“Well, it wasn’t easy, I can tell you that! Marty helped me jumper a passel of controls and most of the interlocks and safeties…then I turned 90-degrees to our entry and goosed her with the Flipper-Doodle’s engines. And…well…here we are!”
While Betty talked, Sam examined the B.O.B.’s warp controls. He tried to make adjustments, but nothing happened. He was locked out with the board in a “read only” mode. With a flash of intuition, he understood what Betty had done…what she was doing…and why he was now locked in his chair. “Betty! No! Don’t do this…Stop!”
“Too late now, Sam…I just can’t stand to see this planet…our planet…destroyed.” She paused, and the seconds seemed to last an eternity. “Sam…I love you!”
The lights dimmed, indicating Betty was initiating the jump. Sam felt the escalating vibrations even through the chair’s padding. The power built to a phenomenal level, actually generating harmonics that thrummed the ships’ hulls like the taught surface on an immense drum—then grew even louder.
Suddenly, the lights went completely dark, and an awful explosion made the vibrations seem as nothing.
To Sam’s surprise, the chair’s restraints released their unbreakable grip and he ran with a determination spurred by panic. He knew the terrible source of the blast, that Betty had driven the lander’s warp-generators to the point of overload. He couldn’t imagine the size of the resulting warp-hole, but to cause such a blast, it must have been unbelievably impressive. He barely heard the alarms signaling the hull breach in the companion ship.
Sam bounced from wall to wall making his way down the corridor towards the inter-ship airlock. Although the vibrations from the explosion had subsided, the vessels still rocked with the strain on the generators and propulsion system.
When he reached the airlock, he steadied himself against the corridor wall. Fighting to catch his wind, he stood trembling all over, suddenly realizing that during his entire run, with each straining breath, he had been calling for Betty in ragged screams so franticly, he doubted he would have heard her even if she had answered. He clawed madly at the keypad, trying to open the hatch, never considering his efforts would be in vain if there was hard vacuum on the other side of the lock.
When the controls refused to respond to his desperate efforts, he stood back sobbing, trying to make some sense of it all. He at last saw his commands were ignored as the controls were already being operated from the other side. When the hatch opened, there stood Betty…secure and safe within a vacuum-suit—smiling beautifully.
Sam grabbed her, hugging tightly, completely unaware of his tears or her reassuring words as he tried to kiss her through the helmet’s faceplate. When he finally released her, he could see she too was crying. Then he laughed jaggedly, for within the suit, next to Betty’s face, Marty had popped-up to see what was going on, and as unlikely as it was, he appeared to be smiling widely too.
***
Sam banked the sky-cycle in a wide arc over the waterfalls and lake below. It was everything Betty had told him—such raw, incredible beauty on a new, unspoiled world. It almost seemed a shame to share it with anyone else…but people would soon come—by the millions.
He angled his descent towards the small pavilion pitched near the beach where Betty had first found Marty. She was nowhere to be seen, but Sam guessed she was still inside, waiting for his arrival. He landed the cycle several dozen meters to the side so as not to disturb Betty’s efforts.
He dismounted and tugged down the jacket of his military dress whites, the sunlight catching the numerous metals brightly hanging over the left breast pocket and the commander’s bars on his shoulders. As he straightened his hat, Betty emerged from the tent in a long, flowing gown every bit as white as his uniform. She smiled and extended her arms in invitation.
The table was set with exquisite china and silverware so polished, it rivaled Sam’s medals. Covered platters and candelabras completed the scene. Sam took Betty’s hands and kissed each tenderly. He pulled back her chair, then took off his hat and sat across from her.
“Well?” she asked quietly, her eyes locked with Sam’s.
“Same as the initial, orbital scans showed…if there’s any impact damage, I can’t find it.”
“That’s good…our paradise remains unspoiled.”
“Until the first settlers arrive,” Sam said as he worked at removing a wine bottle’s cork. “Kind of sad in a way.”
“It’s our planet, sir. I thought we’d claim a few thousand acres around here…keep it in the family.” She nodded to the side chair where Marty sat on a small box, his head and forepaws above the edge of the table. Sam chuckled at the small napkin Betty had tied around Marty’s neck.
