From the ANSWER

Pauls Pants Buys Armandos

“Lets see if Armando’s is open.”

With Jenkins covering us we stroll the shops to Armando’s Cafe Lunar, the one place on Luna where Amanda can feel European and I can enjoy the best imported dusky red olives of a marstini.

It’s open and the bar is packed with media entnews crews from all the Solsys broadcast channels. Everyone in the room is stunned to silence as we enter directly beneath a huge vid screen wall at that very moment lit by our three faces framed with destruction bracketed by ricochets the foreground of a scene of crumpled bodies of Utah National Guardsmen. Faces before us rise and fall from screen to us in apparent disbelief. Then it is a rush of questions amidst a jostling mob of drunken pundits and anchorpersons.

“Mr. Dvorak Mr. Dvorak! Why did you cause this war?”

“What do the aliens want?” “How will you plead to the charges?” “Why don’t you surrender to them so the destruction will stop?” “Who do you think will win the Oscar for best actor next week?” We’ll pay any amount you name for an exclusive!” “Do you really intend to investigate God?” “Are you afraid of burning forever in hell?”

“I’m no librarian! I didn’t cause anything!” “You tell me.” “Fuck You!” “Fuck You Too!” “Roomey Bepal for her remarkable performance in O San Jimja” “More money then my suit has?” “Yes.” “Who wouldn’t be?”

“Now then, what do I have to say to get a drink in here? One launch tank of Marstini Armando!”

“And I’ll have Calvados.”

“Bark! Yap!”

“No beer for you Space!” I must be firm about this. I’ve been warned by the authorities he’s technically not old enough to drink on the moon. We’ll top off his suits hydration basin collar with water neat.

We claim a table at gunpoint near the back in a corner next to the kitchen hatches. Space marines carrying multiple weapon systems wait not for restaurant seats. The drinks arrive. Once again suit buys. Jenkins has an energy cocktail that sparks and foams, that he must drink through his goggled blast visor to protect his eyes from the fumes. Space has a bowl of cool moon water. Amanda’s suit, what little of it remains, takes audio control of our local zone and play-lists us a selection of rousing accordion songs. This barely drowns out the background roar of a bar full of excited drunks and their holo caller staffs blinking in or out.

The entnews multi screen update reports in several languages that the zubomilary council has cordoned off the area invaded by the UNG who have their contractors already repairing the damage. It has been announced that damage claims will not be disputed. They are being, as usual, very generous to the victims of their destruction. The spokespersons in Salt Lake City spin the mess back at me. I am to be charged further in Idaho with mass murder and assault as the cause of all the casualties on Luna is my refusal to surrender to their “Police pursuit” of me. I need more Marstini. “Armando!” I wave the empty launch tank. He has one in the sonic shaker instantly.

Jenkins keeps the ravenous reporters at bay with lowered blaster muzzle.

“Researcher Dvorak!” A no-G lab suit with a girl in it pushes the muzzle aside. Her lami’s flash “record” in academi-documentary format. She’s not media-tarian working an entvid news broadcast, she’s from the Governmental University Industrial Complex! The two holo callers on 'observe' mode indicate that: “Folney Shoreham, Sir.” is here on a grant. “I’ve been sent to you by the NN Taleb Anti-Library to assist you in encountering the unknown.” She’s quite cute. I’m falling in love with the unknown of her. I have so much to learn about her I get suit started with the tap of a lami tab, and her message previous plays out silently on a 3cm display strip. Lovely Folney is lami tapping also and her observers on 'holo call muted' disappear with a “bip”.

“My I liaise?” Her eyes say please.

My mouth says: “Have a seat. Would you like a drink?” She has a triple latte in a low-G sippy cup. Amanda calls for the Calvados bottle. Suits treat. Ooooh I predict cat fight. Sor Bon vs. Smith?

Space growls an alert at the heavily armed squad of space Marines who reinforce Jenkins’s perimeter by evicting the most immediately nearby tables of their drunken vid jockey’s. Another team posts at the entrance hatches. Chevrolet pushes through the burgeoning crowd leading a six person team dressed in very expensive invisi-camo armor that makes the scene shimmer as they move. When they semi encircle us the many cameras aimed at me vid only the nano-fiber bent mood lighting of Armando’s artful décor. Chevrolet orders Scotch and cola. We push two tables together. Jenkins sets up his OP by the piano out of grenade range so his cohorts head up displays are not blurred by the invisi-camo. I wonder how soon before he hauls his loungi-cliner out and bivouacs. Armando ushers a gaggle of waitpersons bearing trays of snacks.

“Paul.” Armando is looking very pleased for having a wanted fugitive hiding at his establishment with complete multi-media coverage. “Let me introduce to you, Jerome, my replacement.” Jerome does a bow towards us.

“Your replacement! Armando where are you going?” Amanda is concerned.

“I retire Mademoiselle. I have sold Armando’s Café. I am now a very wealthy man and I am off to live out my wildest dreams!” He turns and leaves through the kitchen door as if chased.

“Suit!” Chevrolet, Amanda, and I exclaim in unison.

“The probability that this place will be destroyed soon made buying it now a sensible investment.” Suits Carla voice tells us. Cheaper then paying the tab? “Ahhh…insurance…” Dawns the Mormon “settle-ers” We three think alike.

So as the owner of the pants that own this bar that’s about to be destroyed I can only think to do one thing: yell as loud as I can…

“Everybody tonight drinks for free!” To the cheers of those not on armed duty. “Free food for all who can’t get drunk yet!” “Free everything! The party is on me!” One sure fire way to be popular in a room full of vloging reporters is free booze and food.

This seems to attract police, who approach under white flag with extra large ID display’s floating before them. Their leader clears Chevrolet’s contact team, he scowls and pokes his finger at their bizarrely armored chests, they shrug and hold back his escort.

