Tag: science fiction

Not All Viewpoints Are Welcome-1

[Note: this is the first chapter of a serialized project I’ll be working on periodically. I don’t know how long it’s going to take, and I’m not sold on the title. If anyone reading this would like to comment, those are welcome. I’d enjoy the feedback. So, on with the show…]

ONE:

“And that’s how we discovered these rocks were only the tip of a much larger organism.” Lianna Jensen punctuated that remark with a last swirl of chalk on the old-fashioned blackboard. It was quaint, of course, but it required no energy to function, and on a station on the far reaches of the Sol system, power came at a premium. Besides, it’s easy to clean.

“Subsequent probes have confirmed these early findings with the loss of but one probe.” Muted clapping echoed through the auditorium. It’s okay, Lianna reminded herself, forcing her legs not to tremble. It’s only a 200-seat venue, about half full. A handful of children were scattered among the red velvet seats, and they clapped the loudest.

The lavender skinsuit under her knee-length laboratory coat insulated Lianna from the station’s chill while absorbing every drop of perspiration, keeping her cool and cozy inside. Her shoulder length honey-blonde hair she’d tucked up in a bun in back. The reading glasses were an affectation suggested by the professor to soften her appearance before an audience probably as uncertain about her presentation as she was.

The station Commander stepped in from the auditorium’s left wing as the clapping ended. “I want to thank Dr. Jensen for this fascinating symposium on her recent discoveries of exobiological life. She’ll be back tomorrow, so bring your friends.”

The room responded by not responding. At all. They stood awkwardly on the stage a moment before the commander pressed on. “We’ll now open the floor for questions. Good luck, kid,” she muttered to Lianna as she left the stage.

A hand shot up, belonging to a little brunette girl, about six. “Were you scared when that monster grabbed you?”

Lianna smiled and knelt on the edge of the stage, almost nose to nose with her. “Yeah, I was scared shi—silly.” (Stop. Remember your audience.) “But I had an emergency transponder I could have used if things really got bad.” She ruffled her hair, which earned her a giggle. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

The girl grinned and bounced back to her seat. “Yes, sir, in the back.”

A skinny fellow with a buzzcut scalp stood up. “Yes, I got a question. What kind of sexual relations did you have with that alien slug?”

Fuck. Not another one of those. She dug deeper to draw in a calming breath, this time. Some of the other patrons shuffled in their seats, waiting on her. Her heart hammered faster, despite her outer calm. “Sir, that is an inappropriate remark,” the commander shouted, stepping forward. “Especially when we have young people with us today.”

“Come on, commander, everybody knows Dr. Jensen shags every odd ball freak she discovers. It’s the talk of every space port. Who knows how much alien trash she’s birthed across half the galaxy?”

Okay, Lianna lied. I’m ready. “Sir, my purpose is interstellar exploration on behalf of the Deep Space Observatory. The liaisons you’ve heard about are innuendo and fetishist dream logs. Considering our disparate biologies, I doubt anything would come of it if I—”

“So you are shagging aliens!”

“That’s not what happened! If you’d been listening you’d recall I almost died—”

“Excuse me. I have a question.”

That came from the back. Lianna couldn’t see who was speaking, except that she was tall and had a gorgeous black mane. Something in her exotic voice soothed her. “Yes, ma’am, what was your question?”

“This is directed at the toubab running off at the mouth. Why don’t you sit down and shut up? Some of us came to listen to what Dr. Jensen has to say!”

Lianna teared up at the round of applause that followed. She didn’t know how long it went on for, except that Buzzcut scowled and slunk out of the auditorium with his head down.

Thank Kali the commander called an end to the presentation for the day. While Lianna packed her props in a satchel and wiped the board, the people filed out a little at a time. She glanced once or twice toward the seats, expecting someone else to accost her. But no one else had stayed behind. Good. She’d had enough harassment for one day.

“You gonna be okay?” the commander asked. Lianna nodded. “I can assign a security detail to take you back to your ship.” She shook her head. “Okay. If you need anything…” and then she was gone.

The Professor and his bright ideas. After ten years alone in space he says, “I think now might be a good time to take stock of your accomplishments. Present your findings in a public setting. I have some friends at Uranus Orbital station who could set you up. No, it’ll be good for you, my dear. It’ll be a chance for you to brush up on your social skills. You know, you don’t interact with people very much. It’s my fault, you did grow up with a bunch of stuffy old scientists all around you.”

There was a reason for that. She was a bit of an animal once they took her off the Naga Sentry, her and all the other children left to fend for themselves for seven frustrating months. Who tells those stories anyway? Even if it was true that every spacefarer in every port thought she was some kind of—

No, the professor was right; he had to be. It’s just those fundamentalist Terran freaks at her last two symposiums questioning her morality. Maybe if there hadn’t been a smidgen of truth to their accusations…Sure. Me spread my alien seed around the solar system. Not much chance of that.

Lianna emptied her chest, breathed in a shallow breath. She’d been so lost in thought she hadn’t realized she’d arrived at the infirmary ahead of schedule. The Medibot floated to greet her before she could turn and leave.

“Doctor!” The ‘bot greeted her. Lianna sighed and sat on the stool indicated by her host. The cushion poofed under her bum, which was more comfortable than expected. Then the ‘bot addressed the door. “Consulting!”

The two-toned panels irised shut, presenting a façade of an inverse ying and yang in crimson and yellow. Lianna was grateful all the same. In this mode the infirmary stood isolated from the rest of the station. No one could barge in uninvited.

“Your lab work has all returned negative. You’re in relatively good health. However,” the ‘bot continued before she could push off and leave. “Your physical health is not the only issue. Your esophagus shows signs of forced intubation, which exerted pressure on your trachea. This trauma appears several years old. Some brain deterioration has resulted, not to the point where it can be an issue, but it does suggest your activities frequently entail unnecessary risks.”

“I, umm, I suppose that’s true,” Lianna nodded, staring at her feet. “Would you believe you’re not the first to point that out?”

“Yes. Insofar as the other matter we discussed…” Wait, was he pausing? “I’m sorry, Doctor. Our labs are consistent with the tests every other facility has conducted. There is no treatment for yourself or any of the Lost Children.”

“It’s okay. A girl could hope.”

“There is one last thing, a curious anomaly we detected in your muscle, epidermal…everywhere. There is a suffusion of cytoplasm, which appears to have bonded to your soft tissues.”

“I can explain,” Lianna said. “I…this goes back to that trauma you mentioned. I suffered some life-threatening injuries. You know about my shipmates?…Okay. Well, one of them donated a part of herself to heal me. I hadn’t realized how much she’d become a part of me, literally. You understand why I have issues with human relations.”

“Yes. I shouldn’t be telling you this,” the medic said, “but you’re not alone in this variety of relationship. There is a captain in the Antarian fleet who has had carnal relations with an Undian, also a amoeboid female. They argue, they disagree, but my sources tell me, by the end of a projected shift they are the best of friends. “

“I had no idea,” Lianna conceded. “So how come I’m getting all the harassment?”

“I’ve cited only one example. And subjectively speaking, while Antarians are a humanoid species, they are not considered human. So perhaps such human prejudices are not applied as liberally to them.”         

“Yeah, and besides, who wants to fuck with an Antarian?”

Before she returned to the ship, there was one last ritual. It’d become a habit, as with so many visitors, to pop by the Portal. Officially its designation was UA-1A7, but visitors and crew referred to it by its vernacular name.

The station was based on one of the inner moons orbiting Uranus. The slush giant’s dusty rings glimmered from the energetic bursts periodically shot from the station’s polar beacon lights, more for its visitor’s amusement than any practical purpose.

Not all the Classic Moons were visible; in fact, the only reason the pole facing her was visible at all was due to the viewport’s scanner being set 27 settings below true visibility. Otherwise, the extreme closeup given of the rapid rotation of Uranus’ cloud layers would leave all and sundry in a perpetual state of nausea. There’s still plenty of moons to go around, well past the first twenty-seven discovered up to the early 21st Century.

The usual mob awaited in the docking bay, a conglomeration of middle-aged men and women, some young adults, all shuffling loosely around the air lock leading to her ship. Some lofted signs such as ‘You Must Have F.A.I.T.H.’ Exactly like that. All eyes focused on her as they parted like the Red Sea, but at least no one accosted her.

At least until that rotten egg splattered her cheek.

Lianna whirled to the sea of faces, but most of them seemed as surprised as her. Others gazed around themselves to see who’d done the deed. She wanted to shout, “All right, who’s responsible for this?”

She fought that instinct, as the Professor had taught her to, and put her back to them, standing as rigid as possible. Then she continued at a measured pace toward the air lock. Any moment now she expected a fusillade of rotten fruit. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Without a word, against the heat rising in her chest, she entered her ship’s code for the hatch. With a hiss and the crank of metal, the hatch admitted her, Once that closed behind her, she exhaled.

After ten years in space, you’d think I’d have accumulated more mementos, Lianna thought. Apart from an orchid taken from Orchis 3, some dirty dishes on the pilot console, and an old portrait of her at seven, riding Ernie, the flight deck was relatively spartan. For now, her android companion Ernie detached himself from the charging port just off the docking hatch. She rushed to him and swept her arms around him—well, halfway around, anyway.

He offered the customary hug back with his stiff metal-barred arms. “Welcome home, miss Lianna,” he said, approximating a human voice. “I’m sorry the reception was not what you expected.” He raised a sani-wipe to her cheek and gently scrubbed it.

She clucked as she stepped down from his base. “If they only knew what I was holding back! Then they’d really shit bricks.”

“An interesting metaphor,” Ernie said, handing her a slate. “Which emotionally appropriate. The inspection was conducted in your absence. The ship passed magnificently, as always.”

She scanned the report almost as fast as Ernie would have memorized it. “That’s a bit of embellishment, isn’t it?”

“Informality suits you. I thought I’d practice.”

