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Games within Frontiers © John H. Evans, early March-early June 2020

1. (09 GLA 1537, Zaffa’s office)

Empty spaces laughed at her. Zaffa Higcablan, Regional Manager for Sports & Ents, felt most peculiar. There seemed to be a flutter in her chest-cross-fibres (CCF). Was it her advancing years? (That was increasingly likely as time went on.) Also, the nasty shock of lost credits rattled her. It was the same for all major shows. Audiences were falling everywhere and each vacant chair glared a warning. Even congressional meetings were poorly attended this year. She never understood why those had to charge admittance. Government should be above profit-making. The underlying sting of this situation was that very few people seemed to care. More regulars were staying home, apparently happy in their solitude or with their supposedly ‘irritating’ families. Zaffa was doing what she could to bolster crowds but the usual methods weren’t working so well. Her position could be at risk if this carried on. She reached for her tululator and sang-tapped the Promotions Department, requesting a fifty percent increase in events advertising via the tuluromagec board-spread. She’d never pushed events this much before. It made her nervous; she anticipated a song-tap from her superior soon. She soothed herself by reclining to the right and running through recent work events. As far as she knew, she’d done everything properly. She’d even offered extra free gifts to loyal wet-net espoin customers. She pondered what other factors were affecting sports and ents. The tuluromag was popular in the home but no one could interface for more than seventy biarks per day because of the inevitable face-loosening problem. Everyone cut off their devices before seventy biarks to avoid that painful embarrassment and the common infections that followed. Having said that, most people tried to do the maximum in that time and the software was quick to use.

Zaffa wanted answers. She had a gnawing suspicion that major problems could be brewing. She had access to plenty of raw data which showed some trends but she wanted more. She called an urgent meeting of her organisers and coordinators. Some of them were busy but they all arrived within fifteen biarks.

“Greetings everyone,” said Zaffa. “This isn’t a formal meeting but we can take our own notes. I want to understand why attendances are dropping all over the region. We already know about things like cold weather, work commitments, family activities and an upsurge of social clubs. Does anyone have further intel, even if it’s only hearsay?”

“Event fatigue,” said Smingul Vioph, a bored expression on his face. “It happens regularly. We all know how fixtures lose appeal. The audiences will probably come back in a season or two.”

“You know about event fatigue, Smingul!” said Libnucal Sgiur. “I’ve seen you dozing at the drifdisk. You’re not alone either. A lot of people are only going to sports out of habit or because their families demand. They’re not watching the games but rather doing other things like reading or handicrafts.”

“I don’t understand,” said Zaffa. “Aren’t the games interesting anymore?”

“Oh, they’re still thrilling,” said Libnucal, her gestures animated. “I’ve seen some great matches lately but some in the crowd are refusing to spectate. It’s as if they’re on strike. The stay-aways are even more militant.”

“Can’t we spice up the games?” suggested Herraj Ymestir. “The sports kits could be more colourful. Animal mascots are popular. How about adding special targets for extra points?”

“The purists always object,” Fuloy Navoul pointed out. “Remember when mirror-curve goals were introduced in blunk-line? There were boycotts for over a hundred days!”

“Well, we must do something,” said Mosfeeg Drufdi. “This is an unprecedented threat to our positions. I don’t want to hustle for a new job!”

“I think career change is inevitable,” said Fleny Xeron. “I’ve been watching people more closely this year. The mood’s shifting. They aren’t so interested in mainstream entertainment. In fact, some of them are producing their own plays in small, ad hoc community theatres. The storylines are about synergy, not conflict. Even more people are signing up for voluntary work too. They think it’s more productive than sport.”

“Our investment in venues and performers is being wasted,” complained Herraj. “Shouldn’t we take action to remedy that?”

“I don’t see how,” responded Fleny. “Tastes are evolving. We should adapt or die, so to speak.”

“Our influence is limited,” said Fuloy. “We’ll ramp up advertising. We’ll bring in better teams and performers. We’ll fund writing circles with grants and bursaries. New writers could put the sparkle back into theatres.”

“All that might work but we should be prepared for a structural shift,” said Smingul. “We can’t dictate their likes and dislikes. We’ll have to ride the tide, if not now then later. I’m just glad that I’ve paid off my debts!”

“It would seem that we’ve reached a consensus,” said Libnucal, looking around the group. “We can promote events to the utmost but local preferences are developing in new ways and we should consider our futures. The only other alternative is prayer or magic. Do we really want to call on the unreliable world of the supernatural? There’s a sidewalk prophet three streets from here!”

“Is that a man or a woman?” asked Herraj. “I can’t tell because of all the layers of clothing!” Most of the others laughed. Zaffa wore a crooked smile. She’d plan an advertising campaign but she knew that other preparations were necessary. The others left her office. Zaffa’s smile disappeared as she revised the advertising budget once more. She could tell that no one was very optimistic about the future of conventional entertainment. Her intuition indicated that she should prepare for a new vocation. She didn’t yet know what that would be. She didn’t really want to leave this job. Perhaps the supernatural could help? The prophet nearby was always convinced that he/she had the answers. That was impressive even when the messages were implausible.



* * * * *



2. (09 GLA 1537, Zaffa’s town centre)

After leaving work, Zaffa didn’t take her usual route home. Instead, she wandered around a few other streets and stopped for a drink at a public fountain. She watched a nearby market close for the night. Some of the stalls smelt too pungent for her. She was glad that she didn’t have to work there. However, she noticed that one stall sold stimulants. Just before the vendor left, she bought a packet of three Jabellian Puffs from him. As he finished loading his truck, she unfolded her jaws fully to get maximum benefit from the Puffs. Her jaw hinges were stiff and tense due to age and anxiety. She had to use her hand to spread her mandibles twenty three centimetres apart. Having done that, she unwrapped the first Puff and squirted it across her inner oral tissues. It fizzed and bubbled instantly, as usual. She reclosed her jaws to prevent drippage and savoured the uplifting hit of tochruen, the key ingredient. She felt fortified.

In a hundred and twenty biarks, her partner would be home from work. She had time to talk with the prophet, if she wanted. Did she? New insights would be welcome. It was daunting to converse with someone who was borderline insane yet very determined. What could happen? These were public streets with many witnesses. Zaffa thought that she could risk it. At least it would be an interesting experience. She checked that she had some cash in her purse. Then, she went to meet the prophet. She thought that it would be fruitless but the Puff had inflated her courage and optimism.

“Out of the way!” said a man as he strode past the prophet.

“I must warn you about the Retulaan Nuid influx!” cried the prophet.

“There’s no such thing!” said a woman who was walking behind the man.

“The Employment Exchange is in Danglor Place,” advised another man with a smirk. “Use it, for Kramrip’s sake: get a job!”

“Alright, the Retulaans aren’t bad but there are several million coming this way,” said the prophet. “They’ll want territory and they’ll fight for it if necessary. Don’t blame the messenger!”

“I won’t blame you,” said Zaffa. “I’d like to talk with you. I have a problem at work.” The prophet locked eyes with her. Underneath his/her three hoods, she could see four dimly glimmering optics. It was a psychological challenge but Zaffa was no stranger to those.

“You should understand that the Retulaans will make your problem unimportant,” said the prophet. “I could elaborate if you like.” Zaffa didn’t want to hear about it.

“Let’s step aside and discuss my problem,” said Zaffa, gesturing at a refreshment venue to her left. “I have cash.”

“Well, if you insist,” said the prophet as people continued to stream past. “Normally I work for free. Providence is kind to me.”

“Do you know this place?” asked Zaffa as they went indoors.

“It’s my favourite,” said the prophet. “That’s why I’m always outside.” They went to the back. Zaffa expected to sit at a rear table but instead they went upstairs two flights. The first floor above was for storage and staff use. The second floor was residential. The prophet wanted them to sit in a shared family apartment among children, aunts and uncles.

“This is no good,” said Zaffa, perturbed. “We need privacy.” The family didn’t seem to mind the brief intrusion. The prophet took Zaffa to the third floor, which was a roof terrace with a decent view over the neighbourhood.

“You know those people?” queried Zaffa. “Are they friends or relatives?”

“Friends, my dear,” said the prophet nonchalantly. “I was fortunate to meet such accepting folk. Now, what’s on your mind?” They sat on weathered steel folding chairs.

“Forgive my boldness but who are you?” asked Zaffa. “I’m guessing you’re a man. You seem well educated.”

“I’m Clasta Vaq,” said the prophet. “I’m a former accountant from Girda-on-Wyar. I came here nine years ago after my spiritual revelations. You’re right about my gender but I’m not particularly manly. As I age, more people mistake me for an older woman.” He pulled back his hoods to reveal his head. His appearance wasn’t very remarkable but his gaze was arresting and he had cybernetic implants at the back of his skull.

“You may not know this but some of us accountants have computational augmentations,” he said, touching his implants. They tend to be hidden behind skin drapes and scarves. They help us to think in an orderly manner.”

“I’m sure that’s helpful down there in the street hubbub,” commented Zaffa. “Is it true that you can see the future? I’m worried about my work in sports and entertainment.”

“Well, I can’t make exact predictions but I can see obvious trends,” replied Clasta. “If only more people had my widened vision! Would you like to hear more about the Retulaans? They’re going to be landing on this continent early next year.”

“There’s no evidence of such creatures,” said Zaffa, becoming irritated. “They’re myths and legends. They’re false foes to fool the credulous. Could you please focus on my concern?”

“I work best when people are in a receptive state of mind,” said Clasta, seeing that the direct approach wasn’t working. “I’d like you to close your eyes, breathe slowly and calm your thoughts. Try to reduce your Puff reaction.” How did he know about the Puff? Zaffa looked at him curiously for a second and then cooperated. She kept her cash close in case someone snatched it. Biarks ticked by and Zaffa’s mind meandered around familiar topics. She wondered how these so-called Retulaans appeared. She presumed that they were imaginary beings on a make-believe ship somewhere in deep space. Did they have regular features? For some reason, she saw one with a fairly long snout, soulful eyes and tufty material all over its body. It came toward her and rubbed itself against her. That tickled slightly.

“The surface stuff is called ‘fur’,” said Clasta. “It’s very common insulation, especially on colder planets.” It was a useful explanation but how did he know? A few more Retulaans came forward and joined in the rubbing. Zaffa could see still more on the way.

“They like you,” said Clasta. “That’s good. You wouldn’t want to meet them when they’re angry.” Now there were ten Retulaans pushing and clawing against her. They were very vigorous and seemed happy in a boisterous way. More were coming. They whined and yelped. If too many came, they’d knock her down.

“Yes, you’d better separate,” said Clasta. “They can be over-enthusiastic. Imagine that they’ve found something more interesting. Someone’s calling. They’re disengaging and running away. Perhaps they’re being fed meaty treats.” He was in her thoughts. He was inside her head, acting as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She turned to see him there, smiling in a ‘told you so’ way. Around them were walls of curved metal that somehow glowed soft yellow.

“You’re absolutely genuine!” said Zaffa. “I never expected... huh, I’m bowled over. Most people think you’re loopy.”

“I’m sure we can all be loopy sometimes,” said Clasta. “This, though, is astral travel. We’re on the Retulaan Nuid migration ship. They’re seeking a new home.”

“What happened to their old home?” asked Zaffa.

“It’s still there,” said Clasta. “However, the air has been made poisonous. Most life on that world is now dead. Extremophilic microbes are thriving instead.”

“How did that happen?” wondered Zaffa. “Volcanic activity, biospheric evolution or...”

“Deliberate contamination,” interjected Clasta. “It was part of a ‘revenge chain’, if you catch my drift. It wasn’t one of our strikes but I think we initiated the entire conflict.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” retorted Zaffa. “There’s no space programme here. How could you be involved?”

“This is part of my revelations, dear,” said Clasta. “Powers far greater than I demonstrated it: we the people are all connected. We’re affiliated with other groups out there. We’re linked intimately, as you see now. Distance is no object. I have a direct line to beings of incalculable strength.”

“This is too intense for me,” said Zaffa, her fear rising. “I think we should stop. You’re more than I bargained for. I’ll sort out my own problems.” She opened her eyes and found herself lying down in the dark. She was in an unfamiliar bedroom. She felt healthy and rested. She sprang to her feet and went to the window. Night had fallen and stars twinkled in a great cloud across the sky. Her body was young and strong. She looked down and had her second great shock of the day. She had somehow transferred her consciousness into a youth called Ceniolic. She wanted to scream but she didn’t want to wake her (Ceniolic’s) family down the hall. What could she do? She was trapped in this man’s life!

“Relax, Zaffa,” said the voice of Clasta in her mind. “Your original body and life are being maintained. I’m giving you a tour of other people. You’ll learn plenty about their attitudes. Enjoy it while you can.” He was very reassuring. Zaffa wasn’t worried from then on. She imagined being in her own house and saw herself asleep as usual. In the mean time, she had the opportunity to learn. It’d been a long time since she’d explored a young man’s body. As well as that, she now had access to his brain. Her hands moved smoothly over his torso while she ransacked his recent memories. She could get used to this!



* * * * *



3. (10 GLA 1537, Zaffa’s suburban house, the town centre and then the Lyanian Expanse)

“Libnucal, I’m sorry to bother you so late but I think Zaffa has...” said Agrive Boif via tululator.

“Work problems?” interrupted Libnucal. “Yeah, they’re keeping me awake too. I should talk about them. Besides, I needed a diversion. I’ve been spending far too long on the tuluromag. My face is wrecked. We need to make the music promotion budget smaller and also more effective. That’s tough. We’re going to need some brand new stunts.”

“I understand but Zaffa’s worse, in a way,” said her partner Agrive. “She seems to be in denial. Also, she’s doing unusual things like eating zarz rinds and calling me Nookums. When she’s awake, she blinks every half biark without fail. I timed her over dinner.”

“Well, this is a worrying time,” said Libnucal. “She might be working through some past trauma. I don’t know her as well as you.”

“She was normal this morning,” Agrive pointed out. “Something must’ve happened to her before we came home this evening. Do you recall any significant events?”

