliant Wave event and I was still alive. I
would have to settle for that. At least for today.
It was important
that I formulate a strategy to obtain more information. I went and got a ‘gyro’ instead.
The place was called
Tuggy’s and I am guessing that 4:20 AM is not its most busy time. There was
only one person in the restaurant when I entered. I told the person behind the
counter that I would have what the other customer was eating. This was perhaps
a mistake.
Gyro platter. Onions
on the side. In short, my favorite: mystery meat, indifferently formed and
liberally spiced. One whiff of the spice let me know that I would have urgent
need of a lavatory shortly. At that moment, I didn’t care.
I raised my visor,
which caused a little bit of a start. The yellow beams from my eyes bathed the
paper oval where the mound of brown strips of meat and white vegetable parts were
strewn. At least the sight of my blue face--with its lack of a nose, two glowing
trapezoidal eyes and scruff of fleshy tubes from the mid-point down--did not
cause anyone to go screaming in panic. Quite the contrary. The man behind the
counter bellowed “Dude! You got it down!”
I love this sort of
food. Sadly, since I have attained a certain age point, it doesn’t quite love
me back.
Chapter Four: Kismet Undiluted
Mind you, I have it
on the estimation of a damaged piece of equipment as to what condition it thinks
it is in and when it estimates it will have repairs completed, to itself. That fairly much explains my entire day.
Had I the chance to
do it all over again, I would have just stayed in the bank all day.
I am not going to
find what I have been seeking. Instead, the god and gods in their heaven and
heavens, above and below, have led me here. Per standard procedure, mine, I do
not fight fate.
Which is to say that
it has dawned on me that running willy-nilly through a Voliant Wave event, no
matter how noble my motivation may have been, was not, in all probability, the
smartest thing I have ever done. And to think, gaining this insight only took
me a day.
I should have taken
the day off, if only to ascertain whether or not my systems are going to repair
themselves. As it is, I have no benchmark as to the repair’s real progress. Even
if I thought I was in immediate danger, shutting Honey down and hunkering in
the bank would have been the smart thing to do. Using Honey’s systems, which
are broken, has not aided in their repair and may have led me to make some
erroneous conclusions.
Case in point:
Sulfur used his mind zapping device twenty-eight times today. Each time within
about fifty miles of here. I should have a map of his day’s discharges by
tomorrow. As it stands, I have the total count of discharges, the time
intervals and the distances, but no directions. I also have no way of tracking
it live at this point.
None of that may be
true. What am I really tracking here? Assuming the sensor is even functioning,
I am tracking the discharge of the mind zap weapon’s battery. I am tracking the
discharge of a plasma capacitor. First, I didn’t get all that good of a look at
Sulfer’s weapon. It may have an entirely different power unit. Second, I have
no idea if the Earth people have a device which might also show as a plasma
battery discharge. In short, I have nothing. I have no evidence, even to this
moment, that Sulfur is on Earth—or has ever been here.
I do not have to
have been sent to the right place. Sulfur may have left the Voliant Wave event
in another place and time altogether. Per the brain box in the tool kit,
something is completely wrong. Let’s face facts: life is sometimes just a
string of incidents only tangentially related to each other. Justice can be
denied. I could be in this place entirely because I was spat here randomly.
Thanks to today’s
activities, I have considerable circumstantial evidence that I have blindly
stepped into the middle of deeply complex something. And that the cascade of events may overwhelm
the feasibility of my acting with
anything resembling a thoughtful strategy. And other happy thoughts like
that.
As a starship
captain, as the operational leader of the Shadow Fleet, as a Space Police
officer, I should be very upset with myself. I would not accept this behavior
even from a civilian spaceman. And I did not accept it, even from the lovely
Toovy, who leapt before she looked as a habit. Nor did I study her fantastic
reflexes for extricating herself from such situations. Nor do I have those
reflexes.—What I wouldn’t give to be in the presence of the disreputable Toovy
right now, if only for the sex.—As a monk, I am taught that it is the god and
gods in their heaven and heavens who one trusts responsibility for formulating
the thoughtful strategy. As a monk, I am merely the guardian of the noble
purpose. I’ve only been a monk for twelve years. Maybe I should get with the
program? It’s really all I got. Now.