“Inspector is pissed off.” Chevrolet whispers into her coms. We all call up credible witness’s to holo in. Helen shimmers laserly near the piano on one of my lines. A Lieutenant of the Space Marines shows up in crisp 3D dress reds, Jenkins’s commander, arrives high and wide. Inspector Angry picks me out of the crowd with help of his own glowing head up display featuring my features. I’m a blip on his HUD map and he closes his prey fast.

“You! You! I don’t know what you are, you…! Off my Moon you bastard! Hit the jets Brainiac! Or I’ll give your ass to them! You’ve destroyed a whole neighborhood! I Don’t even want you in my jail! Blast off! Or I’ll blast you myself! You’re a danger to society!” I made no move, kept silent. I was gonna let him rant then pretend I didn’t know what he was talking about and tell a phony name. Maybe I’d be Nils Orgund and speak in an exaggerated Spacelish Scandinavian dialect. This pause pushes the police inspector over his procedural precipice and his mental tether snaps.

“That’s IT! You are under detention Dvorak! On the deck! Get down on the deck!” His police special is out his sonic handcuffs start to whine.

“Wait! I am Messer Dvorak’s attorney, you have no cause to detain him! He did none of the destruction.” Amanda clutches to my arm tight enough to make lami’s beep.

“You can’t detain him! He’s in the custody of the Lunar Zubomilary Council!” Asserts the well dressed quite distant from the scene luminous Space Marine Officer.

The cop hesitates, noticing for the first time the fifteen weapons aimed his way with crisscrossing laser sight beams.

“Sir! Please come with me to discuss security coordination of the vicinity.” Jenkins steps up hand outstretched in professional benevolence. Inspector Diffused see’s his out with dignity and turns in time to catch the giant media wall report in multi split screen that the Second Ring Tube Estates Neighborhood, which happens to be where we are, is being inundated with thousands of armed zoobum irregulars determined to protect the rogue Senior Researcher and his contraband dog. “Will this interfere with the contractors paid from Salt Lake City or the insurance adjusters disbursing checks?” Asks a commentator to the electronic air.

“My God! We have to keep them away from the construction zone!” So quick from combat zone to construction zone. Two Marstini’s, a new record. The police must cordon and fast! Inspector Action ignores Master Gunnery Sergeants beckoning situation display to take his escorts out the hatches to the street.

“Whew… that was close!” “The mooners almost had you Paul!”

“Paaooll? Who is dis Paawool? My name ist Nils. Nils Orgund. Of Oslo. Ya sure. I ship the herrings to the moon jah. This mine leddle dog Aether.” I thought I had the accent down pat. They looked at me as if I’d gone insane. I tipped my launch tanker of Marstini at them in toast, “Skull, Oh my gosh dis is goot lutefisk.” Chevrolet breaks the spell of my idiocy:

“Moody is at the door telling the police he works for you.” She knows he does.

“Of course he does, doesn’t he suit?” “Yes Nils.” Did Carla giggle? His bank is now accepting my… er… suits funds. So we bought the fat traitor fair and square. Moody reaches our table cool and combed and dapper in a fresh clean well cut Italian Travel suit

“Hello Paul, Miss Jones, Helen, Miss…”

“Forney, Reggie. She’s studies the unknow. You two will be working closely together. Our Reggie never knows anything.”

“Folney Shoreham sir.” She shakes his hand in innocence.

“I’ve been recalled to the main office in Geneva EU Paul I must leave immediately.” He didn’t sit down.

“No time for a drink?” Moody’s suit of course sports a full sippy tube bar. “My suits buying.”

He takes visible umbrage at my supposed insinuation of his poverty.

“My salary has been reinstated to full scale.”

“You’ve got another boss? Is Johnny Bongard dead?”

“Your budget has also been approved to open no-limit expense plus staff no-limit active historical event grade syscon 1.” I hit double no-limit again. Chevrolet gasps: “syscon 1!” Helen whistles disbelief. “That means a Librarian for sure.”

“They must think this God thing is serious!”

“Serious enough to assign two researchers to this situation. My Seniors are you Paul and Bongard. Bongards ongoing research is identical to yours.” Moody is slowly backing his way toward the door. Further from me with every word.

“Johnny Bongard’s been found?” But suit tells me on my HUD banner that there are no postings by him to the billing department for years now. Gone off the monitoring grids right after we split up on the Cruiser. He could be investigating God now if he was dead. Just hard to post a report from dead. If he’s alive he has to be a hundred and forty years old by now. Senior Researcher Johnny Bongard I remember is half bionic mechani-lami transplanted-organ engineered modern medical miracle. He’s been dead and revived and rebuilt dozens of times in his way over one hundred years of research career. And has produced two immensely detailed full reports. If he could report on God from death it would make history. He would be famous forever. Could a dead person be unbiased about God? That is the question that has caused numerous wars throughout human history. Who would be willing to corroborate Gods existence by dying? War provides. Time enforces. Not necessarily me yet. I intend my report to be strictly with one point of view with respects to this life-death thing. I’m alive and want to keep it that way.

Dinner is excellent and not just cause I’m space drunk. I’m not as think as you drunk I am. I say “Celebrate!” for my research is on and tomorrow we find God. Spare no expense! In fact no religion has yet to find out exactly how much money is needed to find God, they keep needing more. So…

A big budget is a wonderful thing. Of the thirty two active research’s currently listed mine’s the biggest once again. Yet I haven’t spent hardly any Government monets. My expenses lately have been literally out of pocket. And now in the latest ten minutes my staff grew by three hundred. We start with everything ever written about God and work backwards from there to rock piles and cave art. Nothing commed by the great eight to me about any interest at the library in God. Why send a librarian to liaise with me on a research into God? Who declares war on God? Not sensible librarians. What does the Public Library Board know about God? Probably everything. I should start there for sure and Moody hires another hundred juniors and clerks. Instantly the opinions on Gods existence flow into the chaotic data vacuum which is my style.