She tapped his shoulder socket with the slate before tossing it onto the pile of dishes. “I’m kinda tired. Are the girls asleep?”

“DO they sleep? I was told you may expect them in cargo lounge 2. Will you be changing first?”

She’d started to shrug off her lab coat, fingered the broad, important looking lapels, then slipped it back onto her shoulders. The molecular recyclers could always regurgitate another. Shaking her head, she trudged to the spiral step ladder and descended to the cargo deck.

It’d be inaccurate to call a converted cargo hold a ‘lounge’ but after her GFs had signed on, so to speak, she and Ernie converted a couple of spare cells into passable living quarters.

Oddly a red light shone down from the domed ceiling. And was it me, or did the walls seem—bloated? Sweet Kali–!

As soon as she realized the trap, Lianna smiled. It was already too late to retreat. A crimson tendril flopped against the sensor panel. The cargo door sealed shut with a prolonged squeal, meaning the air lock seals had engaged. She wasn’t going anywhere.

An amorphous pillar pushed between her thighs, and then her feet left the deck. She pointed her toes down, encountering only air. Half a meter of space separated the top of her head from the ceiling. The tip of the column expanded to cushion her bum.

The ‘bulge’ in both hulls oozed down, two semi-solid masses of aquamarine goo thick as honey, sandwiching Lianna between them. Engulfed to the shoulders, she moaned as both lab coat and the skin suit beneath it dissolved in a matter of minutes. Lianna surrendered to the pressure against her chest, the brush of rubbery textured membranes clinging to every bit of her bare skin.

Up until a few months ago, she hadn’t believed they were capable of dissolving her garments without harm to her. Maybe that was a choice on their part. Didn’t matter. She was safe with the only pair who really cared for her.

The red light suffusing the lounge initially obscured their translucent forms matted to the actual hull. Now their bodies molded to her in streams of ameboid tentacles. A crimson tongue peeled from the column between her legs. The tongue swelled, taking the form of a matted head nestled to her breast. Another pair of tongues, a translucent shade of jade this time, flexed into a powerful set of biceps, each tip extruding slender fingers. These arms clutched Lianna by the throat. Then she felt the weight of Amba’s head on the back of hers.

The scent of caramel marshmallow wafted up her nostrils, and she drank it in, as they drank her. She’d discovered them on different worlds but in similar habitats, both inhospitable to humanoid life. Each of them, Stavros and Amba, were actual detachments of a larger cellular body, inhabiting caverns deep within their respective planet’s crusts. She’d come to believe such celluloid colonies inhabited a variety of worlds, either unrecognized or undiscovered by previous explorers. She’d just been the lucky one they chose to reveal themselves to.

A loud hiss issued from the quivering mass as Lianna tugged her hands free of the gelatinous goo, to clutch the loving arms around her neck. A voice, half mocking, echoed in Lianna’s thoughts: welcome, beloved.

Lianna nodded, already half asleep. Stavros was nestling her red cheeks between Lianna’s breasts, silent as always and yet gently affectionate. She would float here all night, vulnerable and yet comforted in their gelling caress. “Hey, gals,” Lianna sighed as she slipped into dreamland, “is there something wrong with me?”

Normally the first thing Lianna noticed coming backstage of the auditorium hall was the overpowering reek of sterilized lilac, the residue of the cleanser sprayed over the hall after each day’s events. Even from the corridor outside the backstage door the scent seemed off today.

Lianna strode onto a stage facing empty seating. Her presentation wasn’t scheduled to begin until 9 a.m. station time, which was synched with Terran Greenwich time. As she turned to the display board, she almost fell on her behind. This was no longer a scent. It had been upgraded to a full-blown stench of burnt polymers with a strong undercurrent of mercury.

The blackboard had been defaced with several impact strikes, probably from a common prybar, with icicles radiating out from each strike. Dead center, carved into the board’s surface with a hot plasma torch, perhaps, in bold caps stood out one word: WHORE.

Lianna stared at that, just stared, her thoughts clouded. She stumbled back a couple of steps, back, into the soft touch at the back of her thigh.

She whirled, too quickly. Her feet slipped. A sharp sudden shock rocked her as her head banged into the blackboard. Her mind swirled as her stomach spat acid up her windpipe. Then a little dark-haired girl blinked back at her.

“Oh. Hi, there,” Lianna said, once her stomach settled. The child had waited patiently. Gods, she was gorgeous, her skin a beautiful shade of brown. ”Where did you come from?”

As though forgetting herself, the little one pulled a child-sized slate from the pouch slung over her right shoulder. She shrugged off the pouch, and after a few rapid taps, passed the slate to Lianna.

‘My name is Gita. I’ve been sent to offer you greetings from Patala.’

Lianna wet her lips, working the name over on her tongue, Patala which lay on another dimension plane, parallel to Terra, home to beings…”Hey, are you lost, sweetheart?’

She offered to pass back the slate, but no need. Gita’s fingers danced in a series of signs. “It is your time? I don’t understand. I mean I can see you’re of age, but what…?”

Lianna’s mouth started to drop. Gita grinned, taking the slate back now and tapping furiously. The slate erupted in a fanfare of trumpets before Gita handed it back.

It read, ‘My beautiful daughter Lianna, daughter of my spirit, I have sent you my birth daughter Gita. This is the Time when all Devis must go forth to explore the mortal realm. I commend her to you and designate you Guardian.’

“She wants me…?” Lianna squeaked. That was all she got out before she noticed Gita rising. She stared as Gita’s half-sari flopped to her waist, effectively hiding where creamy brown skin seamlessly blended into scales.

It wasn’t a very thick trunk, as befit her youth, no thicker than Lianna’s calves. Still it held a gorgeous sheen, forest green splattered with mottled patches. She kept rising until she swayed a meter above Lianna. The stage lights cast an iridescent halo around her dark raven hair.

Lianna couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried; maybe it was the night when both her parents died. The tears flowed freely now. “Oh my gods, “she whispered. “You’re beautiful.”

Her arms opened, and Gita settled her head to Lianna’s cheek. Her coils folded into Lianna’s lap as she held onto Gita oh so gently. The child cooed, breathing warmly on Lianna’s neck in their shared embrace, neither aware of their being watched…

–Image of Uranus & its rings courtesy of NASA & the James Webb Space Telescope, 2023

Star Trek: The Next Generation–season 3

Ironically in the fall of 1989 I had gone to a Doctor Who Day at Book King in Federal Way, Washington. Back when I was single, Book King had these get togethers for fans every weekend, and I attended as often as I could. Everyone was seated in this little room in the back of the bookstore, except instead of Doctor Who, the group was sharing a couple of episodes from the new season of TNG. This time around the show came out of the gate running and didn’t stop for the next three seasons.

One of the episodes they screened was “The Survivors”, which showed the embrace of bold ideas to go along with the always excellent f/x. They kept the plot twist close to the sleeve, positing a mystery: how did this lone elderly couple survive a planetary bombardment that eradicated all other life? Counselor Troi meanwhile was slowly driven mad by the incessant music of a tiny music box she had never heard before. In fact, no one had survived, including the wife of the older man—in reality a godlike being who in a moment of grief wiped out the invaders throughout the universe. For one of the few times in Trek history, this was a deity with a conscience who relieved the suffering he’d inflicted on Troi. Picard could do nothing but let him go to recreate the woman he loved, and to just leave him alone. And that’s one of the first episodes. It keeps going.

Season Three of the Original Series suffered from subpar writing, some of the worst of any Trek series. Gene Roddenberry had been bumped to executive producer, while Fred Freiberger became the new line producer.  NBC had changed TOS’ time slot to 10 pm—on Fridays, a death slot for any series. Worst of all, the show had lost the sense of humor it was known for. By contrast, by its third season TNG had hit its stride. At least in my hometown, TNG was given a time slot of 7 pm on Saturday nights, and it never moved from that spot.

On September 25, 1989, the worm had turned. Rather than being The Original Series’ poor second cousin, in many ways The Next Generation surpassed it. Star Trek V had been a disappointment that summer. It was one of two movies I’d seen in one day in July of ’89. I’d had a very bad day; all I’ll say is that my brother and I had a falling out which ended with me stomping outside and smashing my windshield—with my bare fist. But enough of that for now.

The revolving door of scriptwriters that had plagued TNG’s first season, and the rewrites imposed by Gene Roddenberry were past. Briefly, Michael Piller was promoted to head of the writing staff, which brought a much-needed stability to the script process. Rick Berman became the chief of day-to-day operations. New costume designer Bob Blackman oversaw a redesign of outfits into real regimental uniforms a space service might issue, though not necessarily any more comfortable for the actors. Hence the birth of what fans refer to as ‘the Picard Maneuver’, where Patrick Stewart pulls his tunic down every time he has to stand up.

Blackman also rendered a one-piece version for the woman, which meant no more legs! A new title segment began this season showing an incoming montage from the Milky Way, instead of the departure angle used in the first two seasons. Best of all, Gates McFadden was back for good as Dr. Beverly Crusher.

This year we encountered aliens who really seemed …ALIEN. Tin Man. The Sheliak. A Douwd. What was also new was that the Enterprise-D encountered more people who were absolutely unreasonable; who were so locked into their own positions, they wouldn’t even consider the facts presented to them, even when said facts will endanger their lives. “The Ensigns of Command”, “The High Ground”, “The Wounded” and “Transfigurations” come to mind. The writing is sharper, the dialogue less formal and more natural; that was reflected in the return of Star Trek’s sense of humor. The crew often were not just put to the test, they were frequently put into life-threatening situations.  