If that is the case,
I at least have the noble purpose down. I was able to vocalize it late in the
day: “I am hunting the murderer of the people of Tiamore. I am here to expose the
perpetrator, and optimally, to end the perpetrator’s existence. At the least, I am here to make
sure the perpetrator is in no position or condition to commit additional atrocities.”
Miles Nasus asked
“Are you sure that’s all you want?”
Per Mister Nasus, I
am Elvis and he is the Colonel. The Colonel is going to help Elvis get what Elvis
wants. If Elvis gets what Elvis wants, the rest belongs to the Colonel. If this
means I wind up playing three shows a night in Vegas, I don’t care. I don’t
actually have any plans beyond snapping Sulfur’s neck.
Miles Nasus is at
least as involved in this situation as I am. On which side, neither of us can
figure out as yet. In exchange for becoming my exclusive agent in all things,
Mister Nasus is willing to abandon his role in the conspiracy, whatever it
might be. This was entirely his idea.
Finding Mister Nasus
was my last significant action of this day. By the time I found him, my walking
around persona had attained a fully human sheen. I was no longer bird like. I
walked like a man. My head no longer twitched. When I lifted my blast shield, a
human face showed.
Or I would have
settled for that. To be entirely descriptive, I was a somewhat idealized human:
more a human as seen in advertisements than one actually seen walking around on
the streets. I have bulging biceps, washboard abs, a contoured posterior. The
blonde haired, blue eyed face with a fence of perfect teeth that shows has been
lifted from a Latin television Novella. (Specifically, The Rich Also Cry.)
So the tanned Surfer
Dude Space Cadet winds up meeting a Gucci Government Agent. I promised Mister
Nasus that I wouldn’t go into the specifics of how I tracked him down, other
than to say I had run across his name several times during my day’s
investigations.
Miles Nasus
maintains an office on the 44th floor of what the locals call the
Standard Oil Building, a giant squared fluted marble column of a thing. For
purposes of demonstration, I decided to contact Nasus in person while in full
spaceman regalia. I appeared not as Captain Meteor, but rather as Young Doctor
Sexybomb wearing Captain Meteor’s uniform.
Up until I reached the
Standard Oil Building’s security desk, no one gave me a suspicious look. As
long as my blast shield is up and I am smiling at everyone, there is nothing
threatening or extraordinary about me. I am obviously an actor, probably out to
distribute pizza coupons. This was a thorough turnaround from my reception this
morning.
What was good context
outside, became a nuisance once inside the Standard Oil Building. Security was
about to pounce on me, so I made a bee-line to the reception desk. I was
carrying something, so I could have been a courier, a bike messenger. The metal box in
my hands was the Transfile tool kit, which I intended to present to Mister
Nasus.
The security people
were not that leery of me, probably because I walked up to their main desk. I
waited in the line with the other people at reception. My patient demeanor
deodorized whatever dissonance my appearance may have otherwise caused.
The blazer clad
security man behind the elevated curve of a counter asked “And you are here to
see?”
“Captain Meteor for
Miles Nasus,” I said.
He punched a few
keys and after an abbreviated ring-buzz, heard “Captain Meteor? Send him up.”
I am then pointed in
the direction of the correct bank of elevators. Yesterday evening on my way
back to Lake street, I discovered that I had no monetary problems. As long as
there are ATM machines, I have ample forage. Having conquered the ATM with
slight effort, playing with the phones is as simple as breathing.
Miles Nasus never
got that phone call. That wasn’t Nasus the guard heard.
The receptionist in
the quad of offices Nasus shares received a summons to come down and sign for
packages. Again, the phone call is a fiction created by my helmet. She was
waiting for the elevator as I stepped out of it. If need be, I could trap her
in the elevator.
Having gained the
office quad, I walked past the abandoned reception desk and straight to the
door marked “Nasus Consulting, SC.” I unlock the door, step through, close the
door and lock it—all without using my hands.
Miles Nasus is a
well built man in a grey Armani suit. He has an olive tan, perfectly capped
teeth and a thick mane of shoulder length jet black hair. Initially he had his
back to me, his concentration focused on an array of four computer screens. He
was actually not expecting me, nor anyone. In the four years that he has been
in this office, Nasus had yet to receive a single visitor.