We refugees and fugitives at suits Armando’s are cut off, with destruction, a construction zone, and a police cordon keeping me from home. The UNG hold my tube. Housekeeping tells Suit that the locks have been overridden. I have clear vid of paramilitary burglars documenting my choices in sanitary suit liners. This gets great laughs at our tables.

“Forlney?” She beams at me from purest open warmheartedness. “You document the unknown for the Anti-library?”

She frowns at that. She gets quite clinical. “I’m not a librarian or anti-librarian. I’m a field trained unknowologist. We are certain you will encounter the active unknow. I intend to draw a publishable conclusion relative to the nature of the unknow aspects of current evolving deistic sociologies.” She gets worried for a moment. “Of course if you will allow me to liaise with your research…”

“Well you could wait around till I don’t know something, which shouldn’t take too long, or we could combine our research’s.”

“Combine…?” “Paul often combine’s with young female liaison’s.” “He’s married several.” “Eet is how we met in Paris WE...”

“The key to successful liaise-ing is to combine with the Senior Researcher.” I knit my fingers together and raise the universal gesture of combining toward the glowing screen zone that floats with a no-G lab suited co-ed at its center. “I need your help. I want to know what the Public Library Board doesn’t know about God. Isn’t that unknow not stored in the database of the non existent anti-library? The PLB stores all the information it can get into databases. All. All mans knowledge of God is stored in there somewhere. It could solve the whole question of Gods nature if we could find out what the Public Library does not know.” This should cover mysterianism amidst the shelves of unknow.

“I don’t know…”

“You’ll be my Aeropagite! Strip away the light and bring me a box of the darkest unknow!”

She got cagey with me, projecting a holo calling grant adviser between us for a moment. With a gesture he cleared it as covered by her contingency clause. “There’s a lot they don’t know…” She fairly growled. Soon she had to get a separate table for all the holo callers of her support staff, her Aeropagus in my Athens, interns all busily considering how to find out what the most knowledgeable organization known does not know. I knew they would love it.

“Paul the Marines have secured your tube. It’s a little damaged.” Chevrolet always finds out stuff first with her thirty member team. I lament. Plenty of time to sue Utah later. I toast my brand new freshly damaged furnishings. I’ll not cry over scorched squishy walls; there is work to do.

I quickly get one of my new junior researchers on com no holo vid. “Are you the Senior Junior?” “Yes sir.” “I want you to set up a different section on all of humanities known religions of the pre reform type. Are there any animal religions? … Any religion regardless of species, animal, plant, bacteria, whatever! Catholics one section, animist snake worshipers one section, bright light devoted plankton one section. Even if there are hundreds of sections. Staff according to data flow.” “Yes sir.” “I want reports from department heads daily of pertinent info. First query: What is the nature of God?” That should take care of the rationalistic approach. “Atheists too sir?” “Especially all atheists! I need to know what God isn’t and atheists usually won’t shut up telling you exactly that.” This gets me a stern look from Helen's holo face. “Zubums also sir?” “No. The Zooboms are mine. First reports in say three hours?” He didn’t get time to respond before I primary com channeled the three hundred invites to my first conference on zoobums to be held on Luna. Anybody invited to my fete here that wants to study the fanatics up close will have to be let through the blockades both ways. Armando’s should serve nicely as the venue. Suit projects the plans to the restaurant to help me plan the seating and I notice there are four tubes above the restaurant level that house Armando’s offices and deluxe Condo Suite. I am assured that my extravagant clothing owns all this.

“We give Armando some time to pack and we can go up hatch and check it out.”

Chevrolet checks her vicinity contact display. “Armando just boarded a limo for Balance Station. Gave the keys to Jerome.”

“Carla tells me he’s abandoned all his stuff. Including a cat!” Space’s ear twitches.

“Pardon me, Paul, did you just call your suit: ‘Carla‘?” Chevrolet’s eyebrows arch. I can’t do that.

“Um…ah…”

“Paul! If it is not some liaison… than it is the suit!” The lawyer thinks she’s quite astute about the suit.

“Admit it Paul! A womyn would. For a womyn it would be easy to just say: ‘I love my outfit!’

“And he’s outfit loves him!” They laugh they laugh. What can I do? I’m always falling in love with computer programs. For once I got a rich one. Now, how can I loose them all so I can compare my unknow to the unknown of the liaison Folney? Carla, real Carla was never the jealous type.

The marines, the police, Chevrolet’s sec squad all go on alert and turn their weapons toward the doors.

 

 from the ANSWER

Funny. I don't see me here in the Rocket lounge. Real launch tanks of marstini don't lie.

What do you say when you get a call from yourself? The holo guy looked just like me. The ID said: 'Paul Dvorak unknown loc'. From the future? If this is me from the future why holocall? What are the charges like on a call I haven't made to myself yet? Since suit is paying I accept my crisper self image into the contact cone.

“Paul.”

“Paul.” Do I call myself 'Paul' like this thinking?

”You're me”

“I'm you?”

“From the future?”

“No.” “The past then?” “No.” “So...I've been cloned again?” Darn DNA scattered all over the place!

“Just shut up and listen to what I've got to say...”

“Who the hell are you? If you are me how come I don't know what I'm about to tell me?” Suit says the call comes from my sleeve holo company lami. How can I holo call myself? Does this cost me double? Looped up somehow? I would think me from the future would remember how drunk I am right now.

“Listen! There is no time! No time right now! “

“What time is it there? Here?” Suit says 14:25. Is this a call to someone else that's time lagged? Have I got a lagged line now? Pings me fat bandwidth...

“No! It's now everywhere! You are me now. I'm you and you're me. Now listen!”

“Why should I listen to me? I'm not a good judge of my character. I wouldn't believe anything I'd tell myself. I'm often right about being wrong. Like now cause I'm usually always right. If I'm me and so are you then you would know that I would never take any advice that I would give to anybody much less myself.”

“It's too late? Listen! Shut up and listen! It's too late now!”