“No, nothing much,” replied Libnucal. “Work was relatively routine. We had a quick, informal meeting. We resolved to boost our promotional efforts. I’m still doing that and a few others are too.”

“That was all?” queried Agrive.

“Well, you’re familiar with the field by now,” said Libnucal. “There’s little else we can do. Craftiness and creativity are our best tools. I joked that the only alternative was the supernatural, like the prophet on Houmcog Boulevard! That made everyone smile.”

“Did Zaffa smile?” asked Agrive.

“Hmm, not much actually,” said Libnucal. “I’m tired and my recall is patchy. What are you suggesting?”

“Do you think she visited him?” wondered Agrive. “She has an open mind. Sometimes she tries new approaches to solve a problem.”

“I don’t think that an old crank could change Zaffa’s personality so quickly,” said Libnucal. “She’ll probably be alright tomorrow.”

“I’ve watched that prophet for a long time,” said Agrive. “He’s well-spoken and relentless. It’s disturbing. I hate the thought of him interfering with Zaffa.”

“Go and see him in the morning,” said Libnucal. “Take Zaffa and some friends for back-up. Afterward, tell us what happened. I’m curious.”

“Fine, that’s sensible,” said Agrive flatly. “I’ll keep in touch.” He ended the call and went back to the bedroom. Zaffa was still sound asleep. She looked and sounded right but had an unfamiliar vibe. Agrive didn’t want to touch her in that condition. He felt compelled to deal with this immediately. He took his clothes to another room, got dressed and sneaked out. He had to see the prophet. He didn’t take his car because it was noisy. As he walked into town, surveillance cameras tracked him. On the way, he realised that he didn’t have the prophet’s home address. Presumably, he lived on or near Houmcog Boulevard since he was there most of the time. Agrive tried to find him by searching databases but he couldn’t pick out a likely name. The only option was to walk around and keep watch. Perhaps he could peek through windows and check door labels? Forty biarks later, he was on the Boulevard. One of the buildings had external stairs. He climbed up and searched for a likely address. When he found nothing there, he looked across to the opposite buildings. One window was illuminated with flickering lights. He leant on a railing and observed it for a few biarks. Someone was watching broadcasts or recordings. He or she was also moving around, casting shifting shadows. It was slightly entrancing. Agrive began to imagine the scene behind the blinds.

“You weren’t fooled, were you?” said a man behind him. Agrive spun around to see a short, middle-aged man standing two metres away. His voice resembled that of the prophet but he wasn’t wearing his outdoor clothing, only an indoor vestie and some thloppers on his feet. The surroundings had also changed abruptly. They weren’t on an exterior landing but instead were in the kitchen of an unknown house.

“Drink?” offered the man, holding up a jug.

“No, what’s happened to Zaffa?” demanded Agrive. “Are you behind all this? Do you know anything?”

“If anything, I know too much,” said the man. “This flarge juice helps me to calm my confusion anxiety.” He poured himself a tall glass of juice and drank it down.

“Well, answer my question before someone interrupts!” insisted Agrive. “Whose house is this anyway? How did we get here?”

“Zaffa’s also on a quest for knowledge,” said the man. “I sent her to find a particular piece. I’ll send you to find your own.” In the blink of an eye, Agrive was transported to a barren, dusty plain. It was dawn and there was a huge, heavy machine sitting ten metres away. Agrive could only whimper in dismay. Fright made him relieve himself. As he did so, he scanned the desolation. It stretched to the horizon in all directions. This was no dream. There seemed to be no option except to investigate the machine, which was at least a hundred metres long. Maybe it could help him return home? He cursed his decision to go out in the middle of the night.



* * * * *



4. (10 GLA 1537, Zaffa’s office and town centre)

The next morning, Libnucal was fully aware that she’d overdone it. She’d worked late into the night and then nearly fallen asleep on her morning commute. She’d had to pull over her walker-car, park on a side road and nap for twenty five biarks. She was late coming into the office but no one seemed to mind. Many of the others were preoccupied with their own tasks. They were working harder to sort out problems and make shows run smoothly. Traditional events had to be made more attractive. Unfortunately, some of the office workers didn’t love their jobs as much as before. They looked glum and a few were becoming tetchy. Minor complaints and gripes were rising. Libnucal sat at her desk, dealt with some issues and discussed them with colleagues. She had a drink and then drizzled neuroblitz into her jaws. It wasn’t enough today, so she had to close her eyes and nap again. As she hoped, no one bothered her. Daydreaming, she wondered what’d happened to Zaffa and Agrive. After thirty biarks of quiet time, she opened her eyes again and went to talk with Zaffa. Mail was arriving on a trolley but that could wait.

“Zaffa, how are you?” said Libnucal, entering Zaffa’s office. “Agrive told me you were a little out-of-sorts last night.”

“I’m fine, Libby!” said Zaffa, looking straight at Libnucal. “Our sector’s in decline but I’m buoyant. I’m doing what I can. I won’t let our troubles depress me.” She blinked, slowly and deliberately.

“And how’s Agrive?” asked Libnucal. “He seemed worried.”

“He’s so caring!” said Zaffa. “He tries to help me even when I’m O.K.” She blinked again.

“Did he tell you his worries this morning?” asked Libnucal.

“No he didn’t,” replied Zaffa. “That’s strange, I suppose. Perhaps he just got over it. Alternatively, he might have felt it was insignificant. On the other hand, he could’ve felt that it was too risky to mention. Men, eh?!” She blinked again and then kept staring.

“Erm, yeah,” said Libnucal. “They can be hard to understand.” Zaffa was acting like an impostor. She didn’t seem to know her own partner. Libnucal backed out of the room.

“Bye! I’ll speak to you about the Bingeday Leagues after lunch!” said Zaffa.

“Sure, see you then!” said Libnucal. In her office once more, she called Agrive for clarification.

“Oh, hello Libby!” said Agrive, seeming cheerier than usual. “Is my Nookums behaving herself?” Libnucal had no idea that he wasn’t the real Agrive. He was a very convincing fake.

“Up to a point,” replied Libnucal. “She’s doing her work well enough but her mannerisms aren’t right. It’s creepy.”

“Well, that’s very disappointing,” said Agrive. “I thought I’d sorted this out. I visited the prophet before work and he assured me that he’d bring her back to normal. I reckon I should see him again at lunchtime.”

“Can I come too?” asked Libnucal. “I absolutely must see this man. We can’t let Zaffa be changed by him permanently. It’s very wrong!”

“You’re most welcome,” said Agrive. “Houmcog Boulevard: you can’t miss him.” At lunchtime they both hurried over there.

After lunch, colleagues watched Zaffa and Libnucal resume work. They were effective as usual but they seemed to be synchronising their physical movements to a large extent. For instance, they both walked with the same stride pattern and put documents into trays with the same flick of the wrist. They also blinked at exactly the same time, every half biark. Unease grew.



* * * * *



5. (10 GLA 1537, the Lyanian Expanse, thousands of kilometres from Zaffa’s town)

The real Agrive was being tormented by voices, pictures and feelings in his head. He’d walked too close to a particular device inside the giant machine and it’d set off a terrifying mental bombardment. Now, he was running away across the barren plain. He was rather unfit and he was wheezing badly after a kilometre. Soon, he had to stop and catch his breath. The spate of invasive ideas didn’t let up but it became more targeted. Gradually, his breathing slowed and he could focus on the messages. They tried to calm him down by showing images of tranquil scenes. There were light purple skies with pink clouds and ringed moons behind. Flat landscapes appeared with green lakes and blue forests. Thousands of flexible trees waved slowly back and forth in unison. Were they wind-blown or could they move themselves?

“This was our world,” explained a gruff voice. “It was destroyed by powerful enemies. We’re seeking a new world. Yours is the most suitable in this sector.” Agrive set off again, desperate to find some way home. He saw a vague shape on the horizon and thought it might be a building.

“You know this will be fruitless,” said the voice. “You’re in a large area of flat wilderness. You don’t have the strength to escape unaided. Go back to the space craft and we can guide you.”

“Get out of my head, Clasta!” thought Agrive. “This has gone way too far!” He jogged on as best he could. However, the weird sensations in his head reduced his energy and motivation. He found himself slowing to a stop. The flat landscape seemed endless. He guessed that he was on the Lyanian Expanse, which was over three thousand kilometres wide from East to West and half that from North to South. He looked behind and saw the machine somehow start to fly. It rose up about fifty metres and started floating toward him. It was clear that he couldn’t outrun it. Clasta or someone else was controlling it. The so-called space craft landed silently and gently. It was now less than a hundred metres away.

“Look, whoever you are, what’s this all about?” pleaded Agrive. “What’ve I done to you? Have I offended or hurt you? Did I commit a thought crime against you? You can hear my thoughts. Have my people sinned against you?”

“You’ve nothing to fear from us,” said the voice. “We’re trying to help you. We’re not connected to Clasta. If anything, we oppose him. He’s part of the recent interstellar war chaos.” Agrive considered this news.

“Is he a war criminal?” he asked. “Is he hiding in my town? I must report him!”

“Justice is dictated by the victors,” said the voice. “Also, such definitions are subjective. His status depends on one’s point of view. He believes himself to be righteous, as do his people. We beg to differ but our priority now is survival. We’re in no position to capture and punish him.”

“You want me to get back into this machine?” asked Agrive. “I really don’t want to: I’m completely petrified!”

“Think of it as an ocean ship except that it levitates,” explained the voice. “It uses an engine that you haven’t invented yet. It’s a very safe form of transport.”

“You’re going to take me home, right?” asked Agrive. “You won’t whisk me off to your people in outer space?”

“We, the Retulaan Nuid, promise to take you home safely,” replied the voice. “We ask for nothing in return except basic understanding and civility. We’ve had enough negative emotions lately, having lost our entire world.”

“I’ll be brave and go along with you,” said Agrive, steeling himself. “Maybe I’m the first of my kind to ever fly in such a craft.”

“You’ll certainly be the first to do so and remember it afterwards,” said the Retulaan. “Perhaps the owners will let you keep the space craft? It could be... oh, no they won’t. What a pity. They think that you’re not ready.” Agrive climbed back through the large hatch at the base of the space craft and then the Retulaan Nuid sent him swiftly homeward. The ride was totally smooth with no distractions, so Agrive could communicate further with his new, off-world acquaintances.



* * * * *



6. (10 GLA 1537, the hospital in Zaffa’s town)

The children in the hospital ward groaned as healing gel and analgesic spray were applied to their many minor injuries. Herraj Ymestir and his wife Darmyn watched with concern. A few boys and girls were having scans for suspected broken bones. Herraj and Darmyn greeted other parents who were arriving. Quickly, all the parents were informed of the situation. There was consternation and also some anger. The mothers and fathers of the more seriously injured children demanded answers. They were kept back for the time being so that medical staff could finish initial assessment and treatment. Three doctors began checking reflexes and reaction times, suspecting that some children had brain injuries. A squad of police constables entered the ward to keep the peace and protect the two sports teachers. As biarks passed, each family was made aware of their children’s individual conditions. The group of parents calmed down as they saw that the injuries weren’t too bad.

“Deukboul, you know I have a special interest in regional sports,” said Herraj. “Could you please talk us through what happened this afternoon? I’d like to know how so many kids got hurt in the first ten biarks of a match.”

“Grepmun, should we comment given the situation?” Deukboul asked her counterpart. “What about our liabilities?”

“Well, all the parents signed the permission forms,” replied Grepmun. “Also, it’s clear in law that instructors can’t be held liable for all injuries like this. We did prevent some, though.” Deukboul glanced at one of the constables, who nodded. It seemed that she could explain without incriminating herself.

“The scheduled boys-versus-girls match started late because all the players had crowded into one dressing room and were reluctant to come onto the field,” she said. “They were involved in some kind of fantasy adventure game, played on paper using their imaginations. It sounded a lot like that ‘Grottoes and Gunmen’ game. Anyway, that’s not important. Grepmun and I told them to put away their pads, pens, books and flip cubes. There was a lot of grumbling and stalling. After twenty biarks, the teams were ready for the match.”

“They were resentful that we’d interrupted their cosy role-playing session,” added Grepmun. “(By the way, they need reminding not to enter the opposition’s dressing room.) A few of them ‘accidentally’ jostled us as they proceeded down the corridor. On the edge of the field, they clustered together and had a brief group chat. It’s highly irregular for two rival teams to huddle like that just before play. Deukboul and I couldn’t quite hear what they said to each other. By the time we reached them, they were dispersing onto the pitch. They went to the normal starting positions in the central octagon.”

“That was when the ruck started,” said Deukboul. “Grepmun threw the steel pyramid in the air and Kojcsart lunged for it. Mietzi countered with a kick directly into Kojcsart’s side. He was knocked sideways and dropped the pyramid. Mietzi went to grab it but the heavy old thing was stuck in mud. Skondfid pushed Mietzi over and she fell in a large patch of mud. Other boys and girls ran forward, hoping to take the pyramid and toss it toward the goal. No one would give ground so they began attacking each other. From that moment, they mainly neglected the pyramid and focused on assault.”

“I tried to break up some of the fights since they were clearly excessive,” said Grepmun. “Deukboul ran onto the pitch to help me but we couldn’t stop the melée. It was as if the boys and girls had a vendetta against one another. We had no warning.”

“It’s shocking!” said Herraj. “How could a game of Kick-Box-Pyramid-Toss degenerate into wanton violence?”

“Only with prior intention,” said Deukboul. “I’m afraid to say that the children were dead set on hitting each other, not on hurling a heavy steel pyramid in each others’ general direction. Grepmun and I think that you parents need to find out why your boys and girls crossed the line from mild kick-boxing to severe kick-boxing and even all-in wrestling here and there. A few of them kicked and punched us by mistake. See our bruises!” The parents gathered around and looked.