Every season has had its timey-wimey excursions (“We’ll Always Have Paris” and “Time Squared”, for example) where Time is out of sync. “Yesterday’s Enterprise” is a real mindwarp, bleeding seamlessly into a dark version of our universe, where the Federation is on the verge of collapse from a war with the Klingons. And no one is aware of what’s happened, except for Guinan. Even she can’t explain why, she only knows THIS-IS-WRONG! This is the one and only time we see the Enterprise-C, and the consequences of its falling through a time warp in the midst of battle would be catastrophic. Because this is an alternate timeline, they were able to bring back Tasha Yar, at least one version of her, and give her an ending with some dignity. The ramifications of this version’s death would roil through our timeline for seasons to come. Believe me, there is death and destruction enough here to satisfy the most die-hard pew-pew fan.

I’m embarrassed to re-read my old diary entries from this time. I seemed very petty and childish then. In 1990 I made it to two conventions, Rustycon 007 in January, and my third Norwescon, no. 12 in April 1990. My friends said I was a virgin when I came to my first sci-fi convention. Four cons in I guess I still was, considering they pinned a condom on the back of my stage pass. I was serving as a volunteer this time, though to be honest I remember very little of that. Rustycon had some good highlights. My friends were all there: Michael Scanlon, Chris and J. Steven York, and Jack and Fran Beslanwitch. The difference between the Sheraton where Norwescon was held and the Radisson, where we had Rustycon was the ambient noise level. There wasn’t a continuous drone of voices at the Radisson, only people’s quiet whispers. For a socially awkward person like me, that’s grand.

Apparently I’d gone to the dance, according to my diary, though odds are I sat in the back. Socially I was like Reginald Barclay. Mark Skullard had put together a fun panel on old Science Fiction radio programs. The lines in those shows were so melodramatic, the plots so preposterous even in the first couple of minutes we couldn’t help laughing. Here’s a shoutout to George Smith, who somehow showed up at nearly every panel I went to.

I met Rebecca Neason at this con, God rest her, at the Victorian SF/ Steampunk panel. She was a very sweet, social lady who kept getting tagged for panels when no one else would show up to empanel them. She was working on her first TNG novel, Guise of the Mind, which would be published in 1993. She and Donna Barr hosted a panel on Mythical Creatures. Apparently only the three of us were attending. Donna Barr has a very black sense of humor; she had me and Rebecca in near hysterics.

Curiously I don’t remember any TNG parodies at this year’s convention. Boy, at LAST year’s con we had a doozy, “Star Trek: Another Regeneration”. This was a taped radio program put together by two British chaps and sent over to Canada’s “The Ether Show”. (I hadn’t mentioned this in my last blog because I hadn’t found my diaries from that time period before.}

I squat on the floor of Room 1906 along with everyone who wasn’t seated on the bed. This had to be the best part of Norwescon 11 for me; this was a hilarious parody of “Farpoint”. Example: Riker has gone to the holodeck to fetch Data. The computer warned him this would be inadvisable, Commander Data was in the Atlantic Ocean simulation. Riker responds, “I don’t care, just let me in!” So it does, and “WHOOOSH!” The saucer section has also accidentally been separated from the ship, so Riker jams the two pieces together. “Make it fit!” he says, sooo, “SHRIIIEEEK!” until Data nonchalantly reports, “Reconnection complete, sir.”

The most badass character for season 3 has to be Jean Luc Picard. Diplomacy becomes a weapon in “The Ensigns of Command”, where he uses the same treaty the Sheliak have been beating him over the head with against them. “You enjoyed that,” Riker says, to which Picard retorts, “Damn right.” “Who Watches the Watchers?” is the story where the Prime Directive is not simply bent, it’s twisted out of shape. It’s the one where Picard is mistaken for a god. He takes an arrow to the shoulder, willingly, to prove his mortality.

He’s also cunning when he wants to be. While investigating a possible Romulan base in the Neutral Zone on the word of a high-ranking defector, the Enterprise-D finds herself surrounded by three Romulan warbirds. With a word to Worf, the tables turn after three Klingon warbirds decloak on the warbirds’ flanks. “Shall we die together?” Picard challenges. When the Argosian Prime Minister Nayrok finally asks for help after rebuffing Picard for the entire episode, Picard cites the Prime Directive and just leaves (“The Hunted”).

Picard’s role as Patriarch of the Enterprise-D has never been more clearly defined than in “The Bonding”, which reminds us there are children on board, and their lives are just as fragile when a loved one dies. As he reminds Jeremy Aster, “no one on the Enterprise is alone”. To save Jeremy from an alien who wants to take him away to live on the planet, Picard calls together all the crew members who understand loss all too well. For Wesley Crusher this is a brutal reminder of his father’s death, and he admits for the first time that he was angry at Picard for surviving. I know that feeling; that was the moment that Wesley became a real person to me.

The Patriarchal role suits him when Data takes the ultimate step to becoming human, by creating his own child, Lal (“The Offspring”). In another first, this is the first episode in Trek history to be directed by a cast member, in this case Jonathan Frakes. When another asshole admiral wants to take Lal away to study, he responds, “There are times, sir, when men of good conscience cannot blindly follow orders. You acknowledge their sentience, but you ignore their personal liberties and freedom. Order a man to hand his child over to the state? Not while I am his captain.” Having had a child ripped from my family, I feel for them, and I love Picard for taking that stand.

By now his crew is so tight that with only a look, the bridge crew knows exactly what to do after aliens intrude on the bridge (“Allegiance”). Patrick Stewart’s hunger for more actions scenes bears fruit in both “Captain’s Holiday” and “The High Ground”, where he actually punches a terrorist on the bridge of the Enterprise. He becomes Worf’s cha’Dich, a ritual defender, when Kurn is attacked and injured in “Sins of the Father”. No, Picard is taking no shit this time around.

Worf may have been the cast member who experienced the most growth. Dare I say it, I think he became an actual character. I’ll explain. It was established in the first two seasons that he was a warrior, well versed in the ways of Klingons, a heritage he takes exceptional pride in. Beyond that, excepting two episodes, his role was not given the depth it deserved. In a sense he was a caricature much like Frank Burns in M.A.S.H. By its 5th season Frank had pretty much become a petty narrow-minded bigot, an overzealous ‘patriot’ with little to no depth.

So it was with Worf. He had been portrayed as a proud warrior, who frequently got his ass whupped by a stronger opponent. This season he became flesh and blood. Like Frank Burns, Worf is also burdened with prejudice–against Romulans, in this case. Given the chance to save a dying Romulan by giving a blood transfusion, Worf stubbornly refuses (“The Enemy”). To be fair, his prejudice is reciprocated by the Romulan as he dies. In “The Bonding”, out of guilt for an unavoidable tragedy, Worf attempts to bond with the orphaned Jeremy Aster. “Deja Q” proves he’s still king of the one-liners; when Q insists he’s human and shouts what do I have to do to convince you people, Worf replies, “Die.” In “Transfigurations” he plays the role of Lazarus raised from the dead by space Jesus.

With “Sins of the Father”, Worf’s story becomes epic. Treachery within the Klingon High Council brings a challenge Worf must answer to clear his father’s name. But the truth can’t come out; the traitor who betrayed the Klingons to the Romulans has friends on the High Council, which would lead to civil unrest. Only Worf’s discommendation temporarily prevents a Klingon civil war. We’re introduced not only to his brother Kurn but to the family of Duras, a name we’d come to despise in every Trek series to come.

The Ferengi make three appearances, primarily as irritants, moving closer to the comedic foils they’d master in DS9. No longer treated as a ‘major military threat’ to the Federation, they resort to deceit, and poison to narrow the field of bidders in “The Price”. If there’s any justice, a couple of those Ferengi are lost in the Delta Quadrant until their return in ST: Voyager. Michael Grodenchik debuts as Sovak, a pushy trader who deserves the punch in the face Picard delivers. (He would eventually play Quark’s dim brother Rom on DS9). “Menage A Troi” is a case of unrequited lust on the part of a demented Damon, although it finally gives Majel Barrett the opportunity to shine as the eternally flirty Lwaxana Troi. Ethan Philips makes his Trek debut there as Dr. Farek; we’d know him better in a later role, as Neelix on Voyager.

“Hollow Pursuits” introduces us to Reginald Barclay. Like him, I’m socially awkward, though I couldn’t articulate that in 1989. Reg is the guy who sits in the back of the room at parties, trying to blend in while seated next to a potted plant. That’s me. Maybe his escape into Holodiction is something else we have in common; don’t all us writers do that, though not in an actual physical expression? When the series originally came out on VHS, they were released as single episodes. The only tapes I collected were “The Royale” (season 2), “The Offspring” and “Hollow Pursuits”.

Reg was a challenge for Geordi to overcome his disdain and encourage Reg to put his mind to work in ‘the real world’. Troi also tries to guide him, up to the point that she meets the Goddess of Empathy. Then it’s “muzzle it!” The first time I saw this episode was at Jack & Fran’s house in Renton for a Writer’s Cramp meeting. We’re at the point where Picard himself accidentally calls Reg “Broccoli”. Data is saying, “Metathesis is the most common of pronunciation errors, sir, the reversal of vowels. ‘Boc’ to ‘Broc’—” At this point, Picard just glares, and as Data suddenly bends over a console, Fran said, “shut up, Data.” And that is usually the first response everybody gives when viewing that scene: “shut up, Data!”

Somehow I missed “Sarek” when it was originally broadcast. I didn’t find out about it until years later, after the series had ended. It was cool that they brought Mark Lenard back to the role, weaving another connection to the Original Series.

To close the season, they began a new tradition with the cliffhanger to end all cliffhangers, and honestly, I don’t think TNG ever came up with a better one. This led one fan to scream at Piller from his car, “You ruined my summer!” “The Best of Both Worlds” begins with a disturbing graphic. Riker’s away team beams down to a colony in distress, supposedly in the middle of downtown, where all that greets us is a crater.

Twin plotlines parallel each other. The Borg are coming, and we are nowhere near prepared for them. Meanwhile Commander Riker questions his priorities as he turns down yet another command, and Picard has to call him on the carpet for it. The issue would be ludicrous in any real-world military service; Piller’s script addresses that here. Riker is a man grown comfortable, loyal, and apparently will settle for nothing less than the Enterprise. Although this was not how he wanted it. He also faces a foil in Commander Shelby, a cocky young woman whose ambition is only exceeded by her impetuousness. And she pointedly tells Riker, “You’re in my way.”