“That's what I'm trying to tell me? That it's too late? Too late for what? Why didn't I tell me earlier?”

But I couldn't tell me anything more. I was gone with a sparkling 'blip'. Alone again in a bar full of drunks who weren't paying any attention.

“Paul.” Suit got something to say.

“Yes Carla?”

“What was that about?”

...so the smartest, richest pants in the whole solsys is asking me now for answers...

 

There is always time for more time

time list

orrf time; fractions of time; cor blimey! Step'n time; pallomillo time; joyce's river of time; tides of time; matter of time; altered time; official time;cultural time; time ti,e; lost time; timescape; real time; accelerated time; stuck in time; McTaggert time!;rotational space time; owl stretching time; considerable time; jig time; time to think about your future time; love in the time of pandemics time; pure downloadable time; glacial time; suffering dunbar slow down time; balance orbital time; eatza pizza time!; private time; cross dimensional dissonant time;where is the time?; coffee time

time is 'a scarce commodity'

time is light in extension

time is change

time is god

It is about time I cleaned up this blog.

Posts will be deleted.

Others shuffled.

New books teased.

Thank you for sharing some time with me

more from THE LESSON

Gustav Vorax led me along the line of his astronautic team members while making this little speech to them:

“This is the Government man that will be flying with me to Mars. This was my decision. I do not have to take him. I do not have to go. The Government is not making me go. I think I am going because I like this guy. He has a mission of history and that intrigues me. I’m sure we will have an enjoyable trip. And we will learn a lot about the interplanetary flight characteristics of Spor with passenger and cargo.” With that he raised his arms towards me. I felt like cargo.

Gustav turned to the introductions. “Here is Philippe my Quantum Mechanic.” Philippe hardly looked up from the vid display of rolling calculations that floated before his face. Carla has explained to me that a Quantum Mechanic handles the calculating programming that tweaks the fields generated by the spinning neutrons. Never satisfied with performance the quantum mechanics job is never done. Kind of part space gravity weatherman and part pit crew boss. He will remain in contact with Gustav continuously.

Next the crystallographers. “Yuki, Isa, Junko, and Sue.” All young beautiful and Asian. I had seen them around while exploring the station with Carla. In their stylish plaid mini skirt hot suits they looked like a gang of high tech schoolgirls. They will monitor the shape and structure of the Star Spor’s hull. After them the names and jobs started to blur for me, Margret Floph test pilot, assorted geeky theoretical physicists, systems designers, engineers, sub-contractor reps, anybody who wanted the afternoon off for ceremonies. This was an important flight for them. I tried not to think that perhaps they were there for one last look at Gustav because he might not come back if the ship cracked up.

Soon the scene evolved into “Goodbye”s all around. Some last minute ENT-Media interviews for Gustav with product endorsements. Gustav pitched a soft drink: “I always drink Cargo Cola to blast off!”. There was a last minute gravi drive tune up by the Quantum Mechanic. I, basically the cargo, was ignored.

I entrusted Spacey dog to Carla Carla. She was disappointed that she could not go. I haven’t seen much of her lately though we shared her compartment. Busy with long goodbyes to Gustav I imagine. I don’t have a choice but to leave Space with her. Gustav had been adamant “No dog! I will not share a record setting test flight with your dog!” It’s just as well, I would have worried the whole way that the food would run out and he’d want to eat dog again. These are the sacrifices I must make to get to Mars. Helen’s not ready yet with her ship. She’s pissed at me that I couldn’t talk Gustav into letting me borrow it so she could fly Star Spor herself.

While the multitude of admirers looks on Gustav approaching Spor pulls from a pocket lami printer a small square sticker and peels the backing away from the adhesive side and presses it onto the crystal surface. It flashes and a keypad of mash bumps appears on it. He presses some of the tabs and a slot in the bottom edge delivers a long thin lami that Gustav unfolds into the shape of a hatchway. The sticky side is exposed and pressed onto the hull next to the control pad. I help. When fully adhered the keypad display flashes ‘open‘. This pressed the lami hatch shape with a hiss cuts an entryway into the side of the Star Spor. I board first the empty sphere. “Welcome aboard” chirped the interior at me. As soon as I’m in I’m glad I don’t have much with me, its small inside! Gustav and Carla assured me that the little craft could supply me with anything I could need including suit sani liners. From the inside the edge of the door is discernible by dim twinkling lights. The edges of the gravi wave interior furniture twinkled with white or yellow colored lights. Along the inside of the hull a lami print port was bordered by green lights. Controls lami's, navigation and instrument system lami's designated by red lights, bio and housekeeping by blue lights. ENT and com lami's by multicolored neon borders.

We launched silently in a long slow curved arc away from the greasy soapsuds glob pulled along from the open hanger bay hatch by the momentum of Earth orbit. After awhile, about an hour I’d say, I found myself sitting there bored wondering what would be next. Then I am suddenly left again without any doubts about Gustav’s gender anatomy. He has, right before me, not three meters away, pulled out his genius penis and has taken aim with both hands at the inside wall of Spor and is urinating. Through the transparent hull I can see droplets of urine burst free of the outside of the hull into space. His target was a grated looking lami. Drops sped away into the star dappled blackness.

“What are you doing?”

“Ah! Relief.”

“What? That.”

“It’s a relief panel. If I need to piss and I can’t get to the facility, but there really is no facility on Spor, I just piss out through here or over there” He points as he tucks away personal bio equipment. Until now I hadn’t considered that Spor has no bathroom.

“You can piss there too but aim good or you’ll be electrocuted!” This wit requires uproarious Gustav laughter. “It works for other liquids too. Not exactly for the Ladies!” More cackling. “It uses for the ship whatever it can remove that is needed the rest is jettisoned, there are no holding tanks on Spor.”

“God you’re a genius!” I marveled at his sanitological genius.