“This can’t continue,” said Darmyn. “Please accept our apologies. Our Dimknac and Hesypuy will be penalised and probably sent to a psychiatrist. We need to understand their motivations. They’ve become very uncivilised.” Other parents also said sorry to the teachers. Afterwards, everyone sat down in the waiting room and continued chatting. The constables eventually left because they deemed the scene safe again. The teachers also left because the school day had finished. The parents took it in turns to visit their children. Some boys and girls were well enough to leave hospital and recover at home. Others had to stay in overnight. About fifty biarks later, Herraj and Darmyn were allowed to see their son Dimknac and daughter Hesypuy. They hugged them and commiserated for a biark before broaching the crucial subject: ‘why?’

“I think you already know the answer,” said Hesypuy, gazing sternly into her father’s eyes. “We didn’t want to play. We had better things to do.”

“You mean playing ‘Grottoes and Gunmen’ in your underwear with the boys?” queried Darmyn. “That’s still a game, only less physical. You need exercise, Hes!”

“There are safer ways,” objected Hesypuy. “I mean, even when K.B.P.T. is played properly we get hurt. We all have old scars like this on my leg, that on my shoulder and the one that stops me from peeing straight.”

“Obviously it’s not risk-free but K.B.P.T. is the third most popular sport in the country,” said Herraj. “You’ve both loved it for years. Before that, you played soft pyramid.”

“Things change, Dad,” said Dimknac as his swellings ached intensely. “Damn, my leg! Our teams are realising that these games aren’t the best way forward. We’re exploring other activities instead.”

“So why the hard fighting?” asked Herraj. “Doesn’t that give a completely different message? You’ve been lucky to avoid fractures, both of you!”

“Yeah, all we got were big bruises, spectacular swellings, muscle aches and rough groping,” said Hesypuy. “(We couldn’t let an opportunity go to waste!)”

“K.B.P.T. is a class action lawsuit waiting to happen,” said Dimknac. “We’re just trying to make it happen sooner, so that we can stop the stupid game and turn our attention to something worthwhile. We need time to figure out our new projects.”

“We’re taking a stand, Daddio!” said Hesypuy.

“But we’re doing it lying down, Mummio!” concurred Dimknac. “We’re injured, after all.”

“I’ve booked you in at the psychiatrist,” said Darmyn. “We’ll see what she says about all this.” Herraj wasn’t sure if that was appropriate but he said nothing. Maybe he’d raise it later.

“Can you get up?” asked Herraj. “It’s nearly dinner time.”

“Leave us for a few hours,” said Dimknac. “We need more recuperation. Go and feed yourselves and then pick us up in two hundred biarks. The nurses will look after us.” Herraj and Darmyn did as they asked. Although this incident had been worrying, it had given Herraj an insight into the attitude of modern youngsters to sport. He wondered why two entire teams had changed their attitude radically at the same time. He’d have to find or order some sociological research on the matter.



* * * * *

7. (10 GLA 1537, travelling between the Lyanian Expanse and Zaffa’s town)

“What are those sounds in the forward section?” asked Agrive as the flying ship passed over the Tormarin Sea. “Something or someone heavy is moving around.” He was sitting in a gloomy chamber at the base of the rear section. The entrance hatch was still open. It was his only source of light. He’d tried to close it because he was cold and afraid of heights. It was jammed, though.

“Ignore the sounds,” said a Retulaan voice. “You’ll be safe all the way home. Keep your mind on conserving body heat and morale.”

“You know about whatever’s on board but you can’t find me a warmer cabin,” complained Agrive. “Also, you’ve exposed me to the horrors of the galaxy. I’m struggling here!” He couldn’t stop thinking about escape. If only he could overcome his phobia, he could leap straight into a watery grave.

“We know about your struggle,” said the Retulaan. “We’re deeply sorry that you’re in this position. However, we assure you that things will improve soon. Developments have been forced upon us but we’re organising resistance. This goes far beyond the Retulaan Nuid. Millions of other races are involved. Our oppressors won’t push us around, despite their tremendous strength and cunning.”

“I’m glad you’re so resilient but I’m flagging,” said Agrive. “I haven’t had enough sleep. Other people’s agonies are being transmitted into my brain at random. I’m freezing at this altitude. Sitting on cold metal doesn’t help.”

“Hold on, Agrive,” said the Retulaan. “Home is only a hundred biarks away. If you’re feeling bold, you might try going into the next room via a small hatch seventeen metres to your right. It’s very dark but less draughty.”

“Can’t this ship go faster?” pleaded Agrive. “Surely it has that capability!”

“It does but that would alert the crew to an unscheduled velocity alteration,” said the Retulaan. “We need to prevent them from discovering you and us. They believe that the ship is on an automatic surveillance mission. We should preserve that belief for as long as possible.”

“Their standards are slipping,” said Agrive. “They should’ve detected me by now, especially when I triggered that brain scrambling device and then you sent the ship after me.”

“They do seem to have neglected us all,” said the Retulaan. “They’re very arrogant with blind faith in their technology.”

“Is it true what I’m feeling?” asked Agrive, getting up and walking to the outer hatch. “Has the galaxy been devastated by war lately? Is it full of death and suffering? I see snapshots. Are the builders of this ship responsible?”

“They’re clever, these machine men,” said the Retulaan. “They’ve used many tricks to foster a galactic war. They’ve made us damage each other grievously. That way, they minimised their own effort.” Agrive looked down at the rolling waves and occasional sea creatures swimming along. When would the machine men strike this peaceful, unassuming world?

“We’ll resist, Agrive,” said the Retulaan firmly. “We’re the survivors. We’ve learnt not to cooperate in our own destruction. We’ll present a united front and they’ll fail. Your world will live on.” Agrive shivered, partly because of the cold air and partly because he felt a fierce resolve growing across the cosmos. This was indeed a mighty movement! The galactic population was preparing a profound plan to repel chaos.



* * * * *



8. (11 GLA 1537, the Phrydsquyd area in Zaffa’s town)

“I’m starting to understand Ultra Glam Theatre’s problems,” said Fuloy as he drove his walker-car slowly around the neighbourhood. “They aren’t confined to the venue itself. This whole area needs T.L.C.” Scruffy people shuffled by, glancing or staring at the vehicle. A few of them were shouting unintelligibly at each other. They seemed unhinged. Two young people ran past, as if they were being chased. In fact, there was no pursuit.

“We shouldn’t stop here,” said Fleny. “Don’t risk it. Go back to the indoor Seculex parking lot.” She tried not to lock eyes with the man who was smiling at her. He was thirty metres away and coming closer. Fuloy considered his route for a moment and then turned right. He cut through some back streets and reached the Seculex building in three biarks. He paid to enter and then drove up three storeys before parking in a corner.

“This should protect the car from the low-life,” said Zaffa. “I suggest we leave the building on the East side and then take Phrydsquyd to reach the theatre from the North.”

“Where’s Phrydsquyd?” asked Fleny.

“That main street down below,” replied Zaffa, pointing. “There should be fewer oddballs.” They walked downstairs, turned onto Phrydsquyd and headed West past a string of shops and businesses. A female shoplifter was being confronted by a guard in a shop on the left. Opposite, an evangelical man was extolling the virtues of fibrous diets. Some older children were running around unsupervised in the sparse traffic. A few constables were patrolling further along the road. Zaffa, Fuloy and Fleny kept an eye out for trouble.

“This place has deteriorated quickly over the past three years,” remarked Fuloy. “I wasn’t expecting that. When I was young, Phrydsquyd was nicer.” An ambulance walker clattered past at high speed on ten blurred legs. It narrowly avoided other vehicles. Fleny seemed a little anxious while Zaffa was unruffled. The three colleagues hurried on, turned the next corner and went straight to the theatre. Someone was sleeping on the sidewalk only two metres from the front door. Zaffa pressed the bell and an usher came to unlock the door. They all went to the office two floors up, on the right of the stalls entrance. As they reached the office door, they could hear an argument inside. They listened for a moment. An actor was criticising various aspects of the cancelled play. Then, someone noticed them and opened the door.

“Hi, Vheyra!” said Fleny. “Is this a bad time? Should we wait or come back later?”

“No, you may as well come in,” said the theatre manager Vheyra Tseenwini. “These four performers are having a sit-in until they get paid. We’re trying to find the cash but this is a bad time all round. I’m not hopeful.”

“Didn’t you buy a third home last year, Letynas?” an actor asked the director. “Why don’t you sell that? You don’t live in it.”

“I will when business picks up in Nacju City,” said Letynas. “You know I need a base there when I’m creating.”

“We’re not talking about his properties, Wremplag,” said Vheyra. “Zaffa and her team want our input about the failure of this production: any thoughts?”

“The script tries to be modern but the language is stilted and old-timey,” said Wremplag. “The sets are ordinary; the cast is unhappy; the audience failed to show and the cash-flow is now a trickle. I want wages for twenty days of rehearsal.”

“Your contracts state that wages are only due after the first performance,” said Letynas. “We had to cancel the entire run because we sold only twenty one tickets. Therefore, you’re entitled to nothing.”

“This has never happened to us before,” said the actor Lpediov. “Total cancellations are extremely rare. The future’s bleak. We demand a fair settlement to get us through the next twenty days. Come on, help us out. We’ve served you well, over the years.”

“Blood, sweat and tears!” said the actor Recepron. “Now the scene’s gone sour and we’re all leaving. This would’ve been our final job in theatre. We’ll try different lines of work.”

“Alright! Alright!” said Vheyra, opening a desk drawer. “I don’t have ready cash but I can use my last resort.” He took out a heavy wooden box and set it on the desk-top.

“That’s your awards collection,” said Lpediov. “A handful of minor...”

“Forget my awards,” said Vheyra. “Look underneath.” He tipped the box upside down so that everything fell out. This included a false bottom and a set of square coins in a small bag. He took out the coins and handed one to each actor.

“Gold, silver and platinum blend,” he said. “Each one is worth a thousand credits or more, depending on the market. Take them to Jamizami’s and get paid. Maybe wait for the value to rise. That’s the best I can do.”

“These had better be genuine!” said the actor Epielen. “We can easily sit in here tomorrow.”

“On my life, the coins are worth that much,” said Vheyra. “Feel the weight.” The four actors were convinced. They gave grudging thanks and left the room. After they’d gone downstairs, the others continued the conversation.

“Lonaranga’s drool!” exclaimed Fuloy. “This is a sinking ship, isn’t it?”

“Looks that way,” said Letynas. “Vheyra, may I have some of the fixtures when you close this place permanently?”

“For a price, fellow drowner,” replied Vheyra. “There are final bills to pay.” Letynas saw his point.

“When did you notice the theatre’s terminal decline?” asked Zaffa.

“It started late last year,” replied Vheyra. “We thought it was one of those normal slumps but, in the New Year, we saw the death spiral. Some of us panicked, some departed and others fought on.”

“I still have faith in conventional theatre,” scoffed Letynas. “The stories are proven winners. We simply have to rediscover our audience.”

“Not here, I’m afraid,” said Vheyra sadly. “The audience has dispersed leaving only the underclass lurking outside. We’ll be shutting down for good in ten days. Rigt-Gups Developers want to convert this site into a closed data centre.”

“Where can people go for decent plays after that?” asked Fleny. “Zprohl City?!”

“Probably,” said Letynas. “I’m trying to find an opening there.”

“You’ll never make it,” said Vheyra. “Sorry but I have to say it: the competition in Zprohl is too hot for you. Think again, Letynas!”

“Time will tell,” said Letynas. “I’m no quitter.”

“I don’t suppose there are any rescue funds out there?” suggested Zaffa.

“All taken, love!” said Vheyra. “By the time we realised our predicament, they’d been snapped up.”

“If you’re interested, there’s a small community hall available in Druprawds Town,” said Zaffa, putting her hand on his. “You could arrange smaller productions there.” She was trying to console him. Vheyra thought it was odd. Zaffa wasn’t usually this tactile.

“No, it’s time I retired from this game,” said Vheyra. “I’d like to try other avenues. Horticulture’s increasingly popular. I’ll also check out some of this ‘new theatre’. They call it ‘Whithus’, I’ve heard.”

“Where are the actors and other staff going?” asked Fuloy.

“They’re scattering,” replied Letynas. “We’re going to lose a lot of talent. Some will enter retail, education or tourism. I’ve heard talk of trying to make a living in ‘Whithus’. That seems unlikely. It’s more a hobby than a job.”

“Well, I’m rather depressed by all this,” said Fleny. “The game’s up. Theatre’s dying around here. All we can do is help people move on and maybe arrange sales of fixtures and fittings. You could send us an inventory, Vheyra.” He nodded.

“Fret not; one door closes and another opens!” said Zaffa. “That applies to all of us. Now, we three should get going. We need to talk with Trecu at Blunkappeal.”

“Rather you than me,” said Letynas. “They’ve been staving off the debt collectors for fifty days now and they’re still in a deep hole.”

“More damage limitation is needed, then,” said Fleny. “Any special coins you could give us would be much appreciated!” Everyone laughed and then said their goodbyes. Zaffa, Fuloy and Fleny walked slowly downstairs. Fuloy heard an update chime and checked his tululator.

“This isn’t the way I envisaged my career,” said Fleny. “I hoped for steady work and standard organisation, not this wholesale decline and reinvention.”

“We can handle it, dearest,” said Zaffa, putting her arm around Fleny’s waist. “It’s one of life’s adventures. Let’s enjoy it!” Fleny wasn’t entirely comfortable with Zaffa’s forwardness but tolerated it because of the circumstances.

“No splegging way!” swore Fuloy after reading his update. “Hold everything! Some kind of flying ship is drifting across town!”

“You mean a balloon?” queried Zaffa.

“No, a big metal ship!” insisted Fuloy. “If we go outside, we should see it!” The three coordinators raced down the last flight of stairs and burst out onto the street. They could see the ominous, light brown shape levitating steadily above the townscape. It was roughly a cuboid that was a hundred metres long and thirty metres wide. Most people on the street stared at it. Just then, Zaffa received a call. She kept watching the ship while she connected.

“Zaffa, you’ll never believe where I’ve been!” said Agrive. He looked wired. Zaffa knew exactly where he’d been. This was a very tricky situation. She’d have to go home immediately and deal with it. She ran across the road and took a taxi crawler. On her way home, she explained to the others that there was a minor emergency with Agrive. After that, she watched the flying ship story unfold on the tuluromag.