This is only the second time we’ve encountered the Borg, who remain a great unknown, hostile in purpose even while they’re devoid of intent. It is not spoilers now to declare this as the most distressing cliffhanger in Trek history, perhaps one of the greatest in television history. Picard steps forward on board the Borg cube as Locutus, his voice lifeless as he states, “Your life as it has been is over. From this time forward, you will service…us.”  The camera pans around to Riker, who says, “Mr. Worf…fire.”

And then— ‘To Be Continued’??? ARRRRRGHHHH! In June 1990 we were all going, “What—WHAT?” That would be the longest summer for all Trek fans everywhere. In this one season this crew had become beloved, a part of the family, and we didn’t know if they were going to be blown apart or not. Will Picard survive—COULD he? This would be the nail-biter dogging us for the longest summer ever.

Retrospective: Star Trek The Next Generation-Season One

Star Trek: The Next Generation may have been the most anticipated new series in the fall of 1987. After four feature films, twenty years since the debut of the Original Series on NBC, a new generation of fearless explorers had arisen to follow the path laid down by James T. Kirk and his intrepid crew. And therein may lay the problem. We Trekkies expected magic, and were promptly let down; at least we thought so. Retrospect gives me a different viewpoint. It wasn’t as bad as I remembered, but at that point it wasn’t close to the quality it would achieve in later seasons.

TNG began airing in syndication on September 28, 1987. In a delicious twist of irony, locally it was broadcast twice a week on our town’s Fox station. One hundred years after events of the Original Series (OS), Jean Luc Picard assumes command of the Galaxy-class starship Enterprise–D. He and his intrepid crew—William T. Riker, Data, Worf, Tasha Yar, Geordi La Forge, Counsellor Deanna Troi, Dr. Beverly Crusher and her precocious son Wesley—set out on their ongoing mission to explore the uncharted regions of space.

The show was one of the most talked about subjects at my first science fiction convention, Norwescon 10, which was held at the Sheraton Inn in my hometown of Tacoma, Washington, on March 24 to 27, 1988. That convention blew me away, being a neophyte and all. I spent a lot of time immersed in panels, seated as far in the back as I could get. What I really wasn’t prepared for was the fire drill we had on Friday night. Everyone in the hotel, hundreds of us, had to hurry down 17 flights of stairs, and once we were all crowded outside, someone announced that it had been a false alarm, and we had to trudge back up 17 flights of stairs. To be that young again…

Trekkies had set up a ‘transporter’ on the second floor, and not too far away was a TARDIS. All day Sunday in NWC6, Room 407, there was a showing of the fan parody, “Star Trek: The Pepsi Generation”, “baldly going where no one has gone before” against the dreadful Ferrari. I’m still laughing about that today. TNG was the subject of a panel discussion in which one of the participants described Tasha Yar as a “bitch in britches.” One of the biggest selling buttons that year was “Kill Wesley Crusher.”

It wasn’t all negative. The Artist Guest of Honor was Rick Sternbach, an illustrator involved in TNG and later Star Trek series. Toastmaster for Norwescon 10 was Trek scriptwriter David Gerrold, the man who gave us the tribbles. At this point TNG hadn’t finished broadcasting its first season. The last episode before the convention, “Heart of Glory”, aired March 21. Tasha Yar would still be alive for a couple more episodes. Once the convention closed, six more episodes remained before the season concluded with “The Neutral Zone”, syndicated on May 16, 1988.

One problem with the series was expectations. All of us Trekkies had spent the last 17 years engrossed in reruns of the Original Series. Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Sulu, Scotty, Chekov, Uhura and the Enterprise herself were our heroes, our models for what our species was capable of. Anyone stepping into those shoes had a lot of overarching expectations to overcome. Additionally, TNG never had a distinctive theme of its own. What we had is a combination of the beginning of Alexander Courage’s theme from  OS, coupled with the main theme from Star Trek: The Motion Picture by Jerry Goldsmith.

Another problem was the new alien threat—the Ferengi. Yeah, you can all pick yourselves off the floor and stop laughing now. They spent a few episodes hinting at the great and powerful menace facing the Federation, and when they finally did appear…they were trolls. Ironically, at the same time Sylvester McCoy stepped in as the new Doctor Who in merry ol’ England, and I thought exactly the same thing about him. In that instance McCoy grew on you, in time becoming one of the most intriguing, sinister Doctors of all. The Ferengi would never rise above the level of a joke. Lets not get into the merry-go-round of Chief Engineers that plagued this season. We had MacDougal, Argylle, the obstinate Logan (who was just a dick), and Leland T. Lynch.

THE CAST

One welcome change would be that all seven main cast members were given a spotlight—not always a good one, but they tried. No one was sidelined in favor of the principals, as in Kirk-Spock-McCoy over everyone else in OS. It is now time to consider those cast members.

Picard (Patrick Stewart) was presented as a French captain, a callback to the original series where everything is a Russian inwention to Chekov . That lasted a few episodes before they largely drop the gag and roll with the English actor who happens to have a French name. He was stiffly regimented, just as Q described him, in their early voyages. Episodes such as “Code of Honor”, “Too Short a Season” and “Symbiosis” defined Picard’s strict adherence to the Prime Directive, an OS rule which Kirk broke repeatedly. Picard is also saddled with a shipload of children, and honestly he’s not too fond of them. To his credit, he’s prepared to risk the ship for their safety, whether it’s just for one (Wesley, “Justice”) or many (“When The Bough Breaks”).

Riker spends most of the season as a James T. Kirk clone. That’s an unfortunate accusation dating to fans early impressions, soon dashed both by improved writing and the natural charisma of Jonathan Frakes. It wasn’t long before we were treated to something the fans refer to as “The Riker Maneuver”; y’know, those times he leans over chairs, one leg propped up on a console. Or all the times he swings one leg over a chair as he’s seating himself. There are rumors Frakes did this to relieve pressure on his back, due to injuries sustained from a former job as a furniture mover. I get that. My brother David frequently suffered back injuries, usually self-inflicted, from lifting doors. Frakes carries out the maneuver as early as the second episode, “The Naked Now”, when he’s leaning over Data while he’s operating the science station. And it’s not a bad thing. It adds a layer to his character; it suited his flamboyance and self -confidence.

Worf growls a lot and spends most of the season getting his ass kicked. On the other hand, he got all the best one-liners. Consider this exchange from “Justice”:

Worf: “For what we consider love, sir, I would need a Klingon woman.”

Riker: “What about plain old basic sex? You must have some need for that.”

“Of course, but with the females available to me, sir—Earth females—I must restrain myself too much. They are quite fragile, sir.”

“Worf, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were bragging.”

“Bragging, sir?”

Then there’s this goodie from “11001001”: “If winning is not important, then, Commander–why keep score?” Finally, Worf’s impassioned speech about duty and honor in “Heart of Glory” may be one of the best of Season One.

The one duo that works right out of the gate is the pairing of Geordi and Data. Geordi could be considered an extension of the actor playing him, LeVar Burton. He was personable, outgoing, the guy who gets along with everyone. In tense situations Geordi was ready with a wry comment that was usually spot on. The fact that he had a VISOR never troubled me, despite the writers constantly bringing it up as some kind of multi-tasking super-duper power.

Data (Brent Spiner) remains the most appealing character. He was the polar opposite of OS’s Spock, though they both served the same function as mirrors on the human condition. Early on Data was characterized as a babbler who defines words and phrases to death, to the point where the captain, crew and even the ship’s computer cut him off. Whereas Spock kept his emotions on a tight grip and frequently expressed disdain at our emotionalism, Data was always reaching, often coming closer to humanity than most of the humans he interacted with. When Tasha, in her farewell log, said he sees things with the wonder of a child, she’s not wrong.

The tragedy of Tasha Yar (Denise Crosby) is that we never got to know her. The one story where Tasha was the focus (“Code of Honor”) was diluted by Picard and Chief Lutan waltzing around the Prime Directive. We have hints of her home world, a place hip deep in anarchy, that were barely scratched at. And yet we can view the effects of growing up in that environment in her self-discipline and the rapier sharp temper, poised to lash out at any time.

And she suffers no fools, as when the aliens are locked in an electric duel (‘Symbiosis”), she casually phasers them with a quiet, “Gentlemen, behave.” When confronted by Ferengi or Qs, she gives no fucks. It would have been interesting to explore her early years, what clever ways she avoided the gangs, the skills she acquired for day-to-day survival. That was not to be.

Troi starts off in a skant miniskirt and boots for the pilot. Once we get to the first episode she’s confined for the rest of the season in a doughty jumpsuit; now if the intent was to deemphasize her sexuality, they went too far the other way. The Riker-Troi romance was kind of a carry-over from the planned-&-cancelled Phase II series from the 1970s, where the romantic pair was Dekker and Ilia, brought to life in ST: The Motion Picture.

The romance here is not only unsustainable, it’s unbelievable. This is especially true given the considered and intelligent portrayal of Benjamin Sisko and his son Jake on DS9. Anyone can see this as a sham perpetuated by TV writers, that a protagonist can’t be weighed down by a family or love interest. Horseshit. Career military men from the lowest ranks to the most decorated generals have been married, with children. People can make a commitment to family and the service. The two are not incompatible.

Miles O’Brien also makes his first appearance, on the battle bridge in the very first episode, although he wouldn’t be given a surname until the second season (“A Matter of Honor”), and his full name would not be given until season 4.

And then there’s Wesley Crusher, child genius. In early forays, from “The Naked Now” up through “Datalore”, Wesley was the one person who can rescue the ship—after he was the one who put it in danger in the first place. This was in line with Gene Roddenberry’s showcasing Wesley as an indispensable genius; it also portrayed the rest of the command crew as foolish. After “Where No One Has Gone Before”, it became Picard’s job to mentor Wesley, becoming a surrogate father of sorts.