“God is a genius. I am not God! Everybody should be glad of that!” Demonically he laughs his way over to his favorite place to sit by the red lit lami's, I see there is a convenient relief panel nearby.

“What do we drink? Where are the water tanks?”

“No tanks. We drink purified pee! Water you will drink from the big nipple lami up there and over there. Water, coffee, tea, milk, whatever. Just press the tab.”

“Will it make me a Marstini?”

“No.” Damn! Well the sippy tube bar in my suit has enough mix for about twelve liters of Marstini if I keep refilling with pee water from the Lami tit. I’m not so sure I’ll be able to make it the whole trip! I’ll be laughed off Balance if word gets out I drank pee Marstini’s all the way to Mars!

After ten days the monotony of travel has become almost unbearable. I find myself lolling about the ship in ever more disparate poses. I feel I’m immune now to Gustav’s endless eccentricities. There is now no effect on me when he stares, I stare back. I pick my nose. I scratch my butt. Sometimes upside down in reference to him I watch him play marathon games of ‘pong’ the ancient vid arcade game. We are like moths trapped inside the light bulb, we flit and flutter about the hollow center. No filament for a source of light we bat back and forth within the glowing sides. I cannot even bump into a corner. There are no real corners. Move across the inside of Spor fast at a gravi field edge and it melts away with a cushion affect close to the hull. Walk up the inside of the ship and the virtual furniture parts as I go. Then stopping perpendicular to my companion moth the mad genius trillionaire I can say couch and one appears beneath my butt. The glowing edged couch will stay so until I sit or until reconfigured. It makes me truly miss a traditional lumbering gigantic mass of a double hull vessel with strap in bucket seats, a solid one with sturdy girders and beams.

I had configured an overstuffed style recliner oriented to a particularly interesting section of space sky, I even gave it leather colored sides to help it have a stronger sense of solidity, so power lounging on the verge of a nap I noticed an unusual area of lami ware band running past my raised feet. It glowed the soft blue of the house keeping systems. I followed the strip by eye to the place where it intensified around a doughnut shaped depression in the hull about 6 cm in radius. A misty vaguely hyperbolic cone spun above the spot. I leaned over off the seat and like a good ape descendant I stuck in my left index finger. It could not be pulled back out. Yup my finger is stuck in the hole which sucked it gently further in up to the knuckle. It was like a Chinese finger cuff. My finger was being clenched tight like by an angry asshole. I pulled. The joints in my finger popped. It hurt. I yelped. I could feel my heart rate rise. What the hell! I panicked a little.

This amused Gustav greatly.

“She’s got you huh! I caught you with your finger in my womyn eh! You pig!”

“What do I do? What do I do? Do something! Do something!”

“Didn’t your mother teach you to keep your fingers out of strange holes?”

“Come on!”

“I should leave you to keep you from pushing any more lami tabs!” He mocked me in his version of my voice: “Oh what does this do eh?…I’ll just push it and see….” His accent makes it barely an imitation. “Then we fly into the sun like bugs into a flame! You idiot!” He narrates the moral of his mocking as himself.

“Come on, come on, it’s getting numb!”

“You weenie, you sissy girl! Our Government pays you? You figure it out!”

I looked closely. Ah! Lami tabs in feint blue colors. I press the closest, nothing, the next nothing. Press all. My finger was free! It came out with a champagne bottle corks “pop” covered in hair and dust and crumbs and lint. Yuck and ugh! I tried wiping it on my suit and it stuck to my fabric. In fact it wouldn’t brush off. Highly electrostatic stuff. Still there today I suppose.

“What the hell?”

“That’s the belly button.”

“Huh?” typical Dvorak progressive query.

“The belly button.” He pulled open the Velcro to show me his. The hole now made sense to me weirdly and I was strangely reassured by that fact that he actually had one too, it meant that somewhere he had a mother.

“It’s for sucking in dirt and shmutz and Researchers. Must be working good today! Ha ha! Look what it sucked up! Yes it knows its job. Don’t get your dick near it!” And on and on for hours…

The routine of the ship had settled in with ironic vengeance. As I tapped away on my lami pad I could occasionally glance up to meet the never wavering gaze of Doctor Vorax. He stared across the inside of this space beach ball at me with his head held low, his chin resting of the virtual line of the backrest of his control area seat. This level of interest in me was particularly unnerving as he would pick his nose, or move his mouth as if cleaning his teeth with his tongue or he talked silently to himself. Only his lips moved, occasionally a nostril. His silent conversation grew animated. He stopped suddenly, his bushy brows furrowed, his whisker twitched, his mouth gaped open. It appeared he was about to speak out loud. He hesitated perceptively in indecision.

 from THE LESSON

The hanger decks on the VORAX I orbital station looked typical enough. The outermost margins were of the curved bubble construction. Everything well organized. No confusing holographic scenery here.

After passing many varied and sundry craft parked in rows, there sat the first great Vorax contribution to space travel: The Star Slipper. Over fifty years ago Gustav Vorax with the debut of this vehicle started the cloud hopper craze where tens of thousands of people worldwide built their own privately owned short duration orbital trans atmospherics. I had seen vids of its sensational space flight trials. As a child I had built a model of it that I later inadvertently blew up. An elegant craft of oblong centrimorphic cultivated chrystopoly design hull with hyper ion hydrogen drive. It looked very on museum display. A tiny lami vid placard described its features and specifications in detail in five linkable media and seventeen languages. I took the tour of its opalescent beauty.

About a hundred meters away along a gantry and scaffold storage area I found my destination with first sight of the vessel Gustav would take to Mars: the Star Spor. It sat away from the other space craft. Set aside by its small size and it’s round shape. Not really round though, multifaceted like a highly polished gigantic marble shaped gem stone. From far away it looked to be a perfectly rounded sphere. Closer approach revealed countless facets in each a transparent backlit glow. There was also a tourist’s helper vid info placard here. I asked it for the little ships details:

“Star Spor is a semi liquid crystal hulled lamiware interplanetary vehicle designed and built by Gustav Vorax.”