* * * * *



9. (11 GLA 1537, Ceniolic’s neighbourhood: another suburb in Zaffa’s town)

“Ceniolic, it’s your turn,” said a voice above. “Move one space.” It was Burdekion. He was heavy-set and slightly older than Ceniolic. He was also putting Ceniolic to shame. His concentration was superior. It was difficult to stay alert after nearly a hundred and fifty biarks of mainly standing still.

“I’m starting to lose it here,” Ceniolic warned the group. “I’m the weak link tonight.” He wondered how the others kept focus every session. Were they simply better? Maybe they only pretended. It was well known that certain animals could sleep standing up. These Whithus participants probably could too. Regardless, Ceniolic had to decide on the next step in this obscure process. He’d thought about it long enough. He went forward and to the right onto spot 3.6.19. After half a biark, he and the others sensed that it was the wrong choice. Energies weren’t flowing so well. Three other players took their turns but the situation became cloudy. Minds weren’t connecting fully.

“That’s enough,” said Burdekion. “We’ve stalled but we made good progress earlier. That was our best attempt so far. With more practice, we’ll crack the puzzle. Everyone come down for drinks and nibbles.” A hundred and twenty nine people left the large, five-level game board using the built-in staircases. They were somewhat frustrated that they hadn’t improved the mind-net as much as they’d hoped. They were tired from standing but this was ameliorated by their trances during the session. Each player did his or her best to open up to outside influences. As far as they could tell, these originated in outer space. The five-level board represented the three dimensions of space while the players attempted to channel intelligent races of beings. Outsiders saw the whole business as a fantasy game but the players believed that it was a reflection of distant reality. That was, so far, impossible to prove.

Back on ground level, the players stretched and moved around to maintain mobility and flexibility. Afterwards, some left quickly while others stayed behind for a while. There were new, comfortable seats that the group had bought. (There was no public funding available as yet for this new pastime.) Ceniolic and a few dozen others sat down to rest. They ate and drank the refreshments they’d brought. There wasn’t much conversation since the players were reflecting on the session. Many still found time to admire the game board, which had been privately funded through gifts of material and credit. It wasn’t the best construction ever seen and it needed more safety railings but it was adequate for now. The players were all fit, sensible people who could climb stairs and hold their postures for long periods while they communed with the little-known cosmos.

“The Hselof Quorum,” said Gouline. “What fine folk they are!” Several people murmured their agreement.

“The Undwir,” said Lovubai. “They’re so uplifting but sometimes a little spiky.” The group chortled.

“I think that the Undwir have history with the Wodnabri,” added Zobstry. “I felt some joshing and mild tension.”

“They’re putting that behind them,” said Jejbuz. “Something’s making them reconcile.”

“Yeah, I felt that,” said Ceniolic. “I’m not the best at Whithus but even I can sense that there’s a mystery factor bringing the races together.”

“It could be just a general feeling of kinship,” said Hortbeck. “We have it here so it’s probably there too. I think it’s universal.” Ceniolic shrugged. Whithus was mainly a soup of uncertainty but it was satisfying and it brought people together. That included bringing Hortbeck into Ceniolic’s life. She partly unfolded her jaws and semi-smiled at him. He gazed into her eyes for a moment. The spark between them was growing. Ceniolic was torn because he was still two people in one body. As a young man, he wanted things like social acceptance and romance. As the older woman Zaffa, he/she wanted to investigate new cultural phenomena like Whithus. Zaffa wasn’t especially keen on loving Hortbeck but it would help Ceniolic to have a successful life. She showed him how to treat her. These hints and tips gave Ceniolic a big advantage in building relations with Hortbeck and also other friends and acquaintances. However, it was a very strange situation for Zaffa. She’d never really wanted to court another woman.

“Hey everyone, something important’s happening!” exclaimed Miqtonut as he watched the news live. “An alien space craft has been seen flying over our town, on the East side.” Many people gasped and reached for their tululators. Some clustered around Miqtonut to watch on his screen. They saw the rectangular ship cruise horizontally above town and then disappear abruptly. The commentators didn’t have much information about the ship but there was speculation about possible government action.

“Well, here’s actual physical proof of our findings,” said Gouline. “The outside races do exist. I wonder who sent the ship. Also, what do they want?”

“This is odd behaviour,” said Zobstry. “Until now, the other races have been reluctant to show themselves. They haven’t come along brazenly in physical ships. They only appeared in our trance experiences. This fly-by today looks like a challenge, not a friendly introduction. Notice there was no greeting.”

“It could be a declaration of war,” said Tuux. “That’s really bad news. It could be the end of the world.” His words brought dread to all.

“No, if they’d wanted that they would’ve done it immediately,” said Krean. “They’re trying something else, like intimidation.” Ceniolic was stunned by this new development. Being Zaffa at present, his aim was to find ways of encouraging attendance at sports events and shows. He’d found the nebulous fantasy ‘Whithus’ but now he saw that space people could be real and nearby. This was a complete game-changer. He wanted to go back to his old life, to be Zaffa again and then to look after Agrive. Therefore, he had to return to Clasta, who could put him back into his original body. Fortunately, the old prophet was only ten kilometres away.

“Ceniolic, where are you going?” asked Hortbeck as he took his utility bag and walked away hurriedly. “There are aliens here. They could attack any biark. We should go home to our families.”

“There’s still time for... erm... a quick trip to the hypermarket,” said Ceniolic. “That’s open late, right? I need a few things before we barricade ourselves in our houses.”

“This isn’t right!” said Hortbeck. “I don’t want you shopping when your family might need you. Look, everyone else is going home!” The others were rushing off to be with their loved ones.

“It’s hard to explain,” said Ceniolic. “You go home. I’ll follow shortly.”

“If you can’t explain, show me,” said Hortbeck. “I need you too. I should be there to help.” He knew she was persistent. There was no easy way out. She’d have to learn the hard way. They turned off their tululators, mounted their quincycles and rode into town. They kept to the cycleways to avoid the busy traffic. They still couldn’t go too fast since there were many other cyclists to avoid. As they rode, Ceniolic tried to contact Clasta telepathically but failed. He hoped that no harm had befallen the old fellow.

“We’re going the wrong way for the hypermarket,” said Hortbeck after eight kilometres. “It’s not a big surprise. I knew you were fibbing. I wonder what you really want.” She feared that he had another partner or else a group of pals.

“Alright, I need to call in a favour,” said Ceniolic, looking behind at her for a moment. “This is a special one. It’s kind of unavoidable.” Hortbeck didn’t know what to think. This was most intriguing. She hoped it wasn’t risky. Some young men had dark secrets. They continued into the town centre. As usual, the traffic was heavy so they had to wheel their cycles through crowds of commuters and shoppers.

“Nearly there,” said Ceniolic. “I’ll try to do this quickly but the man’s unpredictable. It might take a while. You should call your parents if this drags on.”

“What’s on, um, Houmcog Boulevard?” asked Hortbeck, reading the street and shop signs.

“A unique character called Clasta Vaq,” replied Ceniolic. “You could wait in one of these cafés...”

“No, no!” chided Hortbeck. “In for a cent, in for a credit. I want to know about your secret life.” Ceniolic tried to look happy but he was anxious. He knew that this could go wrong in some way. They locked their quincycles to secure posts and then proceeded on foot. They found Clasta in his usual spot. He’d stopped prophesising for the day and now he was sitting quietly with a drink, watching the people flow past.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Ceniolic, almost apologetically. “You don’t know me but we met before. I looked very different then.” Hortbeck was startled.

“Oh really?” queried Clasta. “Huh, I’m trying to remember who you might be. No, don’t tell me. It’ll come to me in a biark or two. In the mean time, why not come upstairs for more privacy? You could buy drinks if you like.”

“Clasta has an arrangement with this establishment,” explained Ceniolic to Hortbeck. “He helps the firm and they let him use this place every day.”

“I see,” said Hortbeck. “What for?”

“This and that,” replied Ceniolic. “He’s quite psychic. It’s an incredible gift!”

“So you want a favour from a psychic,” said Hortbeck. “Is this about gambling, investments or passing a test?”

“You’ll see,” said Ceniolic, quickly buying two cold drinks. “Lead on, maestro!” Clasta took them upstairs to the second floor apartment. The place was empty.

“Hmm, that family must be out,” said Ceniolic, glancing around the lounge. “They’ve tidied up well. All the kids’ toys have been put away.”

“Is the family out or are they just hiding?” suggested Clasta, chuckling. “Don’t look in the closet!”

“Are they trapped?!” joked Hortbeck. “Say, do you live here? The door’s wide open.”

“I live where I want,” said Clasta as he sat down in an armchair. “Tell me what you want, young man.”

“Have you seen the news?” asked Ceniolic, sitting quickly on the edge of the sofa. “An alien ship has been seen flying across town. We might be invaded soon. I’d like my old life back. I want to stop my research into Whithus and go back to my partner Agrive.” Hortbeck sat next to him. Mention of Agrive startled her. They both drank quickly because they were dehydrated after their cycle ride.

“Oh, I recall,” said Clasta, pointing at Ceniolic. “You were that woman Zaffa from the Sports & Ents Promotional Department. You were very keen to see what the young people were doing. They have those new activities that they don’t share with everyone. You were out-of-touch so I had to send you on an extensive field trip.”

“You’re a woman?!” exclaimed Hortbeck.

“It’s more complicated than that,” said Ceniolic, embarrassed. “I’m two people in one body thanks to Clasta.”

“Splegging krong!” swore Hortbeck, astonished. “Why do something so idiotic? There are easier ways of learning stuff!”

“It was the ultimate undercover gig until Clasta ruined it,” said Ceniolic. “Thanks, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it!” said Clasta, who didn’t seem offended. “You helped too!”

“So you see, I’m a man with a woman’s mind sharing my brain,” said Ceniolic. “I’m really sorry. I tried to stop you from learning about this but you insisted on being here. I reckoned you could handle the truth. This is purely a temporary arrangement. Soon, the woman will be gone and I’ll be back to normal.”

“Did you agree to this?” asked Hortbeck. “Did you let her share your mind?”

“Yes because I’m helpful and generous, perhaps too much so,” said Ceniolic. “Clasta, could you please put Zaffa back in her own body? She doesn’t want to face an alien invasion while she’s stuck in a borrowed body.”

“Zaffa, have you learnt enough about Whithus and other contemporary activities?” enquired Clasta. “It would be a shame to terminate the arrangement prematurely. You wouldn’t get another chance.”

“Never mind the work,” said Ceniolic. “Please could you give Zaffa back her old life? She wants to be with Agrive at this dangerous time.”

“This isn’t a dangerous time, though,” said Clasta. “Trust me, the danger’s passed.”

“What happened?” asked Hortbeck. “Did you watch them leave? Did they promise not to attack?”

“The invasion was over many years ago,” replied Clasta. “No one got hurt, nothing was damaged. We all live in peace.”

“What do you mean...?” asked Hortbeck before realising what he meant. She looked horrified, as did Ceniolic.

“We’re helping you to evolve,” said Clasta. “Occasionally, individuals need special arrangements to learn rapidly. Zaffa, your temporary status is more important than you know. Live with it for a while longer. When it ends, you’ll find yourself home again.” Ceniolic and Hortbeck were shocked and terrified. Clasta was an alien. This building was probably his base. He had great power and he was shaping their lives. They felt threatened, as if they were too close to a monster.

“Could I at least, er, visit Agrive?” pleaded Ceniolic, standing up slowly.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” said Clasta. “He’s got his own thing going on. A crossover at this stage would be awkward. Look, do what you set out to do. Learn about the emerging culture. Don’t worry about stuff beyond your control. Ride life’s waves. Let others take care of the rest. Neither of you should blab about us, by the way. If you blow our cover, we might have to get tough and that wouldn’t be pleasant, understand?” Ceniolic and Hortbeck nodded. Hortbeck got up and both of them retreated from the room.

“Good luck with the rest of your lives,” said Clasta. “Maybe we’ll meet again if you need further assistance.”

“G-goodbye, sir,” said Ceniolic. “Sorry to trouble you.” They went downstairs. Halfway down, Hortbeck stopped and looked back. Through a gap in the banister rail, she saw Clasta go to the closet. The door opened from the inside. Clasta seemed to be communicating silently with someone or something. A bizarre metal hand gripped the edge of the closet door. Hortbeck took fright and skipped down the rest of the stairs. Ceniolic dashed after her. Out in the street, the pair didn’t quite know what to do with themselves. They panicked and tried to cross the road but were nearly run down by vehicles. They retreated and jogged along the sidewalk. After a hundred metres, Ceniolic remembered the quincycles. Reversing, they found their pedal transport, unlocked both and wheeled them quickly away. They couldn’t wait to leave the area. When they reached the nearest cycleway, they remounted and rode away shakily.

“Ceniolic, the next time you advise me not to do something, I’ll listen!” said Hortbeck. “I didn’t need to know about those creatures in our town. We should’ve left well alone!”

“I was a fool,” said Ceniolic ruefully. “I should’ve guessed he was more than met the eye.”

“No, his disguise was perfect!” said Hortbeck. “Don’t blame yourself. He’s too advanced for anyone. He can transplant souls, for spleg’s sake!”

“What are we going to do now?” asked Ceniolic.

“You heard him, we’re stuck as we are,” said Hortbeck. “We can’t tell anyone. We can’t fight back. We have to learn to live with it. At least we can do normal things. I tell you, Whithus just got much more important! It might give us a solution.”

“How do you feel about my passenger Zaffa?” asked Ceniolic. “Could you tolerate her?”

“I’m trying to develop an open mind,” said Hortbeck. “I’m sure Zaffa can help with that. I should thank her!”

“She’s grateful,” said Ceniolic, feeling calmer. “She likes you too.” They cycled home with a profound secret that would create a unique bond.