“I guess we can afford it,” he said, filling their glasses. “It’s going to take quiet a bit to repair the ships, though. The B.O.B.’s main engines are scrap…as are the Doodle’s warp-generators.”
“I’ve been thinking,” mused the woman, sipping her wine. “Let’s change her name…”
“I’m listening.”
“What would you say to calling her ‘Paradise Found’?”
Sam thought about it only a moment. “I prefer it as is.”
“Okay...your call...so what's Charlie’s final analysis on the impossibility of flying into that comet in like, a gazillion-square-kilometers of empty space?”
“Charlie’s to blame actually...remember, we left the warping coordinates to him. He simply staggered the jumps to place us ahead of each piece we had warped. But we, or Charlie, didn’t take into account the quantum fluctuations inherent to the warp-field.”
Betty tilted her head and smiled crookedly. “In English, please!”
“The size and strength of the warp-holes changed minutely with each jump...especially since we were using two sets of warp generators. Therefore, the distance also varied slightly. We, and Charlie, never took that into account! You’re right...it was a one-in-a-gazillion shot... and we scored a bulls eye!”
Betty took several long sips of her wine.
“Now...your turn,” said Sam, refilling her glass. “How could our injuries heal so fast? Who ever heard of a compound fracture mending in less than 24-hours? From what you’ve told me, I was all but clinically dead! Does Marty have magic teeth, or what?”
“I’ll be dawg-goned if I can figure that out! We’ll have to wait till we get back home, and take him to some lab-boys...my wild guess is he has some sort of super-peptide secretion talent evolved to heal any injuries he might sustain...from what, I have no idea! Running into that comet seems simple when compared to his...talents!”
“There’s more?”
“You’ll see...”
Sam decided not to press the issue.
They spent several minutes in unimportant conversation while concentrating on their food. To Sam’s amazement, Marty did not immediately begin eating when his small platter was filled, as if he knew waiting on Betty and Sam was the polite thing to do. The small creature started only once the others had begun. Betty put down her fork, and was about to say something when Marty began chattering excitedly while looking skyward. Betty and Sam looked up, following his gaze.
Above, high-altitude clouds framed against the stark blue sky were whisked into thin, delicate streaks, forming wavy structures as if some bemused cosmic giant had spread them with a soft, celestial brush...and throughout these formations ran all the colors of the rainbow, bright and distinct. Neither of them had ever seen anything like it.
Fire-rainbow…ice crystals in clouds…beautiful…
Sam sat stunned, looking in wonder at the small creature next to him. He tried to understand what he had just heard…or felt...within his mind. Betty was less surprised, having experienced this before…on several occasions.
What’s wrong…something on chin? Marty picked up a spoon, and using it as a mirror, examined his reflection.
Sam, mouth hanging open, looked to Betty, then exploded in thunderous laughter. He rose and moved towards he
r as she stood, reaching to embrace him.
“I always knew there was some special reason I married you!”
As they gently kissed, Marty chattered his approval.
While in the forest, songbirds flashed their colors through the trees, and Naiad airs whispered between the boughs.
###
Thockmorton Territory
Pus in the Pudding
In Peter Jackson’s 1992 gore-fest, Dead Alive, there is a scene where Lionel and his mother (Vera) serve lunch to the president of the local WLWL along with her husband. This occurs after the zoo scene where, while spying on her son and his date, and sneaking around in the bushes, Vera manages to get bitten by the caged Sumatran Rat Monkey. Well on her way to an untimely death and zombification thereafter, she is quite...out of it during this lunch. Of course, the president notices Vera’s unusual behavior, while her husband, like all men with a plate of food in front of them, is completely oblivious to anything and everything.
Vera’s left arm is bandaged where she was bitten, and it pains her, so she grabs a handful of flesh beneath the gauze and squeezes. There results a moist, popping sound, and a generous squirt of bloody pus shoots across the table, landing in the husband’s large bowl of custard. He’s raving about how rich and creamy the custard is, and how it’s been years since he’s had any.