He was what I
expected of a Secret Policeman, right down to the hiding in plain sight part.
Like myself, he is a former government agent. At that moment he was making his
living pimping out a gaudy Top Secret security clearance.
He was more or less
what I was looking for. Protecting the populace from Sulfur is by rights the
job of the human government. And the humans have lots of government. It is my
hope that someone like Mister Nasus will be able to hit the right part of the
government with the right stick for me.
Controlling the flow of access is the Secret Policemen’s art.
Although I was
expecting Nasus to have a mercenary bent, the Elvis and the Colonel analogy was
a new one on me. Fine. If he gets me to Sulfur, I’ll be his trained space
monkey. I should say that it is one of Mister Nasus’s objectives to keep me
contiguous and not surrounded by formaldehyde. Apparently my earning potential
is much higher as something other than a dissection subject. Or Mister Nasus is
deeper than he seems.
Our agreement is far
in excess of anything I was aiming for. All I was attempting to accomplish in
this first meeting was to establish my credibility—as person from outer space. Even
with telepathic reach, I wasn’t sure what to make of Miles Nasus from the
onset.
When I first entered
the door to his office, I knew that he had heard the door click. Not being the
easy to spook type, he didn’t immediately turn around. Instead one of his hands
was moving under the armrest of his chair.
I said “Mister
Nasus, you put the key that you are looking for in your wallet two days ago.
But if you insist on going for the pistol in your desk, I can unlock the drawer
for you now.”
I unlocked the
drawer. He watched as the lock turned, propelled by an unseen force. I had his
full attention.
After briefly
detailing how I had come across his name and blown his cover, I presented him
with the Transfile tool kit. I explained “You should feel free to give this to
Fermi Labs or Argonne National or whomever you choose. The metallurgy alone
should be proof that it is not of this world, if the tools themselves don’t.
For bonus points, there’s a brain box in it, which is sort of a living
computer. It’s broken now, but it was working this morning.”
Nasus had to ask “Why
is the computer broken?”
Because I broke it,
that’s why. It had been that sort of a day.
I started the day by
summoning Windy, partially because I missed her and partially to see if I
could, but mostly because the brain box was reporting something that I felt had
to be in error. I can’t access Windy fully yet, because I don’t have the energy
draw. And accessing Windy to the degree that I did actually delays Honey’s
repairs. As I have mentioned, I am not the most technically proficient person
that I know. I am, however, the most technically proficient person Windy knows.
Which brings into question what good summoning Windy does.
The obvious proceeds
to happen: the two technical nitwits decide that the one functioning piece of
scientific equipment that they have is wrong, so they break it. Because we
didn’t like what it had to say, we executed it. By breaking it, I mean flash of
light, cloud of smoke. By executing it, I mean we diverted power from Honey’s
main supply. By executing it, I mean that a brain box is a living creature--an
intelligent and rather innocent one, at that. This one’s only crime was that it
didn’t speak our language. So we decided to teach it our language through shock
therapy. The operation was a success, but the patient died—screeching curses.
No, that is not
standard procedure, even mine. I will not be corrected on this: no matter what
we were trying to do, the above is what we actually did.
We made a thunder
clap. The bank filled with smoke. Good morning. Good start. Let’s see what else
we can destroy? Like our cover.
I went to the back
door to let the smoke out. Windy occupied Honey’s control cabin and attempted
to determine if something went wrong on our end. As if blowing the brain box to
smithereens wasn’t kismet undiluted. And then she was going to see if there was
something she might be able to do about not having the police and fire
department converge on us. (Oddly, neither showed.) While she was at it, she
confirmed that Honey’s initial evaluation of electromagnetic traffic is
accurate. Most of it is on the UHF spectrum. The majority of it is voice
streams. There is also a hardwired information system. It is very diverse.
That sucked up all
of Windy’s attention. She was bifurcating information on the data sewer, or
surfing the web.
This much at least is
what Windy and I normally do when we land on a new planet. Windy’s specialty is
doing social research, defining customs and determining power structures. Our
objectives are usually quite different than they are presently. With Honey on
the fritz and the brain box ruined, we contented ourselves with doing what we
could.