* * * * *



10. (11 GLA 1537, Zkinarn village near Zaffa’s town)

Agrive tried to hide his disappointment as the amateur group danced. Their moves were tame. Their choreography was third-rate. Their looks and fitness levels were average at best. They were overweight and sweated profusely. However, they were trying to learn from their rehearsals. Their dedication was strong and their endurance had improved, apparently. Grian assured him that there was a storyline behind the routine, though this wasn’t the same every day. The dancers were using their intuitions to change the act as they went along. It was a director’s nightmare but Agrive hadn’t seen a director here so it didn’t matter. As the dance progressed, it improved slowly. Most of the dancers seemed happy and committed. In that way, they reminded Agrive of his relationship with Zaffa. Tears formed and rolled down his jaws. He wondered if he’d ever be with Zaffa again.

“Crying again, dear?” asked Grian, returning with hot drinks and sweet snacks. She put the refreshments down and sat beside him. She put her left arm around him and dried his tears with her right hand.

“Of course,” said Agrive. “How could I not? I’ve lost lovely Zaffa to some kind of professional impersonator. He has high-powered weapons so I dare not confront him.” He and Grian began sipping their drinks and nibbling snacks as they continued watching the dance. They talked quietly.

“And on top of that, the aliens,” said Grian. “Who knows if they’ll start conquering us and taking our land?”

“Splegging dongbers, what are we going to do?” pondered Agrive grimly. “I’ve no idea about my next move. This usurper’s convinced Zaffa that he’s me. He’s probably convinced a lot of other people too. If the police get involved, the aliens might come after me. I don’t even know if I can talk to my parents and other relatives. They may think I’M the impostor.”

“You can stay with us as long as you need,” said Grian. “We understand your predicament. We know the great powers of aliens. You’ll need a strategy to beat the fake Agrive.”

“Thanks for your kindness,” said Agrive. “I’m so glad I came to your guesthouse.”

“You’d be surprised how many lonely travellers need someone to hear their sad stories,” said Grian. “At least we know many ways to cheer people up, like this promising new dance troupe. They’re very avant garde, if you ask me.” She and Agrive kept watching. There was also an audience of twelve friends and relatives, who were attentive and supportive. Just then, one of the dancers pulled a muscle and fell over. Three friends rushed forward, picked him up and carried him to a chair, where he sat and winced in pain. The other dancers continued the routine. A substitute woman took the injured man’s place in the formation. Evidently, finishing the rehearsal was more important than one hurt dancer.

“What are they enacting or re-enacting, Grian?” asked Agrive. “I have no idea, no frame of reference.”

“I think it’s the Battle of Kenfrichi followed by the Peace Accord of Zizeepi,” replied Grian. “You probably haven’t heard of them. We’re not sure if they really happened or they’re only a recurring dream.”

“What’s that all about?” asked Agrive.

“As far as we know, Kenfrichi was a great warlord who had a system of food outlets for his people,” answered Grian. “One year, there was a food shortage at the wrong time due to a manager’s error and the people were angered. This led to civil war that only ended when a courageous woman Zizeepi stepped in. She set up her own food outlets and kept the starving alive in her region. This persuaded the people to stop fighting and rebuild the former outlet system. Zizeepi herself was martyred by poison but the assassin was killed in his turn and her death ensured the success of a formal peace accord.”

“That’s a marvellous story,” said Agrive. “Why haven’t I read it in history books?”

“We think that it might have happened in prehistoric times,” said Grian. “There were no records at all. We’re rediscovering it through mystic means.”

“That’s possible,” said Agrive. “Otherwise, it might’ve happened up there somewhere.” He pointed at the sky.

“Could be,” agreed Grian. “If only we knew more. Maybe that impostor could tell us.”

“You think he’s one of them?” queried Agrive.

“If you’re right about him, it would make sense,” said Grian. “I mean, making an exact duplicate of you would be extremely difficult. You have no identical brothers so it’s either a miraculous illusion or the product of a super-advanced race.”

“Spleg!” cursed Agrive softly. He reminisced about his inglorious homecoming. He’d entered the house, called Zaffa and waited a short while. He’d cleaned himself, changed clothes and collected pocket essentials like a pen, handiwipes and extra cash. Before Zaffa could reach him, someone else had unlocked the front door. Agrive was cautious so he’d left by the back door and hidden in the garden shed. Through a tiny gap in the door frame, he’d watched his doppelganger wander around inside the house. After that, Agrive had used binoculars to look closer, via the shed’s small window. The faker’s resemblance to him was uncanny, even surreal. The faker had then come outside into the garden. Agrive thought he’d be discovered but the faker went past the shed and used a power tool to cut down weeds. This was puzzling because all Agrive’s power tools were still in the shed. The faker had composted the weeds and then gone back indoors. He’d sat at the kitchen table, produced two rifles and cleaned them. When he finally moved out of sight, Agrive had left the shed and escaped unnoticed via the back gate. Fearing for his life, he’d left his car and sneaked to the nearest main road. He’d caught public transport to the village of Zkinarn, fifteen kilometres from town. He’d gone to Grian’s guesthouse to book a room. While doing so, he’d had an emotional breakdown. Grian had taken him into a back room where he’d told her his story. She’d been very understanding, sympathetic and helpful. After a good meal, she’d brought him to see the dancers. She’d hoped they’d cheer him up and divert him pleasantly. She’d partly succeeded.

“You know, the good thing about this dance troupe is minimal judgment,” said Grian. “The standard’s not high but it doesn’t matter. They don’t criticise each other very much. They simply keep trying. It’s free-form and improvised. The fluid storylines are the most important things. The welcome by-products are increased fitness and self-esteem.”

“That’s good,” said Agrive. “Zaffa’s interested in all this. She’s trying to stop the decline in traditional arts.”

“Huh, that old rubbish,” said Grian. “We’re sick of it. This is the wave of the future. It’s exciting to watch the new arts grow, improve and bring back meaning. Maybe your Zaffa should call it quits and change direction.”

“I did mention that before... HE came along,” said Agrive sadly. “She wanted to stick up for the old guard and do what she could to preserve their time-honoured genres.”

“Could you contact her and try to reconnect?” asked Grian. “Sing-tap her on the tululator.”

“I don’t think it’ll be that easy,” said Agrive. “She’s changed a lot in only a few days. Previously, she wouldn’t tolerate guns in the house. Now, she’s fine with it. I reckon she’s under alien influence too. They might have replaced her, like they replaced me.”

“Ask friends and relatives,” proposed Grian. “They should have insights.”

“How do we know who’s genuine?!” said Agrive. “They replaced me in a matter of hours. Zaffa could be a substitute. Thousands of people could be fakes. These aliens are literally body-snatchers!”

“Well, without much information there’s no scientific test, I guess,” said Grian. “Use your intuition and your detailed personal knowledge. Ask them obscure questions to see if they remember secret things like affairs, old favourites and hiding places.”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Agrive. “I know who to approach and what to ask. I only hope that they’re still them tomorrow.” After another twenty biarks, the dance rehearsal ended and Agrive could go back to the guest house for some much-needed sleep.



* * * * *

11. (12 GLA 1537, an arts centre in Zaffa’s town)

“I live for this,” said the soft, sinister voice. “Over the years, I’ve become an artist. I used to be more direct but now my quest for the new is limitless.” As the voice made comments through the headphones, the unwilling listener trembled and wept. She felt betrayed by all those around her. None of the captive group had warned her that this would happen. The captors were their patrons. The government and police weren’t helping at all. The building management had been duped into thinking that this gathering was a legitimate performance. They hadn’t realised the true situation.

“Pon Gipitz, you poor wretch, you’re a born victim,” said the voice. “We’ve examined your luckless past. It’s incredible that you haven’t topped yourself. Maybe you knew that you were needed for a great purpose later. That purpose is now upon you, if you want it. Go on lover: you know you want it. Surrender to it!” Pon wept harder. She knew what the voice meant. She’d studied the occult. She’d encountered dark spirits that offered her a new life with them. She’d always hesitated, afraid. As further misfortunes had been heaped upon her, the spirits’ call had grown stronger.

“Pon, darling, you can be so much more than this!” said the voice with a velvet tone. “Passive posing for pretentious nitwits is beneath you. Don’t hide your light: burst forth and show them your mettle!” She knew she could do it but the change would be irrevocable. She’d be cutting herself off from all her friends and relatives. Having said that, she had few left and even those weren’t pleasant. Maybe she could take the plunge without regret? She was close to doing it.

“You saw our ship earlier, I presume?” said the voice. “We wanted to give you all a hint of our power. Frankly, without help your people are easy prey. What’ll you do, Pon Gipitz? What will you do?” The voice laughed with a slight electronic buzz. It was very menacing but Pon suspected that this whole business was a horrible prank by clever, unkind people with free time. She wasn’t going to be tricked. She was in danger but she’d wait until the last moment before unleashing any chaos magic. Only a few biarks later, three men entered through an unlocked fire exit. The men found a strange and disturbing scene.

“What’s this?!” demanded Smingul, his eyes adjusting to the odd lighting in the hall. “Who’s the organiser here?” The closest person stared at him. His mouth held closed with adhesive tape, the young man could only shake his head and make muffled noises.

“You’re covered with paint,” observed Mosfeeg. “Is this art? Does anyone have a knife?” Smingul found a small craft knife on a window sill and used it to cut the tape.

“Mneh, phlah, set us free!” said the young man, clearing his mouth of paint and spittle. “This is a kidnapping!” As quickly as he could, Smingul cut more tape and freed the young man, who’d been secured to a vertical metal rod fixed to the floor. Still wrapped in copious tape, the man staggered away from the pole and turned around to look at the hall. Over forty of his colleagues were still bound to their own rods.

“This is such a weird time, isn’t it?!” said Agrive as Mosfeeg started to release a young woman. “Problems at home, at work, all over town...”

“Quiet!” hissed the young man. “They’ll hear you. They have guns!”

“Who are they?” whispered Agrive.

“A bunch of artists,” said the young man. “People like Pylvic Slath, Harmon Dersh and Quaqua the Abno. They’re upstairs celebrating.” Agrive, Mosfeeg and Smingul were dismayed. Mosfeeg finished cutting the young woman free. She spat paint and tape fragments on the floor.

“They’ve gone insane,” she said. “They took us all hostage and made us into an art installation. They’ve been filming us.”

“If only we’d brought blades!” said Smingul as he tried and failed to tear tape from another young man. A second young woman heard him and pointed out a few small knives on the floor next to her. She did it with her foot because her hands were immobilised. Smingul and Agrive could now free hostages. As more people were cut loose, they could help free others. Within ten biarks, everyone was free. Last in line was Pon. She’d been used as a platform for small stage lights and speakers. Agrive and Smingul, already smeared with multicoloured paint, shut down the power and untangled her from tape, harness and wires.

“You’ve missed your chance, Pon,” was the last message from the sinister voice. “You could’ve been a cosmic colossus but you blew it. You’re a failure to the last.”

“Vile creature!” said Pon when her mouth tape was removed. “You won’t get me!”

“What?” queried Smingul.

“Oh, not you!” replied Pon. “I meant the evil thing that talked to me through the headphones. It said that it was an alien. My name’s Pon Gipitz, by the way.” Agrive and Smingul looked across to where they’d put the lights, speakers and headphones. All of them had disappeared suddenly without explanation.

“Spleg!” said Agrive. “You were right, Miss!”

“No time to worry about that stuff,” said Smingul. “We have to evacuate everyone safely.” Agrive, Smingul and Mosfeeg led the forty five hostages out of the building and down the road toward a private courtyard. Mosfeeg knew the owner. She’d let them stay there briefly while they tried to clean themselves. Smingul called the police, who came in force to confront the armed artists at the hall.

“This paint won’t come off easily,” said Mosfeeg, touching some on his sleeve. “We’ll need cleaning chemicals and cloths for a start.”

“I’ll go to the nearest hardware store and buy them,” said Smingul, who had a walker-car close by. “We’ll also need old blankets for warmth. These young folk have no clothes!” He ran to the car.

“How did you get like this?” Agrive asked the group.

“We’re artists’ models,” said one of the young men. “We’re often au naturel. We didn’t expect a problem until it was too late. Our artists fooled us all.”

“My artist Stablik Kunrey said that he had a new theme of sticking together and wrapping things up,” said a young woman. “I’ll sue him for misleading and abusing me.” A few biarks later, the group reached the courtyard and waited for Smingul to return. They continued peeling lengths of tape from each other, which helped to remove some of the paint.

“How could Harmon Dersh be involved with this?” wondered Mosfeeg aloud. “He’s one of the nicest people I know.”

“It’s one of these new mutual help groups,” said a young woman. “Many artists went to the same group and brainstormed. They could see that their traditional works weren’t popular anymore so they must’ve come up with this plan. I guess they wanted shock tactics. They exploited us to achieve it.”

“Instead of painting us on canvas, they painted us directly,” said a young man. “I hope that our delicate zones will recover from this!” He looked down at himself and scowled.

“They stooped so low!” muttered Agrive. “They acted out of character. I reckon someone or something led them astray.” There was shouting in the distance as the police arrested the artists. They’d surrendered without a fight, having circulated their videos on the tuluromag and thus achieved their goal.

“Tell me about it,” said Pon, using a strip of tape to tear paint from her bare leg. “One of the aliens spoke to me and tried to corrupt me. I held out against him.”

“Why did he focus on you?” asked Agrive.

“He wanted my magical abilities!” said Pon.

“You’re as magic as my bottom!” scoffed a young man, unconvinced.

“I have the abilities but I just don’t use them,” said Pon. “They’re very dangerous. You’d all be hurt.” A few of the others laughed but not Mosfeeg and Agrive. By now, they’d seen enough to believe such stories and take them seriously.

“Here’s more clear evidence of alien interference on our planet,” said Mosfeeg to Agrive. “We have to outsmart them when we can. We should prevent them from possessing or replacing people like Zaffa, Libnucal, Pon and yourself.”

“I don’t have high hopes but we must try,” said Agrive. “Pon resisted well: that’s a good sign.” The two men waited with the freed models while Smingul shopped rapidly and some old blankets were brought out from the host’s house. Meanwhile, the arrest of so many important artists was a blow to entertainment revenue but that was insignificant now. The alien threat loomed large and the government didn’t know what to do.