THE EPISODES

The early stories were painful to watch, though the scriptwriting improved after the first block of episodes. I’m not going to nitpick over every single episode. I’d just like to cover some highlights. Let’s begin with the pilot, “Encounter at Farpoint”. First, there was Q. At this point Q remained a mustache twirling villain with contempt for all lesser species. Q joins a long line of godlike entities that peppered OS like Apollo, the Metrons and Trelaine, possibly a Q himself. Unlike previous encounters with supposed ‘deities’, a larger spectra of existence was hinted at (“Hide and Q”), and would be explored in future episodes across three different Trek series.

I liked most of it, BUUUT…Picard surrendered. He actually did it twice. And god, they recycled that damn Motion Picture theme at every dramatic moment. I love that theme, but there’s a point where you have to scream “ENOUGH ALREADY!” To be fair, we met the crew; this was the first time we saw a saucer separation on a starship; and those space jellyfish were absolutely gorgeous. Who had an absolute legitimate grievance. Original Series actor Deforest Kelley’s cameo in “Farpoint” was a highlight. It was also the beginning of a Trek tradition where a character from the previous series acts as a bridge linking the two series.

“The Naked Now” was basically a retread of an OS episode. “Code of Honor” was possibly the most unintentionally racist episode of any Trek series; it has my vote for the worst episode on TNG’s entire 7-season run. The idea may have been to portray the Ligonians as Samurai warriors, but they came across as hide-bound, tradition bound jackasses. “Too Short a Season” presented our first modern, self-important, dickhead Starfleet Admiral. There would be more. 

“Angel One” was a busy episode, what with the plague-of-the-week and a lost party in a matriarchal society. Unfortunately, the women of that society came across as obnoxious and closed-minded. Honestly, I found it hard to sympathize with any of the guest cast. At least “Home Soil” gave us the alien’s tagline: “Ugly bags of mostly water.” “Skin of Evil” was the kind of weird story one could expect from the pen of Outer Limits creator Joseph Stefano. Poor visual effects did this in, but the main issue was that it was a pointless episode designed to kill off a member of the main cast.

I’m not prepared to tag any of these early voyages as Classics, but there were a handful of Good ones. “Where No One Has Gone Before” showed us the seeds of greatness, positing new ideas with the Traveler and the possibilities of higher levels of consciousness. I’m sure we’ve all seen the meme-worthy scene where Picard is about to step out of the turbolift—and almost into warp space. Unfortunately, it also established Gene Roddenberry’s vision of Wesley Crusher as Will Robinson, the smartass kid who had all the answers.

“The Big Goodbye” set the standard for all holodeck adventures that go terribly wrong. It also introduced Picard’s unlikely fascination with 20th Century pulp hero Dixon Hill, an analogue to Data’s parroting of Sherlock Holmes (“Lonely Among Us”). Another holodeck adventure, “11001001” gave Riker a chance to shine while introducing Frakes’ real-life trombone playing skills. The duo of Picard and Riker was unbeatable. It also had the most honest answer as to why these aliens carried out their actions. When Picard asked why they didn’t ask for our help, the Bynars reply, “You might have said no”.

“Heart of Glory” gave us our First Klingon Episode, in which we learn more about the Klingon race than we had in the entire Original Series, and that’s including the first four movies! For the first time, though not the last, Worf emerged as a character of depth and honor. In “Conspiracy”, we had the grossest head splatter in Trek history.

THE MOST BADASS CHARACTER IN SEASON ONE

In fact, the most badass character in the first season of TNG was– Dr. Beverly Crusher, played by Gates Mcfadden. I didn’t like her in the first viewing; most frequently her catchphrase seemed to be, “I don’t know.” But truthfully, she was a lioness in defense of her son (“Justice”, “When the Bough Breaks”). In “Conspiracy”, the possessed Admiral Quinn kicks Riker’s ass, throws Geordi through the bulkhead doors, kicks Worf’s ass—and then Dr. Crusher walks in and phasers the SOB; no fear, no fucks given. In “The Arsenal of Freedom”, while in shock and bleeding, with an automated program loading ever-deadlier probes at both the away team and the Enterprise–D, she is the only one with enough clarity to see the solution: “Why don’t you just shut it off?”

Despite its early shortcomings, TNG was a success right out of the gate. There was little question it would be renewed for a second season. But changes were coming, and that will be the subject of a future blog.

I Hope My Grandchildren Forgive You

I hope my grandchildren forgive you    

for what you brought on our land  

for the world we leave to them

Forgive the desert that was once California  

the parched land and tongues of ordinary souls  

rationed to a few drips a day  

or will that be a week, who knows?

Forgive the 30 years wasted in deceit and denial  

while simulations became fact

and facts piled on facts  

and opportunities to act became wasted in dithering politics

And to the passing of the Floridas  

while salt of sea infiltrated our children’s drinking supplies  

I fear not for New Orleans, she’ll adapt  

she always does

Forgive us the storms like no other   

coming to a landmark near you   

New York barraged by tides she’ll not soon forget   

Lady Liberty will stand as a beacon still   

even waist deep in the ocean

I certainly hope they can find it in their hearts   

to forgive your cowardice, your avarice,  

your blind blinkered stupidity   

‘Cos God knows I won’t

Review: George R. Stewart, Earth Abides (1949)

(Original printing by Random House in 1949)

One might ask, once you’re done Googling the given title, why the HELL would we be interested in a book published 72 years ago. That was before the Red Scare of the 1950s, before fears of nuclear war overtook all future versions of Armageddon. There is wisdom in old works, perhaps more than can be found in contemporary books. I found for myself this is a more timely text than was seemingly possible.

The back cover of the 1976 edition I read describes this as ‘a novel about a tomorrow that could happen today’. After the events of 2020 it seems very close to home. Our protagonist, Isherwood Williams, spends some time in a cabin in the woods recovering from a rattlesnake bite. He comes back to a city that appears deserted. Scattered newspapers, what’s left of them, tell of a ‘new and unknown disease of unparalleled rapidity of speed, and fatality’. Unlike in 2020, in the novel there was a concerted and competent government response, although this pathogen still wiped out the better part of the population of the late great United States.

I saw a lot of myself in Ish. He was well read, and probably more mechanically inclined than I. Basically he’s a good person trying to make sense of an impossible situation. At first he was all right with solitude, he could do without loads of people and their problems for a while. Peace and quiet were nice, and he was free to do what he wanted. Some inhibitions had to be broken, such as when Ish had to start breaking into stores to get canned goods, just for his own needs, now without fear of prosecution. Given that all means of mass production were essentially gone, canned goods were all that city people had to live on.

But no one can live alone forever. That’s how Ish was adopted first by a homeless dog, Princess, which lead him to Em, his future wife and the woman who would become this novel’s Mother of the community they gather together in an old California suburb. . As the first, original Mother, Em becomes the heart of what they call the Tribe, probably the most intuitive person and the one everyone defers to in matters.

This community Ish gathers, this Tribe, is comfortable, too much so perhaps. Even when a crisis arrives, when the reservoirs have dried up and no more water is to be had from their taps, it is very hard to stir the people to make an effort even to dig a well.

I can see this–I believe it. For a novel written seven decades ago, it has a clarity and insight. These are average people with average goals, without much ambition to rebuild civilization as they knew it. Ish’s efforts to educate the children of their small Tribe come to no avail, until he settles on more basic–and potentially fun skills, such as bows and arrows. And of course there is the Hammer, which Ish has carried with him from the beginning. This becomes an unconscious symbol of power, a tool as well as a faithful companion that Ish has to pass on in the end.

I would highly recommend Earth Abides. There is more truth, more humanity there than a lot of the propaganda we’ve indulged in for the past several years.

(The 1976 Fawcett Crest edition)

Lianna in the Microverse: Conclusion

Soon as this was over she wanted to get stoned again. So much had been real…so much surreal: the heft of Kali Ma’s sword in her fist, the cool solidity of the pommel. Cradling Lady Smirnoff to her chest, her weight in her four arms evenly distributed, drooping like a lazy cat…

Four…arms–!

The Professor and Dr. Chen bumbled into each other as Lianna jumped up. She tossed off the blanket, then immediately tugged it back to her naked chest. She took in the bland white medical cabinet over a sink behind the medics, the stiff sheets under her legs.

Dreamy, fuzzy images floated in the periphery of her thoughts; an emergence of some kind on the main floor of the observatory, her tail swishing between her buttocks. No tail now, she thought. Some wise ass must’ve thought it’d be a good idea to get her to the outpost’s dispensary. That was probably a good idea since she didn’t remember much after first she dropped Lady Smirnoff, and then collapsed herself.

She slapped her left shoulder, groping for ridges, skin folds, anything that would be indicative of a scar. She came up empty. “Professor, how many arms did I have when I got back?”

Their distended eyeballs gave the game away. Troopers that they were, they kept up the pretense. “Two, of course,” the Professor replied, lifting his arms. “Just two. Right, Chen?”

“Oh yes, yes! How many arms were you expecting to have?” His forced laugh reeked of fear and barely suppressed hysteria. And then Petersen burst in.

“Got the stills developed! They’re gonna love this at the…” he frowned, first at the two scientists waving their hands like livid sports coaches. His eyebrows raised at Lianna, nodding at her cot. “Oh. Hi, four-arms.”

That earned him the double sock in the arm that she’d been waiting for. “I knew it!” Lianna bounced off the cot, pacing the room despite the Professor’s efforts to keep up and drape his lab coat over her. “I knew it! It’s the first proof that the Hindu cosmology has a basis in fact! I gotta write this up in the Physicists Quarterly–“

“Lianna…”

“Mom would shit if she could see this! This would be the best–!”