That’s all that was said. Brief indeed. Star Spor is chock full of interesting secrets no doubt. The Government is supposedly mulling over the decision to purchase several dozen of like craft. And a limited capability prototype is purportedly in the hands of the taxi shuttle manufacturing cartel. Carla dutifully explains to me that Gustav’s real vision for the Star Spor’s technological innovations is as extra-large heavy tonnage interstellar ‘crystal ships’ of legend and rock and roll lyrics. She went gleefully on to tell me in a tour guide style a presentation of Star Spor specs peppered with many catch phrase slogans and neologisms and wave after wave of statistics that it was the most advanced space craft ever flown by humans. Her duties as staff epistemologist covered translating the quantum speak of the theories that it flew on. She practiced her trade on me to help me understand how a space ship without tremendous fuel tanks and rocket nozzles could ever get to Mars.

The trouble and beauty of electrons is you can so easily manipulate them into power grids or vid screens or memory strips. They are either right there flowing where you want them or not. Putting them to work for you by controlling the electrons interactive behavior can become many useful products. The trouble and beauty of gravity is it is everywhere absolutely only in varying degrees of intensity and strength due to densities and mass and rotation and proximities. Despite being everywhere it is almost impossible to pin down and control. Hard to make a product out of gravity; except in space. The best way to influence it is with tremendous masses or very fast rotations. Star Spor carries a six cube mass of neutrons that spins in a dark matter filled antimatter bottle. This is not an engine but a gravity detector. What the detection of gravity allows is an awareness of its existence as a wave force. Detection of gravity in the most subtle of increments allowed systems to be designed to appreciate the differences in the wave forms. Mapping the situation of gravitational fields and the newly devised detection technologies allowed the manipulation of a craft in relation to the apparent subtle forces. Quite a lot of acceleration can be expected in a gravitation transitional proximity.

The instruments of gravitational measurement become ships themselves. The gravi-drive ship is a massive gravity field instrument tuned to either fall toward any great mass, attractive, or rise, repellant, away toward low gravity proximities. The best detection is the result of the creation of a gravitational field in a sensitive environment set to respond to differences in all nearby apparent gravitational fields. The reaction of the instrument itself is amplified by its own gravitational field. The instrument/ships gravitational field is controlled by reaction to nearby gravitational fields in order to move along on the waves produced by them.

Carla says to think of a ship in space as being nothing more than a barrier. It’s a moveable barrier that is not to keep something out but keep an environment within. Our spaceflight efforts of the past were restricted to super strong hardened hulled bullet type rocket projectiles carrying fireproof bottomed glider planes. The interplanetary product of our planets human compliment amounted to bolted together shelves for boxes of gadgets, slow solar sail craft, giant fuel tanks with thruster nozzle ends. Ships like this still blast off from the surface or are hurled out of close orbit still to this day. Compared to the Star Spor these are the human equivalent of ‘puffballs’ made of tissue and spit.

The semi liquid crystal lami ship like Star Spor is grown from the outside in. It was built at nano scale by nanobots. It gets larger and smaller, expands and contracts, rounder or more faceted. In fact the faster you go the rounder it gets. The outermost layers are lain atom by atom into the semi liquid crystalline matrix. Subsequent layers that are lain inside the outer layer number into the many trillions, each to its predetermined purpose. It is this crystalline shell facet construction that creates the great thickness in cross section. Inside the facets are layers of nano sized manifold chambers conducting substances that feed the crystals structure for repairing the surface, transmitting heat, or transforming the structure itself according to conditions. The hull is an alive electro chemical liquid crystal. That is if you consider gazillions of nanobots alive. It is a crystal structure in a state of controlled arrested development. Its surface due to subtle influences can solidify where it has to, liquefy, add layers, or just soften up a little. Careful tuning of the electromagnetic fields within and without and the nanoscale machinery makes use of piezo discharges and ionization. This provides the environment inside without bulky elemental system equipment. Everything needed is in semi-solid state ion oriented flux in the crystalline structure. Essential elements and molecules sort of cooked by tiny chef bots to order as needed.

It is paste up lami controlled. Systems are created and lami’d up where needed. Essentially it is hollow, empty. Anything needed that is gravity centered on a horizontal plane is created with gravi-solid field manipulation. A table or seat is built by gravi fields defined by fine colored border lines. The lamiware program controls the fields shapes. The surfaces have a gentle give equal to the finest cushions.

The whole ship prepared for interplanetary travel is completely transparent or mirrored or black or any color and sometimes all those at once depending on active states and conditions. There is no need to carry fuel, no need for masses of elemental substances, there are no control engines or antenna or solar arrays. It is a huge mirrored disco ball of space.

Star Spor does not have any engines at all. The ship is powered by gravity. Pulled and propelled by gravity. It is a super sensitive instrument for the measurement and calculation of gravity waves. Gravity permeates the universe. The waves and reverberations ring upon all masses always. The Star Spor can ride these waves, ahead of these waves and hypothetically it has been calculated as able to accelerate to near light speed by slingshot maneuvers. Steered by the sensitivity of its attractions and repulsions Star Spor is the first true gravity powered interplanetary. Not much room on there though and Carla wants to go too.

 

Paul Dvorak meets Space

Space meets cats

“Paul!” It's Traci in a stylish shuttle suit clutching a briefcase.

“Traci!” She looks great, white hair flying in vent draft.

“Hey? What are you doing right now? Want to come to this orbital lab with me? It's in a close orbit. I've got something I want to show you.” She had an earnest demeanor that made me think of suits entwined.

“Right now?” “Yeah I'm going to the dock right now.”

I have to go with her for more reasons then that she's gorgeous but none of them matter. No fresh launch tank to sip since... when?... um... suit marstini...