* * * * *



12. (12 GLA 1537, a side street in Zaffa’s town centre, followed by a journey to Zaffa’s house)

Later that day, Agrive and Mosfeeg sat with Smingul in his walker-car. They’d been helping the artists’ models and police for hours. Now, they were taking a well-earned break in a backstreet. They could see military vehicles go past on the nearest main street, two hundred metres away. Most of those were walker-trucks but some were the latest super-tanks, which were equipped with wheels because they were too heavy for legs.

“Everything’s going to hell,” said Mosfeeg, gesturing at the war machines that rumbled past. “Our line of work isn’t just declining; it’s going to be suspended indefinitely. We’re only waiting for notification from Zaffa.”

“It’ll be martial law soon,” said Smingul. “We could be under house arrest or forced to evacuate.”

“Have you managed to contact Zaffa yet?” asked Agrive. “I’m relying on you two. Could you have another try?”

“She said earlier that she’s very busy,” said Mosfeeg. “She’s hardly replying to her messages and she’s been away from the office most of the time. Libnucal’s holding the fort.”

“I sent a message forty biarks ago,” said Smingul. “There’s still no reply. Anyway, I’m going to nap. It’s been a long day, my shift’s nearly over and I’m tired.” He closed his eyes and attempted to doze in the warm sunshine. Mosfeeg watched the military traffic. Agrive shook his head slightly and mulled over the situation. He needed special help to find Zaffa and put her right again. He’d considered going back to the prophet but Mosfeeg and Smingul had warned him against it. The only other option was to join one of these new groups and reach out to friendly aliens for help. Agrive pulled out his tululator and began searching for likely sources of assistance. After ten biarks, he heard a tapping on the back window. Automatically, he opened his side window.

“You’re fairly difficult to find,” said a familiar voice. “However, your occasional online activity gives you away. Hello again, Nookums!”

“Zaffa!” exclaimed Agrive, seeing her peering through the window. “I thought you were working.”

“Tracking you down is work,” said Zaffa. “Agrive 2 and I drove to multiple addresses. You kept moving around. The upheaval here was a hindrance too.” Behind her, Agrive could see his double looking at him. He was holding a small weapon. It was shaped like a standard hard-pellet-caster (H.P.C.) but it glowed and whirred in a non-standard way. Agrive’s spirits sank.

“Spleg!” exclaimed Mosfeeg, looking around.

“You and Smingul shut your mouths and stay where you are!” snarled Agrive 2, showing him the H.P.C. Mosfeeg did as ordered and kept watching. He put an arm across Smingul’s chest to stop him from leaving the car. He whispered a warning about the H.P.C.

“So what do you want from us?” asked Agrive tentatively. “You’ve replaced me and your work’s going down the pan. Aren’t we all becoming unnecessary?”

“Don’t sell yourselves short, Nookums!” said Zaffa. “Mosfeeg and Smingul still have some use at work before the funding is pulled. I’ll talk to them momentarily. As for you beloved, I’ve discovered that you’re irreplaceable in many ways. The other one behind me has the power but not the touch, understand? I miss the touch. I miss you, Nookums. This lookalike is going to take you home now. Don’t try to escape. I’d be bereft if he had to terminate you.” Agrive left the car at gunpoint and walked away slowly. He was heartened that Zaffa still valued him but the alien connection was a very effective passion-killer. After fifty metres, he stopped and spoke to his duplicate.

“This is going to look very strange, with us being identical and...” he said, turning around. “Where did you go?” The other Agrive was gone and now a solo crawler vehicle sat in his place.

“Get on board,” said the crawler. “I’m your transport now.” Agrive looked at the crawler, stunned. This was completely unexpected. His duplicate had converted himself into a one-person conveyance.

“Hurry, Nookums!” said the crawler. “I hate dawdlers.” A small, thin arm extended from the control shaft. The arm beckoned Agrive over and then retracted. He had to comply. He sat in the saddle and the crawler accelerated away.

“Where’s your H.P.C.?” asked Agrive.

“Directly under you,” replied the crawler. “Don’t get any ideas, alright?”

“Please don’t call me Nookums,” said Agrive. “I hate it.”

“Suck it up, Nookums!” said the crawler.

“Where’s my safety gear?” ventured Agrive, trying to stall his abductor.

“Don’t be so wishy-washy!” said the crawler. “I won’t crash. You softies disgust me.” Travelling along the main road, the crawler scanned the army vehicles. They were boring, conventional, pre-nuclear technology made of dumb steel and internal combustion engines. His people could cut through them as if they were mist.

“First-rate driving!” said Agrive. “You must be so splegging superior to me!” The crawler said nothing. Such obvious, self-serving flattery was like white noise. Did he detect sarcasm?

“Isn’t this all beneath you?” asked Agrive. “Why are you bothering with us? We can’t be valuable to the likes of you.”

“I think you’re figuring it out,” said the crawler. “We’re monitoring you very closely. Save your breath and hang on tight. I’m going up that hill to your house and I won’t obey the speed limit.” He raced up the narrow hill streets, swinging close to walls, posts and other vehicles. Agrive made himself as small as possible to avoid injury. The near-misses scared him but he was on home turf, which was reassuring.

“Hey Agrive, nice crawler!” said a friend walking past. Agrive only had time to wave before the friend receded into the distance. Two biarks later, Agrive arrived home. He dismounted, walked briskly to the door, unlocked it and went to the smallest room in the house.

“That trip really loosened me up,” he explained as the alien changed form again. “Now I have a vital appointment with the sanitary facilities.”

“Utterly predictable,” said Agrive 2, walking inside and shutting the front door. “Damned softies.”

“And I’ll leave this door open for your benefit!” said Agrive defiantly. He was angry. He’d risked his life and worked hard today liberating hostages. Now he was a hostage himself, in his own home. At least he’d have a few home comforts.

“Predictable again,” said Agrive 2. “Why do these creatures think they can offend me so easily?” He stood at ease in the hall and communed with his people, who were scattered widely across the universe. That was real living, not this nano-scale domestic nonsense.



* * * * *



13. (12 GLA 1537, the police station in Zaffa’s town centre)

It was early evening and the oval moon was a rare reddish-purple due to aerial dust. The town was nervous. Many routines had been disrupted. Some people were staying indoors to avoid trouble. Others were carrying on regardless. In families, the bold and the cautious argued. This was causing resentment. A minority were heading out to demonstrate. They were organising quickly via the tuluromag and then entering the town centre. Zaffa had clocked off, having told Smingul and Mosfeeg what to do next. They’d been scared and subdued after she’d demonstrated her new tracking skills and introduced her alien friend. She was glad that she’d brought Agrive under control too. She was now at the police station, waiting for a chance to see today’s captured ‘criminals’. The police were busy tonight. There’d be a long wait but she had time. Agrive 2 was ‘baby-sitting’ Agrive 1 at home. Zaffa looked out of the window. There were soldiers on duty. Hundreds of people milled about and traffic flowed as usual. Folk were going home, meeting up, eating and drinking, window shopping and even going to shows. Zaffa was glad to see that conventional entertainment still drew crowds.

As she watched, a slight headache began. Maybe she was over-stressed after a long, active day? She sensed another factor at work. A cloud of mental energy was floating in. It felt powerful and determined, yet not destructive. A biark later, more people began arriving in the street outside. They moved in groups. It was an ad hoc meeting of community ‘culture units’. They weren’t dressed up but some wore sports clothes. The other people on the street watched them curiously and stepped aside to make room. A few laughed and jeered but that soon stopped. A weird atmosphere was developing. Some of the newcomers walked into the police station. The desk staff talked to them. The newcomers made demands. They were refused. They persisted and pleaded. Some of the police were actually their neighbours at home so they listened carefully. Zaffa could hear the sound but couldn’t make out the words. She could tell from the tone that the newcomers were winning the police around. More officers and constables went forward into the entrance hall, to see what was going on. Zaffa used her tululator to summon Agrive 2 and then she spoke to the custody officer.

“Have you seen...?” she said, pointing at the entrance hall.

“Of course I have!” said the custody officer, her eyes fixed on the doorway and the monitors. “Drifful, sit rep!”

“Not sure Kugnoi,” said Drifful from the entrance hall. “Raise the barrier to be safe.”

“Stand back,” said the Kugnoi to Zaffa. “I’m sealing the cells.” Zaffa was supposed to return to her seat but instead went behind Kugnoi. The emergency steel barrier rose from the floor and divided the room.

“Great, now you’re stuck here until this is resolved,” said Kugnoi. “That might take half the night.”

“Oh darn!” said Zaffa with a shrug. “These things happen. I already told my partner I’d be late, so that’s covered.”

“Wonderful,” said Kugnoi. “Now don’t be a nuisance. I have to mind the cells until this blows over.”

“Would you mind awfully if I talked to some of the people in custody?” asked Zaffa politely. “They’re good friends of mine.”

“Might as well,” said Kugnoi. “Stay here and talk through the doorway. No admittance to the cells themselves.” Zaffa nodded and turned toward the doorway.

“Harmon, what the spleg?!” exclaimed Zaffa harshly.

“Needs must, m’lady!” said Harmon as he lay on a hard bench. “You’re a cunning so-and-so but you don’t understand the artist’s mind-set.”

“Abduction, bodily harm, false imprisonment, entrapment, fraud, mild terrorism,” said Zaffa. “Your reputation’s shattered. Your career’s finished. That goes for all of you.”

“The trial hasn’t even started,” said Harmon, suffering his own slight headache after a celebration in the early afternoon. “It’s on shaky foundations. Some of the models enjoyed being restrained and decorated. We all saw it, plain as day.”

“Some did but others didn’t,” Zaffa pointed out. “Worry about them, the second group!”

“They can be talked around,” said Harmon. “I have many persuasive friends.”

“Why did you all go so far for a shock show?” queried Zaffa. “It wasn’t worth it! Why did you wreck yourselves and your art-form so badly?”

“My art-form is fine, thank you,” said Harmon, peeved. “You know it’s very resilient. Panicking and making a scene won’t change that.”

“Relax Zaffa, we know what we’re doing!” said Pylvic from another cell. “It was the right thing at the right time. You’ll see in due course.”

“And what side of the fence are you on?” demanded Zaffa angrily. “Are you paying the bills? We can’t subsist on scandal and ignominy! You know what this looks like? I think you’re going over to the other side: you know, the free-stylers who churn out mediocre product and rely on day jobs. You’re losing your commitment to the professional arts!”

“Here we go, the stinky bottom line again,” said Pylvic. “I detest its humming reek. I like removing the yoke when I can. We’re amateurs and proud, when we want to be!”

“There’s no divide between paid and unpaid art, besides currency,” said Harmon. “We cross from one to the other at whim. In fact, they FEED each other.”

“Zaffa, don’t annoy them,” warned Kugnoi. “It’s harassment.” Zaffa glared at her. The headache was worsening. The artists had deliberately incarcerated themselves. Zaffa was stuck in here with them. Kugnoi was irritating. A mob was waiting outside. All around, myriad brainwaves were tuned against Zaffa’s cause. This disobedience was infuriating! Zaffa couldn’t make headway here tonight. She wanted to leave. Meanwhile, Harmon started singing a popular tune but replaced all the lyrics with ‘Money grubber’. The refrain rang out over and over, leaving Zaffa fuming. These smug people were beyond the pale! She couldn’t do much for now so she found a chair, sat down and fumed silently. When the singing had petered out, she read any leaflets and booklets lying around. After forty biarks, someone started lowering the barrier manually. It dropped slowly but very soon people were climbing over.

“What’s happening Drifful?!” asked Kugnoi.

“We’re letting the artists go,” replied Drifful. “It’s in the public interest. If we need to find them again, we know where they live. Also, we can’t function with a few hundred people occupying our hall.”

“But they’re kidnappers!” objected Kugnoi as someone grabbed her keys. “Hey you can’t do that!”

“Some of the ‘hostages’ came forward and denied they were held against their will,” said Drifful. “We don’t have enough evidence to hold the artists. Let them go.” The cranking continued, the barrier retracted into the floor, the cells were unlocked by locals and the artists were escorted out. Kugnoi and Zaffa watched them go.

“If they’re free, they can earn again,” said Kugnoi. “You should thank your lucky stars.” She looked around for her keys.

“And all publicity is good publicity,” said Zaffa. “What a shambles, though.” When the crowd had cleared enough, she went outside and found a familiar solo crawler. She climbed aboard and it took her home. As she went, she noticed that the soldiers were telling people to disperse. They’d tolerated this mass action but now they wanted the streets cleared.

“Did you find answers?” asked Agrive 2.

“Some but not the right ones,” replied Zaffa. “The people around here are strong-willed and have a great deal of back-up from other races. It’s given me a headache! Can you believe it?! We should’ve eliminated them with the other targets.” Should’ve but weren’t allowed. Zaffa closed her eyes and felt the night air pour around her as they whizzed up the hill. Tomorrow was another day.



* * * * *



14. (12 GLA 1537, a hillside near Zaffa’s town)

“We HAVE to report that alien!” said Smingul to Herraj that evening, after Libnucal and Zaffa had left. “It threatened us with some kind of space gun!” They’d parked on an unpopulated hillside eight kilometres from town. They hoped that they weren’t being monitored.

“We have no idea how to find it,” said Mosfeeg. “I saw it change into a crawler. It could change into other things or other people.”

“It’s at Zaffa’s house sometimes,” said Smingul. “Also, it goes out with Zaffa when necessary. Those are our best leads.”

“I don’t want anything to do with it,” said Herraj, holding up his hands. “I have to keep my family safe. That creature would hunt us down without hesitation if we informed on it.”

“It’s clear to me that the alien is beyond our control,” said Fuloy. “You saw that ship. The technology is light years ahead of us. The police and army can’t stop the alien or his friends.”

“We should all get out of here while we can; move away,” said Fleny. “We’re going to lose our jobs soon anyway. We should look for pastures new.”