“Lianna!”

Both bare heels slapped on the deck. The Professor stopped himself just in time, finally succeeding in wrapping his coat over her. “Your other limbs disappeared shortly after we had you settled,” he said.

“What, they melted?”

“No, they…how do I say this, dissipated. I can’t explain it better than that. They seemed to vanish as soon as you came off your high. Umm, how much powder did…?”

“A snootful.”

“I thought it’d be a bit much.”

Lianna crossed her arms with a smirk. “And if there had been evidence of a transformation, I suppose you’d keep it from me anyway?”

The Professor sighed. “Lianna, cultivating a personal relationship with Kali is not something I’d encourage.”

“But isn’t that what Mom and Poppa wanted to investigate? Surely that’s the reason they kept such extensive notebooks.”

The Professor nodded to both points, though his downturned bushy mustache suggested he now wished that he’d never let her get her hands on them, let alone follow the hints and star charts highlighted in red in the margins. ‘What happened to my tail? And what about Lady Smirnoff?”

“First, allow me to congratulate you on the successful conclusion of your extraditionary mission. She’s in the next room. Would you like to see? We can discuss the, umm, other item after that.”

Her deep crimson skinsuit glistened even in the dimmed lighting ordered for her recovery room. What was left of it, anyway. Lady Smirnoff looked like she’d been through a war and lost. Her right leg was a purplish stump below the knee. Her left side wasn’t in much better shape. The skinsuit over both her left shoulder and breast was torn, exposed to the dangers of the Microverse. In fact, her left breast appeared to have been punctured by a barbed shaft. Tardigrade, Lianna deduced silently.

Further puncture marks could be found in both wrists, another in her suit through the crotch. Some repulsion prevented Lianna from examining that hole too intensely. Lianna took a scanner from a young medic in training, which enabled her to probe the puncture just below Lady Smirnoff’s breast that almost reached through her chest cavity to her heart. Curiously, all these puncture wounds had been plugged with a flexible, indigo-tinted foam. Further proof, to Lianna at least, of Kali’s charity, or malice.

The medics stepped aside to let Lianna in, but not too far from the floating examination table. They were keeping her in an induced coma for now, they told her, pending a decision by the outpost’s chief of staff toward what exactly they were supposed to do with her; whether her punishment by Kali had been sufficient, if indeed that would factor into any subsequent care she’d receive at a better equipped facility.

Her hand squeezed the smooth blotchy stump, just above the knee. Lianna peeled back one of Lady Smirnoff’s eyelids. Her pupils had shrunk to tiny dots. Her facial features, usually so stern, was relaxed in sedated rest. She hadn’t been prepared for this, Lianna thought, her hand lingering for what little comfort it might offer. Sweet Kali, what a state her mind must be in.

“Baby, come on,” the Professor said, gently taking her hand. He led her along the main corridor to the Specimen Lab. Normally this was where cultures were housed in specialty racks, behind vacuum sealed doors housing the wall-mounted coolant cells. He fixed on the third coolant door to the right, grunting as he yanked the handle down.

A tray rolled out containing no racks full of specimen trays, only an extra-large storage bin, about the size of Lianna’s upper torso. With the input of a code, the top was forced wide open as a bushy something arched out of its confined space.

“It didn’t dissipate…”

“Presumably Kali wanted this preserved, as a keepsake,” the Professor muttered. “So we’d know this wasn’t entirely a dream.”

The thick fur yielded several centimeters to the touch. Moments passed as he watched her stroke the reddish streaks. The end where it should’ve ‘connected’ seemed evenly cut, or partly healed. “Did you guys…?”

“We didn’t have to do anything. It sort of popped off as soon as you two hit the floor, just as a chameleon’s would.” All latches shut quietly, efficiently as he tucked the fur back under the lid and shoved the tray door shut. Lianna drew the lab coat closer, almost disappearing inside it.

“Professor, this isn’t a surprise to you. None of it. I’ve given you probably the most absurd, unscientific reports you’d ever seen, about things that would normally get a gal shipped to the nearest funny farm. And you…you just accept them. How much did you know, before I started out there?”

He kept his hands in his pants pockets, then adjusted the online scribbler in his top shirt pocket with a smile. “I had a more adventurous youth than I’ve let on. Several of my experiences could be described as humbling. I’d like to tell you I was never…hmm, intimate within my interpersonal contacts, but,” he shrugged, “I could never lie to you, child.”

“But you’re never gonna tell me about those experiences, are you?” she asked.

Still smiling, perhaps a little more warmly, he held out his hand to her. “There’s too much to cover in one afternoon,” he said. She clutched the coat to her bunched in one hand, while with the other she took his proffered palm. “But I see no reason why we couldn’t start.”

Continued from ‘Summoned by Kali’: (link)  https://mike3839.com/2021/01/18/summoned-by-kali-a-story/

Here’s where it all began: (link)  https://mike3839.com/2020/02/11/lianna-into-the-microverse-introduction/

Summoned by Kali: a story

Wow. It’s all green.

The professor will probably shit when he reads this report. This was supposed to be a rescue mission.  Floating inside the belly of a tardigrade wasn’t part of the plan. Still, navigating the microsphere wasn’t so tough. In some ways it was similar to free fall in zero gravity. This water bear bore me with remarkable alacrity now that I was inside it, if one can assign such values to a microbial anthropoid thingy.

I’m trying not to touch anything. I should be thinking of my own survival, floating in this thick interior jelly, but…this specimen was unique. Its feeding stylets actually shifted into a fissure in the upper part of its snout, which enabled it to ‘devour’ me without harm…. shit, those phrases don’t really belong together, do they?

A flap had opened in its digestive bulb after its intestinal tube pushed me through. That allowed me to slide into its lower body cavity, in the segments between its third and fourth pairs of legs. Here I was wedged between his spinal ridge and that intestinal tract that ran like a big ugly worm throughout the length of its chubby body.

If I pressed my face to its inner membrane I could breathe; these bugger’s respirate through the pores of their skin anyhow. I wasn’t alone either. There were swarms of beach-ball sized nodules–no, eggs, in this fluid-filled cavity with me.

All this for a woman who hated me. Lady Smirnoff was jealous of my position with the Professor, thought he favored me over her. Funny thing was, I was never aware of having any ‘position’. He saw her as a capable lab assistant. Me, I always called him Professor but I thought of him as a second Dad.

Jealousy had driven her to steal an experimental shrinking formula from Dr. Chen’s biolab. It worked, after a fashion. She surprised me in the lab and gave me a hefty spray. Then she watched as a alien grub devoured me.

That the plan failed was only on account of the formula’s unstable nature. Let’s just say that grub experienced an explosive end, once the shrinking effect wore off. I fought back before she could douse me again. Her tanks ruptured on a lab sink, exposing her to ten times the dosage I received. All that was left of her after that were her clothes. Fortunately the biolab was able to refine the formula into a stable element for this mission.

Apparently the goal lay ahead. Mama Bear was ambling along a string of lichen toward this gorgeous orchid floating improbably in this microscopic soup. Its spreading petals displayed a blood red aperture, a bowl tapering into a rounded pitcher vessel. As if aware of our approach, the skin of the pitcher became transparent, stretching over four projecting fingers pawing at its interior. The fingers curled into claws before its waxy outer skin smoothed over once more.

And above said orchid floated my host, I suppose, the goddess who’d been guiding and testing me up to this point. Dark hair that absorbed all color from the spectrum billowed around an oily blue face. Fangs indented the corners of her full red lips while a necklace of skulls rattled across her neck.

Eggs poked my bare thighs as we bobbed in this baptismal chamber, waiting to be discharged unto the world. The question becomes how this mother tardigrade intended to eject me. If I recalled my studies aright, baby tardis get excreted through the anal chamber to make their way in the world–oh crap, that’s not how–

A gush of fluid flooded its torso as a narrow tube squeezed me out of my host. God, do I feel like an ass–! …Stop that. After orienting myself, I paddled to her as the tardigrade lumbered on about its own business. Four arms beckoned and gods, she was as naked as I was. “Welcome, daughter,” she intoned.

I sighed and waved, “Hi, Mom.”

“Oh, you’ve sweated up a storm, child. You’re going to be in no condition to carry your burden home. Come, drink.”

A cup was raised. I hadn’t noticed the empty eye sockets and grinning teeth until I’d taken it in my hands, shaking now as I raised it to my lips. Thankfully instead of worms it tasted of ice-cold water; just water. I drained that, and the second skull thermos she detached from the band around her perfect waist. 

Still I held back, suddenly uncomfortably aware of my own state of unclothedness. Shivers rattled me; and yeah, the fact was that I could not look this manifestation of Kali in the face. “Gaze upon me, mortal,” she chuckled.

I gazed down at the underside of my bare arms. “I-I can’t, not as long as you’re wearing that face.”

Her upper left palm, red as blood, cupped my cheek, so very warm. I hadn’t thought about how frigid this place was in a while, if at all. “Does this face displease thee?”

“No–I mean, yes! Gods, you’re gorgeous, it’s just–I know you’re really not her. I-I see Mama lying dead, on the floor by our bed, every time–it just reminds me–“

“C’mere, little vine.”

Just like that my head shot up. That was her voice–! With my guard down, four strong arms drew me to her bosom. I rested my chin on her shoulder, inhaling the scent of incense and perspiration, blood and jasmine all intermingled. Muscles oiled with sweet alms flexed in a protective cocoon. “Why have I found favor with you?” I whispered.

Hands stroked waist and shoulders as her warm breath brushed my neck. “The pure of spirit are rare in the mortal sphere, more so in the realm of gods. It would be sacrilegious to tarnish such a spirit, especially one that has survived so many perils.”

“Huh. You haven’t seen me with the freaks I’ve encountered.”

“Wanna bet, kiddo?”