Windy was not at all
satisfied with our base in the bank, but there wasn’t much she could do until
she manifested fully. In the mean time, we needed to focus on more basic tasks,
like my obtaining food without blowing our cover. That’s putting Windy’s list
of things to do very briefly.
Windy needed time to
put together my walking around pretext. Since she was busy figuring out the
Earth and how it works, I spent my time with the bonded substance and tried to
craft a human face and a slightly more human outline.
I thought I had done
a serviceable job. Windy was not in a position to judge my work either way. She
did spit out a list of clothing items that I might need and then gave me the
location of a store called Old Navy.
That’s all she did. For
the record, she did not tell me to go out in my jury rigged suit and buy these
items right now. I did that on my own. With Honey not herself and Windy not
being here, there were a few communication problems. Windy was unaware that I
had left the bank until I told her I was at Old Navy.
How good was my walking
around suit? It’s so good that no one wants to make eye contact with me. Look,
it’s a homeless guy in a NASCAR uniform. People avoided me out of fear that I
was going to beg them for money or give them a card advertising the services of
transvestite prostitutes. Did I mention the hair is from strands I gathered at
the building my ship is in? Adding to this, I had seemingly arranged this hair
in no particular known human idiom. And I have no teeth. My body language came
off, at best, as diseased. The young lady who rang me up to the tune of $265.47
at Old Navy thought I had arthritis of the hips. Other evaluations ran the
gamut; pole up my ass, undead and the like.
The homeless NASCAR
driver then leaves Old Navy with bags in hand and gains the El. We clickety-clack
to my stop, two blocks away from my current abode on Lake Street Lake Street
The proprietor of
the meat cutter business (deli slicers, actually) is vaguely aware that someone
is using my building. It seems the bank and the building next to it were bought
off a tax auction four years ago. Per what I have picked out of the meat cutter
salesman’s mind, it seems the initial plan was to knock down both buildings and
construct a storehouse for high end motorboats. Nothing has ever come of those
plans for some reason, however the fact that my building is owned by someone
could potentially pose a problem.
As for its recent
use, the only thing that has been noticed is that the piles of wood and
what-have-you that had been blocking the back door for years were removed about
six months ago. All of the men at the store are under the impression that
someone has been going in and out of the bank on occasion, but no one has obtained
that good of a look as yet. Nor are they actually actively pursuing such
contact.
By the way, none of
that timing is likely to be accurate. Six months could be four years. My
building is not top of mind to the people in the meat cutter supply shop. If it
hadn’t seemed to have belched smoke earlier this morning, it would not have
been thought of at all. It is just another abandoned commercial structure in on
an avenue chock full of such. And the men in the meat cutter shop have been
there for decades.
At 11:00 AM I went
down the alley and entered through the bank’s back door. Inside, I found
everything the way I left it. It was nearly pitch black in there. After closing
the door, I ordered Honey to produce her glow.
Honey had the new
face and form done. Windy wanted to do a dry run on the body language and
voice. We were mindful of the fact that Captain Meteor has already been seen by
some people who I may want to contact again. Therefore, we had to keep my body
contour close the same, otherwise I will not appear to be the same person.
My gauntlets now
have five fingers. Showing my hands off in the flesh may still be a little
iffy. My right hand, which is mechanical in the first place, looked all fleshy
and pink perfect. My left hand, normally an articulated talon, has a thumb that
is too long and a prosthetic pinky with a mind of its own. All of this is
acceptable. Then I got a look at the face.
I am a 56 year old
male. My preference is to look like a 56 year old human man, whatever the
caste.
I lose. Hello Young
Doctor Sexybomb. His is not a face I have seen anywhere in reality on the
streets of Chicago
On the other hand,
I’ve already tried it my way, so I shut up.
Strike that. I
objected to the age. I am then curtly informed that a 56 year old obscure
iterant new age jazz musician from California
Meet Cody Kane, who
is smiling pleasantly on his California State Commercial Drivers License. He is
22 years old and from Long Beach
It is also strongly
suggested that I burn a CD of all of my songs. Blank CDs are now put on my
shopping list.
I climb into the new
suit. Fittings--and walking into walls to get used to the thing--takes an hour
and a half. I then suit up into Old Navy clothes and we go live fire. I must
shop. And I have to keep everything to what I can physically carry and
transport via the El.