“We can run but we can’t hide,” said Smingul. “It tracks our tuluromag connections. It could have other methods too, like scent or brain wave detection. I think that moving away is too risky, not to mention disruptive.”

“So we’re trapped, basically,” said Herraj. “We can be shot like vermin. Spleg it all, if only I’d seen it coming!”

“They haven’t shot us yet, though,” said Fuloy. “Why’s that? They’re holding back. I believe we have something they need.”

“Whatever it is, it’s not blunk-line,” said Mosfeeg. “Another two teams have folded today. The game’s in terminal decline.”

“We’re witnesses at the end of normal sport and traditional entertainment,” said Fleny. “It’s been like a series of grim funerals. Maybe those aliens like our misery?”

“Probably but they can get misery anywhere,” said Fuloy. “If I had to guess, they’re interested in the new community entertainment groups. Those are the cutting edge of our culture, though I don’t understand them.”

“We’ve been trying to shore up the old ways but we haven’t investigated these new groups properly,” said Smingul. “I say we put our existing efforts on hold and engage with the communities. We need first-hand insights, not just reports from outsiders. It would help our jobs and reveal more about the aliens.”

“Zaffa won’t like it,” said Fleny. “She’ll dismiss us or worse.”

“So we persuade her,” said Smingul. “She knows we should change tack. If that fails, we could investigate in the evenings. Many of the groups meet then.”

“She terrifies me,” said Fleny, shuddering. “She’s our boss but she’s also a thing from another star. I’ve been avoiding her as much as possible.” Smingul put his right arm around Fleny’s shoulders to comfort her.

“If we can get to the bottom of all this, it might all be resolved,” said Herraj hopefully. “The aliens, the infiltration and the disruption in general: the whole situation could clear up.”

“We’re talking about a big, in-depth investigation, aren’t we?” said Fuloy. “We should use any possible contacts to get help. Who knows where it’ll lead?!”

“This is completely beyond our pay grade!” said Mosfeeg. “The new groups are somehow connected with alien civilisations. There’s no way we can do proper research. We can only scratch the surface.”

“Obviously we can’t perform miracles but maybe we can learn enough to keep our show on the road!” said Smingul. “I mean that both literally and metaphorically.”

“They say ‘expect the unexpected’ but this is way out there!” said Herraj, shaking his head. “O.K., we’ll get together and talk to Zaffa tomorrow.”

“If she agrees to our proposal, should we let her and Libnucal come along?” asked Fleny.

“That’s unavoidable,” said Herraj. “There’s an alien enforcer involved. Sorry, we’ll have to put up with them.”

“Act normally,” said Fuloy. “We’re trying something new but our core behaviours shouldn’t change. As part of that, let’s go home for a normal night’s sleep. As an alibi for this meeting, we were having a drink at the Klejuc Inn.” It was the favourite excuse for arriving home late. Everyone agreed to it and then went home, driven by Smingul. None of them had a normal night’s sleep. They were having second thoughts about talking to Zaffa.



* * * * *



15. (13 GLA 1537, the far side of Zaffa’s world, almost at the antipode to her town)

On the far side of the world, in the distant mountain retreat of Swos, the students practised their synchronised moves. It wasn’t a perfect demonstration. Some were younger and more flexible than others. That didn’t matter because this outdoor exercise was more about attitude and world view. Bodily control and coordination went hand in hand with mental and spiritual development. Everyone in the group could feel some benefit. The air was clear. The land was quiet. Only a few animals called prettily in the distance. There was no favouritism. All felt valued. Working toward a common goal felt unifying. Libnucal nearly forgot her troubles, stranded here in an old man’s body. Zaffa had explained to her that this was a radical, educational breakthrough. She knew that she couldn’t escape for at least six days, when the next ATV would visit. She could walk out to the nearest transport hub but she doubted that her borrowed body could handle the long, difficult trek. She could sometimes call home but had decided not to, since her situation was very hard to explain. Instead, she concentrated on maximum learning. The group here was dedicated to mind expansion and harmonious, natural life. They also pursued moderate exercise regimes, which took the place of organised sport. The fitter people did more activities like running, climbing and lifting shaped stones. Libnucal couldn’t do much of those but she found that living as Wibon Galgshnall was very enlightening. This was exactly what she needed to do her job afterwards. She saw how this kind of lifestyle could be integrated with traditional pastimes. In Wibon’s body, she stretched into various poses as best she could. Wibon hadn’t neglected himself, thankfully.

As the session continued, the day moved into dusk. There was some dim electric light on the exercise ground. The group started to hear distant engines. Trucks were moving in the valley. This was unusual in such a remote area. Wibon looked across and glimpsed a few dark shapes moving. They were fast, despite the lack of good roads. They had no lights, which was odd and dangerous. Other group members watched too. Such reckless driving worried them. The noise grew, which meant trucks coming closer. Exercises stopped. The group stood and listened. The trucks sounded threatening. The students looked at each other, considering what to do next.

“I think we should go inside,” said a young instructor called Pheon Yei. “Those aren’t our vehicles.” She realised that she might have to use her hunting rifle. Everyone hurried back to the dormitory huts. Wibon accompanied the older and slower students while the others ran indoors. The truck engines growled and roared, almost like beasts. Wibon’s little band were part-way back to the huts when they were halted by sniper fire. At least five shooters were targeting them from undergrowth to the right. Wibon indicated that the little group should take cover behind a nearby log pile and some outdoor furniture. Muzzle flashes continued. Minor damage was done to the logs and furniture. Some shots hit the ground or zoomed overhead. Most students screamed, yelled, cried or prayed. The three instructors in their hut loaded their rifles and returned fire through two windows and a door. They couldn’t see their targets. The assailants peppered the instructors’ hut with their own fire. The gun battle continued for several biarks until the instructors ran out of ammunition. The assailants seemed to have much more ammunition, so they carried on firing. Wibon noticed a few strange things about them. Firstly, their shots produced flashes in different bright colours. Secondly, they hadn’t injured anyone (as far as he knew). Thirdly, their shots didn’t whizz past like regular bullets. Rather, they were like little fireballs. Fourthly, the snipers didn’t stop to reload. Wibon did his best to comfort the others.

“Leave me ALONE, you creeps!” shouted a middle-aged man from the doorway of a hut. “Whatever you want, you’re not getting it!” More fire was aimed at him but missed. Another student put his hand over the man’s mouth and pulled him back inside the dark hut. The door was then closed and barred.

“Who was that?” Wibon asked Sevgen, the man nearest to him.

“Puj Bodos,” replied Sevgen. “He told us he was here to escape many problems, including spiritual attacks. I guess it didn’t work.” Wibon and Libnucal thought quickly about the situation. Was this a genuine attack or a bluff? Libnucal reflected on incidents in her life when people had been intimidating but not dangerous. She had an intuition that this was one of those incidents. Wibon got up and stepped forward. Gunfire hit the ground around him. One of the trucks broke through the encircling undergrowth and bounded toward him over bumpy terrain. It stopped in front of him. It was big, smelly and covered in small pieces of vegetation. He could just make out a driver in the black interior.

“You’re not allowed to hurt us, are you?” he said. “It’s obvious. You’ve fired a few hundred times and failed to hit us. Something’s holding you back.” The shooting had stopped. The truck waited, its engine idling. Other trucks appeared in the tree line.

“I’ll kill them all!” shouted Puj from inside his hut. Other students told him to be quiet.

“Could this be about Puj?” wondered Wibon aloud. “Are you provoking him? You shouldn’t do that. He wants calm, not belligerence. I want you to leave this land permanently. I don’t want any more of your nonsense around here.”

“Wibon, don’t!” said Sevgen.

“Why shouldn’t I stand up to them?” said Wibon. “We’ve nothing to lose. If they were permitted to destroy us, we’d be dead already. That folding table couldn’t stop their guns, could it?” Sevgen touched the table behind which he hid, felt it wobble and conceded the point.

“Whatever you are, begone!” commanded Wibon. “I’ve seen through you. Essentially, you’re impotent. Your action is limited, to nudge us into doing your bidding. I’m sorry but nudging only works on the ignorant.” Wibon sensed that this was greater than it seemed. There were awesome forces behind the assailants. There were similar forces guiding him. It wasn’t pleasant to be on the sharp end but someone had to be. The truck revved its engine hard and swung around to leave. It crashed through bushes and ripped a ragged path between the trees. The other trucks turned and followed. The snipers slipped away and weren’t seen again. Wibon and some others went over to the snipers’ firing positions. They found footsteps and broken branches but no bullet cases. There was a strong, unidentifiable odour, which seemed inorganic and unwholesome.

“How did you do that?” asked Merioly, lead instructor. “You controlled them without obvious authority.”

“I’m not sure,” said Wibon. “I stood my ground but that was only a small part of it. There were invisible forces swirling all around. It was a calculated risk. I’m glad it worked out.”

“Me too!” said Merioly. “I can’t thank you enough. My partner wants me home in one piece. If you hadn’t faced them down, we could’ve been blown away.”

“I should thank you and the others,” said Wibon. “You opened my eyes enough to let me gauge the power balance. This group is about more than just exercise and serenity, it’s about expanded consciousness and awareness of cosmic influences.”

“Yeah, that’s the aim,” said Merioly. “We’re not the best but we do what we can. I hear that the game of Whithus is superior.”

“I’ll try that later,” said Wibon. “How’s Puj?”

“Let’s check!” said Merioly. They jogged back to the huts. Dozens of students awaited reassurance and explanations.

“It’s alright, everyone!” said Merioly with a cheerful tone. “Those awful people have gone. We can still hear them retreating. Wibon somehow persuaded them to leave. I think we owe him our lives!” There was a great deal of cheering, thanking and crying. Wibon hadn’t been congratulated so much for years. Meanwhile, Merioly was hearing about Puj’s uncharacteristic outbursts. Puj himself was silent at present but he was wide awake, watching and listening.

“Puj, you’re O.K. now, right?” asked Merioly. “I’m sorry they tried to freak you out.”

“They were close but pensioner power kept me in my box,” said Puj, referring to pensioner Wibon. “I’m fine. Come over here, old man. Let’s see my gatekeeper.” His voice was deeper than before and he sounded more self-assured. His previous anxiety was gone. Wibon came forward warily.

“Heh, you’re two-in-one!” said Puj. “That’s trippy! It made you clever enough to call their bluff. I didn’t have to pop out and scrap them.” Puj looked so ordinary yet Wibon felt immense energy hovering around him.

“So you could’ve stopped them yourself?” he queried.

“That’s right, old timer!” said Puj with a malevolent smirk. “The problem for the rest of you is that I don’t know when to stop. It’s best if I slumber. It’s ironic that you prevented me from coming out to play, Libby. You’re supposed to encourage games, aren’t you?!”

“Erm, I guess playtime has limits,” said Wibon. “We’re all learning and developing. Change is inevitable. I can’t follow the same path forever.”

“Well, to escape your cloying wisdom and humility, I’m diving back into the subconscious now,” said Puj. “You’d better hope you don’t hear from me again.” Puj slipped into an unresponsive state for a few moments as his normal self returned. Wibon felt the energy in the room drop down to normal levels.

“What the spleg was that?!” demanded Merioly. “It chilled me to the bone!”

“No one should anger him,” said Wibon. “He’s got hidden personal super-powers.”

“Is that an alien thing?” asked Pheon.

“No, he’s local born and bred,” said Wibon. “Hah, you never know what perils lurk in your neighbourhood!”

“I’m pulling us out of here tomorrow,” said Merioly. “It’s too dangerous. We’ll go somewhere more populated. I already know a few possible sites.”

“As long as we continue with our activities,” said Wibon. “It’s increasingly clear that they’re vital to world peace and progress.” Merioly and Pheon looked at each other. Their jobs had suddenly become much more daunting.

“Alright but who’s Libby?” queried Pheon.



* * * * *

16. (13 GLA 1537, Zaffa’s house)

“Frak, living like this is dull and uncomfortable!” said Zaffa as she shuffled into the kitchen. “Aches, itches, elimination several times per day, hunger, fatigue, stiffness, slow-wittedness and low energy: I try to avoid these organic assignments but sometimes it’s my turn. There’s a duty roster.” Agrive chewed his breakfast zclabies, looked at her but said nothing. He was tired after yesterday’s rescue, paint removal and kidnapping. Some of his clothes were ruined.

“Well, support me!” said Zaffa, annoyed. “Come on partner, do what you promised. Remember those early days?”

“You’re not her,” replied Agrive, still chewing. “You’re someone else: a totally different species. I might as well be living with an abyssal mat-net klogaplug. That’s a deep-sea beast, if you didn’t know.”

“Don’t say such things!” said Zaffa. “I may have changed but I still need you for basic pep. Say something positive. It’ll do us both good.

“What’s with the ‘frak’?” asked Agrive. “How can a piece of sculpted stone in a temple be used as an expletive?”

“I meant ‘spleg’,” said Zaffa. “Frak, all the swearing on all the worlds gets mixed up in our heads eventually. Some of it’s stupid, like ‘Suppurating Spoon Grinklers, Zhoftey!’.” Agrive frowned.

“Sure, that’s contradictory nonsense but it still manages to offend the grinkled faiths, the Zhoft community and the medical profession,” he said. “Maybe you don’t care about their feelings anymore? You have to make an effort, whoever you are!”

“Handpoint Nine Seven Eight Four or just Handpoint for short since the other fifty thousand aren’t here,” said Handpoint (in Zaffa’s body). “Back home, I have excellent pointy hands that stab and rip and... you don’t want to hear about that, do you? Of course, I’m only here for a short period. We’re perpetual scouts. We’re always moving on and finding new planets to infiltrate and so forth. It’s very wearing. The only solution is to maintain a calm centre. ‘Om!’, that’s the word.”

“No, ‘om’ isn’t a good word for a calm centre,” said Agrive. “It means ‘tried to get on but failed’. You should say ‘mugue’.”

“Close enough,” said Handpoint. “Anyway, how many radios do you have here? I want to listen.”

“You only need one,” said Agrive. “When are you leaving? I want everything back to normal.”