I jerked back, enough that I was staring nose to nose into my mother’s eyes. That long forgotten smirk was there for a second, and then there was only Kali Ma. Red palms stroked both my cheeks. “Innocence is a state beyond sexuality. It is possible to possess such purity even when the flesh is weak.”

“Doesn’t feel weak when I’m turned on.”

We both shared a laugh. “And now,” Kali said, “I suppose you will want to view the prize, the object as it were of your quest.”

Her arms stretched to their full length as I gazed over the rim of petals. At first I only saw vague shapes in the darkness, two blue mounds twitching and pressing over a reddish scalp. The blue flesh parted and a face tipped up. Our eyes met but no recognition flickered in her glassy stare.

I’d spent weeks scrutinizing every microscope in the observatory to find her. The Professor would pass me the odd assignment to take my mind off her. Somehow, I finally found her. Or maybe I was allowed to view the inescapable horror she’d been subjected to. Maybe it was a challenge our host knew I couldn’t ignore.

 Her skin was the whitest shade of pale, with sweaty cheeks sunken. But this was unmistakably the missing Lady Smirnoff. The rest of her body was lost in a quivering fluid mass pressing into her. The mounds flopped over her face with a wet slop and she was gone again. “Is she all right?” I asked as Kali pulled me close again.

“That depends on your definition.”

“Why hasn’t she tried to escape?”

“Where is there for her to escape to? The hallucinating incense infusing that bulb have convinced her that our bodies have melded. It was easy to maintain the delusion with an extension of our musculature around her crippled form.”

“Crippled?”

“Her encounter with an amoeba was not so fortunate as yours. She has lost the lower half of her right leg. Have no fear, I can detach myself from her at any time. But I needed her to reflect on her life choices, on the karma that had brought her to this state. And I wished her anguish for the terror she had inflicted on thee.”

“I think she’s got it. Kali Ma…Mama…will you grant me the boon of releasing the Lady Smirnoff to me?”

“She may not recognize you now. Not much of her feeble mind is left.”

“I-I don’t care,” I panted. “I need to bring her back.”

“She is not likely to thank you.”

“Huh. That’s what the Professor said. Please, this is inhuman.”

‘Neither are we.”

“Yeah, well,” I ducked down, staring down at my wringing hands. “I am. I’m human. I-I know she did this to herself, but…I can’t leave her. I don’t understand why but I don’t hate her. If only you could understand.” I kept staring down even though I could sense Kali’s gaze on me. Her lips pressed to my forehead. The words she spoke were my Mama’s.

“You couldn’t abandon her to a hopeless situation, the way I’d abandoned you on the Lost Ship.”

“It wasn’t your fault…”

“So. That wasn’t so hard, wasn’t it?”

I shrugged. “I’m still not sure how I’ll get back. Your tardigrades burst all my nanobots, and the growth formula they were carrying. Even if we can get home, we might both be stuck at this size.”

But then Kali held a capsule under my nose, right before she quickly withdrew it and tucked it back into one of her waist pouches. “Not so fast, silly me. That was a disintegration pill. Here’s…no, wait, that’s another shrinking pill. Fear not, I’ll find it. Take this,” she muttered as she absent mindedly handed over the sword in her upper left hand

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked.

“Dance, of course. Join me in the Dance of Kali.”

“I-I can’t dance.”

“Yes you can.”

“No, I…”

“Yes.”

“But I never…”

“You would deny Kali, who wears your mother’s face?”

“No, I’m just saying…” What was I trying to say? I kept staring down, muttering words to myself: “Om Hreem Shreem Kleem Adya…” “I’ve never danced before. I don’t know how.”

Her upper right arm stretched tight as she took hold of mine, now also extended straight. “Fear not. It’s easy. Follow my steps.”

But there were too many questions. What was this supposed to accomplish? How was this going to get the pair of us home, and at normal size? What was normal anyway? Why’d she have to take my mother’s–

“Shhhh…no more questions. Let your thoughts flow.”

I was about to protest further before this Kali apparition blew into her palm. A cloud of fine dust pecked me full in the face. Breathing was a reflex so I sucked it right up my nostrils and…and…what purty colors they are, swirlin’ an’ oscillatin’ rainbow suckers.

Everythin’s all fuzzy an’ dreamy. Why’d my stomach drop, an’ where these other two arms come from? No, I gotta be dreamin’. My shoulders ain’t really brushin’ up to another pair o’ shoulders rotatin’ an’ poppin’ in their sockets like dey always been there. Heyyy, my palms was red all over, all four of ’em.

Big Blue Babe pressed her hands inna mine, gobs of fingers strokin’ the back o’ my four hands, an’ objectively, Kali’s one gorgeous bitch. “Now I knows you actin’ like a gob,” I giggled. “My mama wudn’ make me hallubsin–hallub–she wudn’ do dat.”

“Is that all you’ve noticed? Suppose I imagined an extra pair of arms growing out of your ass?”

“Eyyy, dis is my hallub–hallu-oooo!” Somethin’ pushed between my cheeks–! I took a gander over both right shoulders just as somethin’ silky, bushy an’ red wit’ white stripes swished from my butt.

I guess when yer stoned dancin’ is easy. Kali’s moves wuz like oil, fluid an’ smooth an’ so precise. With my four palms pressed to hers, I could kinda trace her movements. Her sidewise shuffle led me forward an’ pushed me back, while our arms wheeled in flowing clockwise circles.

The hard part wuz knowin’ which Kali to follow. There wuz ‘nuther Kali overlaid on top of the first one, all fuzzy an’ trailin’ rainbow colors. Didn’t nobody line up the 3D projectors right? Well, so wat? Anythin’ she could do–

OWWWW! I popped the socket in my hip steppin’ too far out. And she kept on, raisin’ her hands in the prayer position, bobbing her head side to side. I followed as her arms flowed up an’ around, feet sliding side to side and back. Our tails counted time as dey swayed to balance us. Our upper palms came together as our heads zigzagged, sharp yet synchronous.

It wuz just me an’ Kali, skifflin’, hand in hand, countless fingers interlocked while Mama’s bootiful lashes batted like butterfly wings. Mebbe it wuz ‘cos we wuz on the same wavelength but some minutes in, it hit me that we been doin’ the same singsong chant: “Om hreem shreem …adya kalika param…” Kinda like that.

A really absurd thought entered my mind as I pirouetted…hey, with this sword I could kill Kali. I dismissed it quick, largely ‘cos even in this state I was repulsed that I ever thought. Besides, this wasn’t Kali facing me, just another aspect of her. That’s probably why she took Mama’s face in the first place. Judging by her toothy smile and slow shake of the head, she already knew what I was thinking anyway.

At some point Kali-Mom eased away. I wuz ‘lone, an’ somehow I didn’ mind. My legs still pranced, touchin’ on water molecules as dey traced her movements as if dey’d always knowed how. Her sword was still in my hands. Our chant grew louder, more authora…authora–more bossy.

Kali floated ‘hind ‘er orchid bulb, gesturin’ hypnotically over its petals. A shadow rose over the inner rim. An’ there she wuz, Lady Smirnoff floatin’ feather-like over her former prison. The left shoulder o’ her skinsuit wuz torn down t’ the upper bicep an’ yeh, her right leg was gone below the kneecap. Her stern scowl musta mellowed on ‘count of her zombie-like torpor.

Despite her emaciated state, she wuz hot in that glistening crimson skinsuit. Oh my gawd, it emphasized every voluptuous curve. You jus’ hang on, gorgeous, we’s gonna gets you outta here.

Now I nebber used a sword ‘fore, but somehow I knew what I hadda do. With an “om hreem shreem” I held my upper hands pointin’ up in supplication, blade straight an’ true as we cut a 180-degree arc in the space facin’ us. On the “adya kalika param“, I followed with a reverse cut…I think. Some of it’s kind of a blur. An’ then it wuz like sunrise over the Moon.

Light poured in us, radiant godlike an’ pure, and ohmygod so toasty–! Even as I bobbed over to take the Lady in my arm an’ arm an’ arm an’ arm, I wondered how Kali’d administer her potion to us, whether with another puff in our snozzers or a dab on our tongues–

Kali answered with a bucket drenched over our heads. Already our skins stretched taut as muscles bulged beneath ’em. There was no time for anything else as Kali braced herself on the rim of her orchid and with both feet booted us into the vortex…

Excerpt: Midnight Interruption

A short excerpt from my next novel in progress, Sanity’s Edge. Enjoy.

midnight interruption 300

I slipped off the ship after dark, once I could sense that everyone in the village was asleep. The forest was new but Mama had found me a new friend. We stared at each other under the shade of a mango tree as the Moon climbed into the sky.    Its tongue flicked the air in the three-meter space that divided us. This wasn’t one of the gen-altered snakes I was accustomed to from my home. This bugger was all wild, possibly the first of its kind that I’d seen since childhood, possibly the first I’d ever seen in my life. Sweet Ngai, was she massive! Her trunk was thicker around than my thighs.

I sensed her full belly, so I had no worries on that score. Her scales had a fresh gloss, as though she had just completed shedding not too long ago. I suppose she wouldn’t object to a warm body to enfold. I closed the distance between us and stepped into her embrace.

I knew this would be a problem as soon as a hundred kilos seemed to land on my hips, pressing me down. My knees buckled at first, but I kept to my feet as a second curl of muscle wound behind my legs, brushing the skin of my thighs before plopping atop the first coil, in the process pushing up my breasts.

Both were solid rippling muscle. A thrill shuddered through my chest, and perhaps a little excitement. I’d never given myself to such a beast before. A third coil slipped past my shoulders, pressing my breasts into flattened ovals between them. Sweat trickled over them and down the middle of my back; but that was probably just the heat of this place. For now, I was content.       As I held out my hand, the last meter of its tail settled in my palm, circling twice before cinching tight. With my eyes shut, we dropped as one bundled mass into the soft grass.

Of course that wasn’t the end of it. When was it ever so? The sun had barely emerged as a pink fingernail on the horizon when my hand comm chirruped in my waist pouch. This was ten meters away, along with the rest of my clothes.