She had her own handi-limo waiting having just come on Balance from a Luna shuttle. It was me, her, with a flickery holographic driver that digitally leered at her anterior quadrants as she twisted into the seat; some guy looked hard at us, more specifically her, on a screen somewhere.

“So what do the armies think is going on?”

“A certain tight knit group of oligarchical types think they can make more money selling hordes of zombies then toilet scrubbers. They subbed most of the design genetic engineering so many different ways few knew what scaling up created.”

“Ok.”

We were there that fast. It loomed half lit in our approach hanging with a big Tera shinning cloud mottled blue across all view. An obvious medi-sat, I could see people working in labs behind bright glass as we skimmed around it's spin to dart into the portal past the ambulance docks. Traci's staff was waiting for her, some in uniform saluted her. This was a Government military spinning space beach ball of science; the guards, the flags, the morale posters, told the story. The entrance airlocks announced 'New Fort Belvoir'. This is bugs, germs, and poisons space central, easily isolated and/or destroy-able. Missiles aimed at us now no doubt in case anything worrisome should escape.

We proceeded with a fractional gravity march to a conference room with it's own large darkened window. The seats arranged around a common console that faced the glass. The room filled up with about fifty lab coated or uniformed techie types. I stood by the hatch trying to look casual. Traci took charge. They all knew her, no intro required.

With a nod: “Everyone. This is Senior Researcher Paul Dvorak who will be sitting in on today’s briefing.” Backing towards an open seat I try to make as much eye contact with as many as will, topped with a awkward involuntary princess wave. She continuous: “Source of the zombie outbreak is an industrial accident revealing a huge global humiform manufacturing operation established to destroy through infection a target civilization. We've made great progress with the bait lure trap eradication program. It has saved Charleston SC NA from the nuke. Disrupting the plan through accident has worked to our advantage. Our job now is to trace the genetics used to create the zombie virus and understand how it works. Saundra has an interesting report for us. Saundra?” Saundra stood and came to the console and the glass wall became a display screen.

“Here's the zombie virus.” A squirmy worm with a blob in the middle covered in knobs. “It wasn't hard to break down the RNA code, so much of it is patented, some is paid licensed, some pirated, some we don't understand. The virus burns certain sugars it converts from it's host cells to transform the host into factories for self replication. Eventually invading every cell forcing them to acquire precursor substances found in human brains at all costs. Which we can demonstrate.” The screen wall became a vid of the contents of a petri dish moving slowly from one side to the other toward a plate of zombie chow. “The cells move by linking up then bumping each other in the direction desired. These are zombied muscle cells we grew.” Even pieces of them can still come after you! “Fire is a more effective decontamination method then chemical disinfectants. Cells lost from the host are not known to survive separation more then twenty four hours. Away from the host brain they eventually eat up the host cell converting for the sugar fuel. The genetic protos are susceptible due to their cells alkaline exchange respiration. Which is what the virus does to normal cells. In forcing alkaline exchange to shut down oxygen respiration in protos it does to them makes them faster, stronger, they move better.” She has vid of stumblers next to sprinters. “The HAPLO batches apparently mixed gene canned minus's designed for the virus as carrier mechanism.” The wall screen darkened Saundra narrowed her coms cone.

“Thanks Lieutenant. The Captain has a word to say about subjects.”

He stood and read from notes: “Identified, one, Ivan Gerschlicter and Ludwig Gerschlicter.” Ludwig I assume is unsaid number two. They stared blankly at us from escalvator security vid, one going up, unsaid two going down. “Brothers, trillionaires, market players, instigators of civic unrest to exploit for profit. Lately vying to purchase portions of the Charleston SC NA zombie damaged zones.” My warrants and subpoenas I post are woefully lost in long lines of elbowed jurisdiction. “They are assumed to be in a secret undersea base or have escaped to the asteroid belt.” Already at the belt? That's fast, I would think it should take a month at least to get near any un-tracked tumblers suitable for trillionaires. They left a week before we knew their names, quite a head start. There's many places closer that trillionaires can hide out at in luxury without weeks of space travel. They could buy someplace, a small country or something then kick everybody out and hide there, might take years to find them.

Subsequent speakers bounced gleeful as scientists that know they are talking to people who understand them, into rattling off ATG sequences, onto hijacking mitochondrial enzyme segments. I fell asleep. Suit got it all for the report, I hope. Perhaps the snoring or the long drawn out sips of marstini my subconscious poured into my drunken dreaming state is what got me shoved back into a medi-sat full of combat bio scientists.

“Paul!” Traci tugged at my face pulling her into my focus. Once I stopped blinking I started drooling so I went back to blinking. It was the light. She was shinning a pen light into my eyes. “Paul? You in there?” Pinch of the cheek!

“YOW!” That woke me up! Pinch me if I'm dreaming, no wait not again!

“I thought maybe you'd gone zombie.”

“Would a zombie...! ACHOO! ...sneeze?”

“Geez I hope not! Yuck! You couldn't turn your head?”

“Where'd everybody go?”

“The noises you were making cleared the place.” She seemed relieved I was not zombied. It would have helped if she lowered the blaster aimed at my head. She gave me a deep look and I could see her decide I was safe and she lowered the weapon and said in an oddly cheery tone: “Come on lets go to my quarters.” A beckoning in which I sleepily dreamed a cats meow.

“Ok.” I stood meow. It was not so far, about six scurrying cats away. A fat calico tabby was waiting at Traci's door to get in. I sneezed an entrance fanfare. Some kinda histamine overload. We sit upon her plush lounge among the gamboling kittens I greet with sniffles. Who doesn't love kittens! Wait! What's with all these felines? I've heard about this curved can! It's cat station! Legendary “Cat Station!”

Traci explains: “Yes this medi-sat is known to some as 'cat station' because we love them so much! But they are a necessary vital part of our crew, we have so many millions of mice and rats here... you know for testing and feeding the snakes that we need our cat crew mates to help control the escapees!”

“There's escapees?”