Of course, the next heaping spoonful is full of this ichor, but he shovels it down to the horror of Lionel, his wife and the audience. Meanwhile, Vera’s right ear falls off, lands in her pudding, and she scoops it up and proceeds to eat it. This is sometimes called “foreshadowing.”
Now, I can almost hear your screams: “Enough, Bartholomew! Why do you torture us so?”
To which I answer, “Hey, Peter Jackson made the movie...not me!”
Sometimes, to get someone’s attention, we must exaggerate the situation, the moment, the message we are trying to get across. Dead Alive was a wonderfully low-budget production, where Mister Jackson displayed his talent, his ability to manipulate an audience’s emotions with but a few cheesy, inexpensive gags (Ha! Get it? Gags! That’s a joke, son!).
By such displays, Peter’s able to demonstrate he’s capable of making effective movies, and deserving of bigger budgets, with which he can make bigger hits.
For those of you who’ve lived through the crushing misfortune of receiving rejection slips, rejection letters, telephone calls or virtual punches in the nose over, and over, and over again from publishers and/or editors...haven’t you stood on the mountain, at the heart of the raging literary maelstrom, screaming to the heavens, rending your cloths and flesh, begging...pleading...beseeching “Oh, what must I do, oh Lord, to prove I am worthy of publication!”
Well, how about by showing them you can write effective prose, garner readers without being paid large sums...prove you are capable of building a fan-base...prove you are worthy!
Why not become an indie author?
Surprisingly, it seems many people wish to become a successful writer without actually going through the effort of writing!
Allow me to elaborate...
Many, many years ago, I wrote for some very small comic book companies. For the people who know what I’m talking about, these were the kind of companies where maybe... maybe one out of every 15 or 20 stories might make it to print. And if you were lucky, you just might get paid 30 or 35-dollars for that story.
But, I was happy...because I was actually writing comic book stories that saw print!
The forces of nature were in balance, and all was right with the world.
A couple of times a year, I would wind up on a discussion panel at some convention where we’d have a question and answer session with audience members that were interested in breaking into the comic industry. Why anyone would ask me how to get work at Marvel or DC when I was just as unsuccessful at this endeavor as he or she, I’ll never know. However, you would be amazed how many times I’ve had this same conversation:
Audience Member: I really want to be a writer!
Me: Good for you! It is a noble profession!
AM: So, how do I start?
Me: Well, some people work at a typewriter, but I’m partial to pen and pap—
AM: No, no! How do I start?
Me: Ah...write?
AM: But, how do I know if I’m good enough?
Me: Good enough for what?
AM: To get paid!
Me: Oh! I’m sorry, I misunderstood...you want to be a paid writer! That’s an entirely
different thing...
AM: How did you start?
Me: We’re back to that pen and paper...
AM: But, I don’t want to start unless I’m paid...otherwise, I’ll be wasting my time!
You get the idea...I never could understand how someone who aspired to be a writer, simply never took the time to write! Anything! Ever! As if someone would approach them out of the blue, offer them money, and presto change-o! They would produce a masterpiece...
“But, Bart...why are you telling me this? I just bought your short story because it had a cool cover and I enjoyed “The Last Load!”
Oh...
For those of you who read “The Last Load,” a story where space-tractors hauled around comets and asteroids, then this story, about Sam and Betty tearing apart comets...
Well, you are probably wondering if all I ever write about is comets and asteroids.
To which I reply: “Of course! That’s all I ever learned to write!” Just kidding...
“The Last Load” was written back in 1992 for a small publishing company having the deplorable manners to go out of business before paying me. Of course the story never saw publication, so it’s not like I was cheated or anything.
“Throwing Snowballs at Xanadu,” though started in 2005, didn’t see completion until a couple of weeks ago. It was simply a ditty I pecked at between work on the four novels I’m also currently writing. I’ve written other short stories scattered about in there, but that’s the nice thing about writing just for writing’s sake, I can do anything I want...anytime I want.
And if you’re wondering as to the point of my aimless wanderings...there is none!
Just think of it as pus in the pudding!
Oh, and as always...if you spot a typo or a lapse in continuity, I’ll give you a free copy of my next story!
Adieu!
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