Brutus, for so I named her, showed no inclination to release such a rich source of warmth, and gods, I didn’t want to leave this body hug just yet, either. Oh well. I stretched forth my free hand, the new new left one.

The hand comm made an oddly hard thump as it whipped through the grass into the false meat of my false hand. I settled back in Brutus’s coils, pillowing my neck on hers as I put the comm to my ear. “Jambo?”

“The correct greeting would be I ni sogoma, young miss, but we will let it pass this time,” a firm male voice replied. “Am I speaking to Miss Jamai Dlamini?”

“Yes,” I said, suddenly a little nervous.

“My name is Magistrate Oumar Hadad, the local prefect for this hamlet. Would it be possible for you to spare me a few minutes?”

“H-have I done something wrong?”

“Not at all. Your Captain Ismalla discovered you missing this morning and got it into his head that you would be in the fields, with a snake. And so you are.”

My body seemed to have frozen, even snug in Brutus’ coils, though my stare darted left and right. “Don’t be alarmed. The local children spotted you sleeping from some trees they were climbing. They almost took you for dead, but for the fact that you were snoring.”

“I snore…?”

“My deputy has been watching you via long-range glasses, to see to your safety. He will escort you to my office, in your own time.”

My own time…I could make them wait another hour…No, best to be done with it. “Whenever he’s done masterbating, I’d like to dress in peace.”

A deliberate pause followed. “Let me speak with him. You can pull yourself together while I’m berating him.” And the comm chirrped off.

mango-trees

Lianna: Into the Microverse-introduction

Lianna into the microverse300(This is a short story fragment serving as an introduction to a current art series on my DeviantArt page. It follows on from two previous art projects, requests really, that have come over the past couple of years. Enjoy.)

Bad luck that the Professor came in at the precise moment I was adjusting my skinsuit’s fastenings. “Ah, Lianna, we need to talk about–whooaaa!” He swerved to one side so as not to see his little girl peel her suit off her torso.

He covered his eyes, still looking away, as my crimson bloboid Stavros peeled the legging from my right foot, then proceeded to work on the left one. Amba was on my left to steady me. The guys at the observatory had gotten used to their presence, my two alien lovers. Huh, alien…that’s a funny word. As far as the universe is concerned, we’re the aliens.

I have my own ideas about these two girls. Clearly they’re largely photosynthetic, manufacturing energy from their respective stars. Minerals augmented their nutritional needs, but it’s what they can do with their bodies that fascinates our resident stargazers. They can contain themselves in roughly humanoid forms; Amba especially has a height advantage over me. Still, it’s an approximation, where their faces hold the shape of a human face without any definition–their eyes are like round anime buttons. Back on my ship, they’re apt to slump into a mass of gel and…well, that’s for me to know.

Apparently my nakedness was more than the Professor could stand. Yeah, he bathed me as a child, but the last time he did that was like fifteen years ago. So now he snatched the nearest cot blanket and tossed it over my head. That was no deterrent at all. Stavros had been swept under the enveloping coverlet too, still assisting me in stripping down. “Might I ask the purpose of this?” the Professor inquired as the skinsuit flopped from under the covering onto a nearby seat with a rubbery smack.

“I told you what I saw, Poppa,” I muttered. “Lady Smirnoff is still alive on the microscopic level. She’s a prisoner of Kali, or a form of Kali, I dunno.”

“You’re seriously going to do this, undertake a rescue mission on your own, to a world beyond our comprehension, on behalf of a woman who’s already tried to kill you once, using the same gas she was exposed to herself? Oh dear…” He averted his gaze as Stavros and I flung off the blanket.

“Yeah, that about sums it up,” I said.

“Well that’s crazy! Child, consider what you’re saying. You may have been mistaken in what you saw.”

“How could I have been? That’s a very specific delusion, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“The mind plays tricks. You have had some extraordinary experiences. Perhaps–”

“I can’t stop thinking about it, Poppa!”

My butt slapped on the cold bench beside him. Neither of us could look at the other, mostly because of his discomfort at my state of undress. “I can’t stop seeing her, dissolving into Kali’s body. I can’t forget the hate in her voice when she tried to kill me. I didn’t know she felt that way about me. I didn’t–if I hadn’t made her storage tank rupture–”

“She’d have sprayed you with the same dosage of reducing gas she was exposed to, and you’d be lost.”

spec 1a-47 lady sm engulfed in gas300

“Do you hate her so much, Poppa?”

“NO! it’s not–” his hands fidgeted, but then he reached over with the right hand to squeeze mine. “In the past you’ve come back to me with so many injuries because you never took the proper precautions, or you were careless. Lady Smirnoff was jealous of the attention I lavished on you, but what could I do? You were my child…adopted child, since your parents…

“Are you really willing to undertake a mission where no blame is attached to you? She’s not going to stop hating you. God knows, she might be on the brink of madness, after what she’s seen in that hidden world.”

God, he was so sad. Out of some childish habit, I dropped down in front of him and clutched his knees. “Poppa, I can’t unsee what I’ve seen. Whatever she feels about it, I can’t live with myself if I don’t try to help her. And I have listened to you enough that I’m taking some precautions.” I stood up then. “Come on, girls, let’s get started.”

Now that the suit was dispensed with, both my shipmates, my blobs, my lovers began what at first might have seemed like a massage, rubbing their hands over my body with circular strokes. I’m sure the Professor observed, at one of those times his avoidance strategy lapsed, the thin sheen of green and crimson goo they smeared over my epidermis, which was quickly absorbed by my pores. “A biological coating to shield you from contaminants on the microscopic level,” he said. “Very good.”

“I can’t take the skinsuit, it probably won’t shrink as handily as a biological subject–” and I tapped my chest with my fingertips, accidently jiggling my sweaty gigs. Oddly enough he wasn’t looking at me as a sexually active woman. Maybe in his eyes I’d always be that wary seven-year-old girl he picked up off a derelict starship, suspicious of all things except for that skinny balding scientist who became her adoptive father.

He swallowed, then seemed to remember not to stare. “Umm… assuming you find them, what’s the plan? Are you just going to ask the Goddess of Death to give you whatever’s left of her?”

‘That’s the general idea.”

The circular door hissed open like a gushing refrigeration unit, admitting Pederson, our overly tall microbiologist, carrying a tray of samples. “Hey, how’s my favorite geltoid?” he grinned–at Amba.  As soon as he bent over the coolant unit to slide in his tray, Amba’s arm reared back, stretching an extra half meter as her ‘hand’ flattened into a roughly paddle shape. A sharp crisp smack rang from Pederson’s ass on impact.

Pederson’s head banged on the coolant unit’s upper frame. He staggered around, slipping on the slick tile floor. But there was no mistaking the sly grins that passed between them. “Ayy, are you two flirting with each other?” I demanded. Pederson shook his head, not very convincingly, while Amba offered only the slightest shrug.

The door gushed again to let Hue in next. “Oh please, the more the merrier,” the Professor grumbled. ‘Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

The small stipple-haired fellow also avoided staring at me in my birthday suit. “Professor, we have tested the reduction samples. The subjects have all passed. We can replicate the process that reduced Lady Smirnoff safely with Lianna and recover her when needed.”

“Wait, wait, it’s illegal to test an experimental procedure like this on people–or animals, for that matter,” I interjected. “What did you test it on?” I happened to look in the mirror at the precise moment Amba and Stavros both tentatively raised their right hands.

“Girls!” I exclaimed. “What did you think you were doing? You don’t know what that stuff will do to you! Whose idea was this, anyhow?” And again, both ‘geltoids’ pointed at their own chests.

Then the Professor’s hand rested on my shoulder. “Child, they volunteered. Nobody coerced them. The young ladies volunteered a small quantity, barely a teaspoon from their core bodies. The formula Lady Smirnoff left on her database was applicable on both test subjects. Believe me, nobody in the observatory would dream of harming your best friends.”

“Even if some of you are bent on hitting on them,” I said, glaring at Pederson as he ogled Amba.

“Misses,” Hue continued, “we’ve prepared the nanobots, as you instructed. They have already been miniaturized and will be waiting in the lab when you’re ready. Forse will be here momentarily.”

Sooner than expected, as the door admitted yet another specialist, this time our resident optometrist. “Hey Four Eyes, whatcha got for me?” I grinned.

“Nothing if you insist on that peculiar frame,” Forse replied, but still with a twinkle in his baggy eyes. He opened a compact, keeping his stare on the two round half-orbs resting inside instead of my boobs. “These contact lenses will serve the same as compound eyes. Each has thousands of optical facets that will adjust to the focal points of your eyes, enabling something resembling normal vision.”

“Thanks, doc.” That’d be one advantage I’d have over what happened to Lady Smirnoff. At microscopic levels the light spectrum is pretty much irrelevant. God knows what I’ll find but at least I might be able to make some visual sense of it. It only took moments to pop the contacts in each eye, but then, I was facing a thousand semicircular images, all the same and yet peeling off from another angle, and another–

“Focus,” Forse chided. “Concentrate on one image, one form. The professor–seek him.”

Well I could see him, thousands of him, some facing me, more at half-profile the further out each image zoomed. But maybe, if I chose the one in the middle, and focused–Yesss! All those hundreds of warped eye-fields seemed to blur towards the center, dimming wetly before coming into crystal clear sharpness–probably the sharpest I’d ever seen my old man as he smiled.

From there it was but a short march to the lab. I entered alone. On the platform lay an open valise. Sensing my presence, there now rose half a dozen drones, barely visible to the naked eye. That’d change soon enough as the gas took effect. The nanobots I carried inside my own body had already received their peculiar instructions for whatever dangers we expected to encounter. Kali alone knew if that’d be enough.

Sucking in a last few deep breaths, I called, “All right, boys, let ‘er rip!”

LITM Into the Microverse 1300

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