“Oh yes.” Meaningful frown. “Look at the cats... they must be eating well.” The thought makes her happy again.

“Wait. Snakes?”

“They help with the rats and mice too. The mongooses take care of the escaped snakes... well mostly... they're immune to the venom you know... get along well with the cats. Just don't make one feel cornered if you have an encounter... you know grrrwwl!” She made a claw slash gesture with a low groin level snap. As cute as much of this was I am unsettled by the venomous snake news. Still, no reason not to enjoy a drink, she hands me a well chilled launch tank of marstini, she has one herself. If I'm to be savaged by cornered mongooses I'll want to be well anesthetized.

“Paul, I've still got something special to show you.” She purrs as she strokes a pussy.

The CO2 ice mist has froze my draining sinuses... “I can't wait.”

She's up across the room then back with a garment bag she opens to reveal a dull gray anti-shark suit that she thrusts towards me. “Try it on. Go on.” It's meant for me? A gift? She cares about me so much she doesn't want me eaten by sharks or zombies! It's made to fit over my shuttle suit which it flattens into spandex skin tight when sealed.

“Wow! Thank you Traci! Let's test it! Bite Me! Yeah. Wait. Oof ouch not the nose!”

I feel much better about snakes now. I love it when people give me things, especially things I want but are too lazy or stupid to obtain on my own. Suit: send her some cases of recently ancestral scotch.

Mid nibble is when Traci's cabin door buzzer buzzed intruding-ly, startling the cats. She jumps up to accept a delivery.

“Hey Paul, it's for you!” She signs the delivery bots lami receipt. It hands her a shipping box the size of shoe packaging. What's this? For me? I accept her hand off and set the package on the table by the beverages.

“EDC Embryonic Decanter Corporation, Upper Chufington England. What the heck?” Never heard of them. Opening the box produces a shiny metal flask with a wide mouth spin-on cap. A lami on its side flashed a steady color red as metrics displays flowed. I tapped the INST tab; a display appeared in the air mirroring the tiny lami. A tutorial instructed to “unscrew cap remove membrane tear open along dotted line enjoy many years of puppy love!”

“What?” I unscrew the cap and remove the crinkly packet inside. I tear along the dotted line. The membrane packet holds a tiny dog asleep. A lami at the neck flashes 'press to begin new life' which I do for the little puppy to open it's eyes to see me surrounded by hungry cats.

Suit has linked to the puppies packaging. We read: “Hello my name is (SPACE) I'm your Pic-a-Puppy Genetic Best Friend for Life! All your specifications have been included in our most popular Jack Russel II Terrier Patented Genome, Extra Lifespan, Extra Intelligence, Extra strong bones, Dissuade Coprophagous Behavior, Extra Obedient, Extra Athletic Ability, Extra Anti-flea Coat, Extra Warranty Parts and Labor. Plus Bonus of at Least One Extra Special Ability such as Defensive Genital Pinch, Slobber Trail, Mind Reading.”

“Well you got all the extra's.”

“It says I ordered this?” Suit blames it on my other pants that got recalled, it, snubbed Tom Cavendish, assumed my chat with the pet scientist was the placing of an order.

The puppy, my puppy is cuddled by the cat lover. “Wow. How cute...what will you name him... or her?” She peeks.

“Um... it says 'him' here... male. It says his name is 'Space'.” Translation glitch, his name could very well have been 'blank' or 'your name here'.

“Welcome little Space! Hello Spacey Space.“ Playfully my new puppy ignores me for her. They are so cute together, add kittens, I want to change my name to Space and frolic with them. My attempt spills steaming CO2 ice and marstini all over Traci's carpet.

“What does he eat eh? Got any puppy chow?” Care and feeding instructions say: feed regularly, water frequently, bathe occasionally. That's my lifestyle too! Substitute marstini for water.

“No but I've got Kitten Kitchen Kanned Gourmet. We don't like to feed them often the pouched food as they will slack off hunting.”

While Traci went to plop something onto a dish, Space explored his new world of cats at the nearby water bowl by falling into it.

“My doggy can swim!”

I'm afraid what happened next might have negatively shaped the little dogs perception of cats for life. He was indeed interested in the Salmon Surprise Kitten Kitchen Kanned Gourmet shinning gelatinous-ly upon the saucer, he was drawn more to dip his face in the cup of milk next to it. I noticed here the local cat population had gone up, the sound of the pouch's zipper opening had signaled them like a Pavlov's bell. They crowded the saucer, they shoved at the milk cup. It all happened so fast. Tiny Space defended his salmon and milk, he yapped, he nipped, he scampered menacingly, growling, clawing. It became a catastrophe in the ancient sense of the word, cats went everywhere, wreckage and debris of the furnishings flew as if a floor level whirlwind struck, cats fought cats, cats fought the upholstery, a mongoose ran in from somewhere and kicked one particular cats ass, Space the smallest of all, even smaller then the smallest kittens, fought them all ferociously until I could grab him by his tiny puppy scruff. Ha! Thanks for the bite proof suit! He swung at my arms length squirming, growling with infrequent yaps. His arc across the crowd of cats drew snarls and hisses as I aimed him at them like a weapon.

Next thing I know Space and I are kicked off the platform. I am forced by brandished tranquilizer dart guns to stand at the taxi boarding gate with Space in a plastic cat transport crate which must smell like cat as he's attempting to tear it into small chunks. Apparently it's a crime to bring a loose canine to this SAT. Who knew? I wasn't fully entry briefed. Traci comforts a nice fluffy angora, waving between strokes safely from the other side of thick glass.

Takes Helen two hours to come pick me up... “Hey Paul. Who's that?” Space peeks out from the top of my suit.

“Helen meet Space. The newest member of our research team.”

“Only you would go to cat station and leave with a dog! They try to give everybody kittens!”

“Let's go.”

“Where to?”

“Ginzberg and Cohen Tailors we've got to get Space into a good suit.”