There were, weirdly,
no grocery stores off the El—at least not on the West Side .
In fact, there were no major markets of any kind within walking distance. This
didn’t make a whole heck of a lot of sense, since my neighborhood was well
inhabited. To find a concentration of stores, I either had to go north or way
east or way west. That is, unless I wanted to buy liquor. Given that I was
already somewhat familiar with down town, I went there.
I knew I wasn’t
going to be able to accomplish all of my tasks in one trip. I am lucky that the
El functions quite efficiently in both directions during mid day.
I must say Cody Kane
elicited a much better reaction from people who chose to notice him, which were
mostly women. “Nice looking guy. Too bad he’s gay or stuck on himself or too
young.” (Women here mentally talk themselves out of all sorts of things.) It
beat the heck out of diseased NASCAR dude, so I am not complaining. For some reason Cody was compelled to first
glance at a woman’s breasts before making eye contact with them, which I
assumed was a glitch so I fought it.
None of these trips
went exactly as planned. But I did get out and back to the bank undetected each
time. That was it for my luck.
Trip one was
supposed to be about food. And it was, Mostly. (I discovered Italian Beef, a
thinly sliced, herb and rendering dripping type of spicy mystery meat in a
bread quite different than the gyro. For mystery meat aficionados such as
myself, Earth is turning out to be the heaven of heavens. Or perhaps it’s just
Chicago.) My intention was diverted by the chance passing of a pawn shop.
As it should happen,
this pawn shop had a wide variety of musical instruments. The idea was to
modify my instrument so that it had more of a stage presence and conventional
look. I made a detailed examination of a French horn, a saxophone, a viola and an electronic organ. It’s going to be
something like that.
This inspired me to
head off to a plumbing supply store. I was searching for tubing, keys, switches
and ornamental knobs. Now all I had to do is wait for inspiration to strike and
I would be able to craft my instrument’s new look. While I was at it, I even
purchased some goods to actually fix the plumbing at the bank.
The not-needed-for-my-plumbing-task
plumbing goods cost me $375.63. That was a bit more than I wanted to spend,
considering that the items were completely cosmetic. Thankfully the electronic
guts, which I picked up at a computer discount store, costs me considerably
less. With the twenty pack of blank CDs, I was out another $76.45. That was
about as much as I cared to spend for a career in music.
Windy was not
entirely pleased with any of my purchases. I tried to explain my choices of
foodstuffs. The bank doesn’t have a cooking facility or cold storage. This is
because the bank does not have a gas connection or an electric connection. Or a
telephone connection or the internet or cable TV. In fact, the only amenity
that the bank has is an active water connection.
Windy didn’t know
any of that. All she knew was that the other structures around us had those
connections. She was a little confused as to why our building didn’t have those
connections and why it still had the water amenity.
Once I fixed the
toilet, we had use of this amenity. The bank has two washrooms, but only one functioning
commode and one sink—and they are not in the same washroom. These washrooms
have no stalls and the only door to be found is to the janitor’s closet in the
men’s room. At some point this place had been gutted. It’s a ruin.
And it’s a bank. So
why does it have an active water connection? It was this line of inquiry which
led us, tangentially, to Miles Nasus. He came up twice in five minutes. Windy
and I concluded that Miles Nasus either already knew we were here or soon
would. Finding him and finding out what he was then became our top priority.
There was also
something going on in the men’s room which we could not track. Either
there’s a plasma signature in there or
Honey’s sensors are on the blink. The investigation into this was interrupted
by my discovery that a tool I carry on me—one that I chewed Toovy out for
over-spending on when she gave it to me—had actually solved the issue which had
inspired us to destroy the brain box in the first place.
It happened just
like that, only all at one time. All I have deleted describing is the yelling,
the cursing and the confusion as to what Windy and I were talking about. Like I
said, we should have called it a day at the brain box explosion.
I am not sure if I
was not talking to Windy or if Windy was no longer talking to me at that point,
but we failed to formulate an immediate plan of action. Instead, I just suited
up as Cody meets Captain Meteor and left. My next trip took me to the Harold Washington
Library, the Dirkson Federal Building, Daley Center and then to the offices of
Miles Nasus in the Standard Oil building.
By the time I got to
the Library, Windy and I had passed enough cooing noises that we were again
attempting to communicate with civility. I had no reason to doubt anything
Windy had found while surfing the net, but I wanted to cross check some facts
in actual printed records. Sometimes data kept in physical form is quite
different than what is allowed in circulation. There were also some searches
which Windy is notoriously bad at, so it was my intention to do them myself.
No luck. If anything,
the books I found in the astronomy section confirmed what the data sewer said
and verified the brain box’s reading. I was still in denial, but I did accept
that I was one lost spaceman.
While I was playing
in the astronomy stacks, a teenaged library helper (who wanted a closer look at
Cody’s ass) directed me to the data sewer system and suggested some websites. I
showed her Cody’s Captain Meteor website and she became as dutifully impressed
as a teen aged girl can be.
Cody looked at her
breasts, her eyes and then her ass as she walked away. I am going to have to
fix that.
I began checking the
prescriptions on the bottles that Sulfur had left behind. With the exception of
the pink fluid, which was Pepto Bismol (cures gyro tummy—I put it on the going
forward shopping list) all of these were for controlled substances. It was all
pain killers, sedatives and sleeping pills.
The persons for whom these pills were intended were all either missing
or dead. Two obituaries described the
subjects as homeless people. And all of the prescriptions had been ordered by
one Pierre Colbert, MD. Doctor Colbert is currently on a watch list for writing
too many prescriptions for restricted medication.
The watch list was
goofy. There’s some confusion as to which Dr. Colbert is on it. Either it’s
Internal Medicine Pierre Colbert or Psychiatrist Emile Colbert. I have Pierre’s
address, so he is who I will track down first.
Next stop was the
Dirkson Federal Building and Daley Center, which are within sight of each
other. Cody’s looks actually worked against him at the Federal Documents
Bookstore, which was located in the higher reaches of the Dirkson Building
By chance, I had
already uncovered the current whereabouts of Miles Nasus. My intention here was
to help fill in a little context. If nothing else the bookstore clearly
demonstrated that the United
States
I then struck oil.
Oil as a concept. It’s not the most ridiculous source of energy or wealth that
I have ever heard of. But it is in the team photo.
As for what oil is,
I had run into it on other planets. No other people had made anywhere near what
the humans had made out of it. Nearly a third of the documents I found for sale
in the shop made mention of it. The whole thing had me hypnotized.
Tracking down the
owner of the Second Lake Bank of
Commerce and Industry required a trip across the street to another oddly non
distinct black metal clad building. the Daley Center
First, I found the
records for my bank building. The address is owned by a ‘trust’. A ‘trust’ is
another chunk of legal fencing. I was at a dead end until I hit upon a building
permit. The permit was listed to a Stan Goodman, a person with an address. Mr.
Goodman had applied for building permits and a zoning variance. He also had
some fines and if I was reading this right, the property was about to go back
up for tax auction.
Stan Goodman doesn’t
know it yet, but that is probably the least of his problems. He has a date with
Captain Meteor.
Mister Goodman and
Doctor Colbert would have to wait until tomorrow. I felt it was more important
to find Nasus first.
Having made my
introduction to Nasus, I nearly blew all of my credibility by spewing a bunch
of crap about oil. I will spare you it. Luckily, Nasus was more interested in
hearing about the Voliant Wave. I told him what little I knew.
Miles Nasus is the
custodian of Black Project facilities for the Chicago area. (This is just one
of his enterprises. Nasus is himself an independent contractor.) He may not
know what goes on at these facilities, but he does know where they are. It is
his job to interface with the other levels of government should there be some
incident at these facilities. As it should turn out, all of the Black Projects in
Chicago are run by contractors and not the government itself. Nasus needs to go
through some channels to find out who is actually running what facility.
My bank on Lake
Street is listed as a Black Project facility, going back six years. It has been
inactive for four years.
“This could all be
circumstantial,” I told Nasus. “I could have just randomly materialized in the
place. Or there could have been something about the bank building that caused
me to show up there. Not all of this has to be connected via direct cause and
effect relationships.”
Nasus wasn’t buying
it. He said “It’s kismet undiluted.”
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