“Tell me how many radios or else,” said Handpoint. “Also, give me a compliment.” He stared hard. It was as if Zaffa were possessed by a humourless hygiene inspector.

“Um, six radios,” said Agrive. “There’s one in the roof store but it’s very old and might not work. Compliment: you look very purposeful when you ask these questions and threaten us! Nothing’s going to deter you!”

“There’s another radio in the car,” said Handpoint. “I saw it earlier. I don’t think your compliment was quite good enough. Try again.”

“Er, you’re new to that body,” said Agrive. “You’re still getting used to it. Nevertheless, you’re already reducing the problem of sleep drool and you wash your face in the morning so I hardly notice the spit crusts.”

“Another!” said Handpoint. “A lady shouldn’t hear about her spit crusts!”

“O.K., let me think,” said Agrive anxiously, scratching his head as his mind raced. “Oh yes, you’ve become superb at scaring me. I won’t look at you the same way again. You’re so unnerving; it’s like a waking nightmare! When you wore the dark green jacket yesterday, it emphasised your fear factor even more.”

“Good, one about my dress sense and one about my psychological warfare expertise,” said Handpoint, going to the cupboard to select breakfast. “I’ll need more compliments later so prepare some. After that, we should talk about sleeping arrangements.” Agrive’s bowels shifted. He didn’t want to sleep with Zaffa when she was like this! On the other hand, her body needed him. He had to prevent excessive tension. He’d have to bite the bullet soon. He swallowed and tried to contain his inner turmoil. He finished his breakfast and put the plate in the auto-scrubber. Meanwhile, Handpoint was bringing all the house radios to the lounge. He even extracted the old one from the loft. He put them all on the table, plugged them in, switched them on and tuned them to different stations. Soon, there were seven streams of speech smudging the house with their dissonance. Handpoint was gathering information. Agrive didn’t like it but he gave Handpoint a note, which said:

“Seven at once - good job!”

“Easy!” wrote Handpoint at the bottom.

“I’m going to work in a biark,” said Agrive loudly. “I’ll be back promptly after my shift.”

“No, Agrive 2 is covering that,” replied Handpoint. “You stay here to clean and tidy. You know what to do. I’ll leave a small security robot to enforce your house arrest. Cooperate or else. The robot is strict and deadly.” The main cushion on Agrive’s armchair flipped onto the floor and a small, four-legged robot climbed out of the chair base. It had a gun on its back. Agrive’s eyes widened. He’d sat in that chair for hours last night, not suspecting that there was a lethal alien just below.

“I’M going to work,” said Handpoint. “You stick with housework.” Agrive sighed. He was basically a slave in his own home. Still, it was temporary and those chores had to be done at some point, regardless of the circumstances.

“Please, try to finish your business here,” requested Agrive. “I want my life back!” He turned to his papers in the corner of the lounge and began sorting. He looked sad. Handpoint knew that was a bad sign.

“I’ll do my level best!” said Handpoint, turning off the radios and gathering essentials. “There’s no sense delaying.” He strode outside, trying to be Zaffa again. He wondered what Zaffa’s colleagues would do. They’d seen Agrive 2, so they knew he was an impostor. He had to be ready for a trap.



* * * * *



17. (13 GLA 1537, Ceniolic’s suburb)

There was an increased army presence throughout the suburbs. The army wasn’t explaining its actions today but it did advise people to stay away from work. The news came through all morning. Thousands of people had sudden, unplanned leave. Some opted to rest or catch up on domestic duties. Others seized the chance for alternate activities. Burdekion sang-tapped a circular and, within a hundred biarks, almost the entire Whithus group had come to the five-storey game board. Various non-participants also showed up, unemployed and curious. The supposed alien invasion hadn’t been seen. People were emboldened. They wouldn’t hide away, even if the army was patrolling in force.

“Make sure to stretch and loosen up,” said Burdekion to the group. “A morning session isn’t like an afternoon or evening session. It’ll feel different.” A few biarks later, some key players climbed onto the board. Hosulyas and Aclaj went to the fifth storey, Bohnjos and Smyq went to the third, Lovubai and Wryo went to the second, Eemaarl and Tuux tried the fourth for a change and Lyplette took Burdekion to the far side of the ground floor (first storey). The rest followed when they were ready. A few non-players wandered onto the board, hoping to join in. They were told that they weren’t ready. After a little cajoling, they left the board and either stayed to watch or went somewhere else. The sixty two regular players remained. They entered light trances as usual and began moving around the board. The first four hundred and thirty moves were established. The players could make them quite quickly. Ceniolic, on the fourth storey, was impressed how his feelings this time were very similar to last time. In his mind’s eye, he could see the cosmic equivalent of the board. Each ‘person-piece’ was a world or major space colony. His vision flicked from one to another with impossible speed. Every world or colony had a unique combination of features. The players perceived the features as colours, hums, textures, scents and tastes. He liked the Whatriphany best, since they seemed to taste of hot, sweet pudding. He knew that this was entirely subjective, though. These were complex societies with millions of trends and issues.

The players’ trances deepened. The atmosphere seemed light. Perhaps morning sessions were better? They’d decide that later. Their visions expanded. For the first time, they saw galactic map gaps: dead planets with ruined settlements, burnt food, drained power and fractured infrastructure. Ships drifted lifeless. Exports would never resume. Souls had abandoned their homes. Moons were lost. Sometimes entire worlds had been reduced to rubble. Scintillating machines from faraway space roamed fearlessly through conquered systems. Vast mineral deposits were being exploited. Gas worlds were being dredged, spoiling their natural cloud patterns. Repugnant cosmic crimes: harmony had to be restored, the shattered empire resurrected. Move 445: Krean met Gouline at squares 2.15.10 and 2.14.10. Consequently, the Sebelt encountered Myrj ringlets for the first time. The Sebelt learnt new methods of quantum computing. The Myrj were rewarded handsomely, learning how to perfect their agriculture in space colonies. The Sebelt could now travel further and meet more races. The Myrj didn’t need so much resupply from the home world and colony worlds. Both Sebelt and Myrj could expand their horizons but still had to avoid the machine nemesis.

“That was revolutionary!” said Burdekion. Everyone heard him because there were voids between board levels, to allow in daylight.

“How did we see all that?” asked Ceniolic. “The Myrj-Sebelt collaboration lasted for over three decades, yet we saw edited highlights in only a few minutes.”

“We told you at the start,” said Burdekion. “We’ve discovered ways to go beyond time, distance and ordinary reality. It’s confusing but we’re here to wrestle with new concepts, not doubt and dismiss them. Continue!” Move 449: Krean went upstairs and met Chotsi at squares 3.4.3 and 3.4.4. As a result, the Sebelt passed their quantum computing technology to the Undwir. The Sebelt were repaid with breakthroughs in clothes manufacture. This made them better equipped with environmental suits, survival gear, ultra-light fabrics and fashion potential. They could now live longer in dangerous places and look more stylish than before, which made a good impression on others. Meanwhile, the Undwir used their new computers to increase their teleportation range. This gave them access to several million more cubic light years. They started to encounter dozens of pre-teleport civilisations.

“We need more players!” said Dfubim. “The game’s expanding!” Some players agreed while others didn’t. Burdekion called a pause and asked everyone to consider the game’s future directions. Ceniolic’s head swam. It was bad enough coping with two personalities in one body. Now there was, apparently, a galactic renovation programme. They were skipping from year to year, century to century. People like Hortbeck were ‘on the other side of the galaxy’, striving to bring squabbling factions together. Ceniolic looked down at the second storey. Hortbeck was arguing with a man called Sdivust and a woman called Nuutariq. It wasn’t personal, just between foreign folk who couldn’t see eye-to-eye. They wanted an agreement but the process was long. It wasn’t Ceniolic’s place to intervene. Still immersed in grand expanses of nebulae and super clusters, his mind drifted to domestic matters. How were Zaffa’s friends? He tried to imagine them dealing with their regular work and also a phony Zaffa in their midst. He envisaged them going out and about, trying valiantly to save their livelihoods. They’d be meeting all kinds of people around the region. It probably wasn’t pretty, with depressed and angry people shutting down venues, teams and troupes. Maybe there’d been unexpected developments? Zaffa looked forward to hearing about whatever had happened. Not everything was mentioned in the press.

The players decided to go on without extras. They’d push as far as they could without representing the younger races. Everyone was gripped by the latest developments. Explorers were taking bigger, better ships to exciting new territories. Scientists were basking in a golden age of discovery. Thousands of worlds were seeing living standards rise. However, there was still plenty of dissatisfaction, especially on worlds that had been devastated and then neglected. Move 470: Jejbuz arrived at square 5.16.20 on the far edge of the fifth storey. The nearest other player was ten squares away on 5.16.10. This corresponded to the Hselof Quorum sending a ship beyond the Rellow Tran Wall of Stars. It was the longest venture yet by the Quorum. In this outer region of the galaxy, there used to be a multi-stellar organisation called the Husbuck Mutaind. Now there were only scattered remnants. Move 472: Nielizov zigzagged to square 5.13.14. On a poisoned world, short-lived people scavenged on scorched fields for bare sustenance. Elsewhere, plague robots gouged deep pits in their endless quest for heavy metals. Organic inferiors watched them, feeling intense envy and hatred. Some of them would’ve done anything to compete, to beat the robots at their own game. The negative emotions were so strong that they disturbed the Whithus players, who found it difficult to carry on. Move 476: Jejbuz transferred all the way down to square 2.6.12. The Quorum ship fled across the galaxy. Jejbuz found herself standing next to Fneybluns. The Quorum ship was now in Zmetaxa space next to Zmetaxa colony 33. This area was relatively peaceful and unscathed by war. However, it had similar negative emotions to those found in the old Husbuck Mutaind area. They were making many Whithus players feel depressed and unwell. It was time to stop the game and take stock.

“That was intense!” said Ceniolic to Hortbeck as they left the game board.

“It might be time to stop playing,” said Hortbeck. “We just felt a terrible alien force. It was strong enough to sicken us. It was worse than Clasta!”

“So, do you still feel sick now?” asked Ceniolic.

“Yes, it’s lingering,” replied Hortbeck. “Maybe that force is spreading across the galaxy, coming here.”

“Never mind,” said Ceniolic, putting his right arm around her shoulders. “I promise to make a vain attempt to protect you.”

“It’s not funny,” said Hortbeck indignantly. “I’m really worried. Aliens are on our doorstep and now there’s a malign spirit moving in. I think this might be Doomsday!” Her expression was sad and serious. Burdekion called for everyone to gather before him. The apprehensive little crowd did so.

“We find ourselves in a new, challenging situation,” he said. “I’m not sure if we should keep playing Whithus. I’d like your opinions. Should we be prudent and withdraw from that evil influence? It’s clearly damaging to our health.”

“I’m sure we all want to play,” said Smyq. “From the beginning, we wanted to explore new avenues. We were bored with our previous pastimes. However, not all exploration is advisable. Remember those expeditions into unknown lands that ended disastrously? We should at least wait until the next scheduled game and then reassess the situation.”

“We must warn other Whithus groups about the hazard,” said Aclaj. “I’ll write an urgent report and circulate it on the tuluromag. For now, we should all go home and monitor ourselves. It’s also wise for us to stay in touch with each other, for mutual support. If the sickness persists, we should seek medical advice.” Everyone agreed that Smyq and Aclaj were correct. The group dispersed rapidly. They were proud of their progress but dismayed by the major obstacle in their path. They were frightened and wanted to withdraw from impending danger.

“I’m splegging drained!” said Hortbeck as she stood by her quincycle. “I was fine after breakfast but now I’m wobbling. The tension’s built up quickly. I didn’t expect it. I need to rest and let it dissipate.”

“Yeah, absolutely!” agreed Ceniolic. “I never thought we’d find two major threats so soon. It’s a ‘curve ball’, as the Nylahl Droh Islanders say.” He checked his quincycle for problems. The tyres and brakes seemed fine. There was some mud on the frame.

“I wonder if the dark force will attack the alien machines?” said Hortbeck. “It seemed very angry, as if it wanted to hurt anyone within reach. It won’t tolerate rivals.”

“Now that would be a premium fixture!” said Ceniolic. “We could call it the fight of the millennium and make a fortune on the broadcast! I’m assuming that such a battle could be televised, of course.”

“Fighting, competition, exploitation: that’s Zaffa speaking,” deduced Hortbeck. “It’s her job and her pleasure too, I guess. Doesn’t she realise it’s so wasteful? Good people get chewed up and spat out to satisfy the mob. You said you were against that, Ceniolic.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” said Ceniolic. “Zaffa loves hard contests that go down to the wire. She thinks that the ends justify the means. Anyway, are you alright to ride? We could walk part of the way home, if you prefer.”

“I’ll manage,” replied Hortbeck as she mounted her cycle. “Easy does it.” Ceniolic got into the saddle and followed her down the track home. It was convenient that they lived near each other. As they rode, Zaffa had a revelation. The alien machines desired that death match with the mysterious dark force. They were taking steps to bring it about. Could they do it? For once, she didn’t want to know. It was an arrangement beyond her ken and courage.



* * * * *



18. (13 GLA 1537, Zaffa’s office)

The note in front of her said simply: ‘Gone out. Back later’. Zaffa/Handpoint sat at Fuloy’s desk and looked around. The whole office was deserted. All nineteen colleagues were elsewhere. They’d come in early, written notes like this and left again. Zaffa was deflated and a little dispirited. She checked her tululator and found no new messages. It was eerie. She’d had the cold shoulder. She read a few papers from the desk tray. They were standard correspondence from clubs, societies, event organisers, banks and advertisers. There was nothing new except a few more notifications of loss, cancellation and closure. One letter mentioned a threat of legal action but that was still to come.

Handpoint considered his relationship with Zaffa’s body. His body was safely on his star ship, far out in space, while he used advanced spiritual technology to possess Zaffa. He’d forced Zaffa’s ‘spark’ to live across town in Ceniolic’s body. Zaffa and Ceniolic were happy with the arrangement, for the most part. That prevented interference from them. However, some of Zaffa’s spirit still resided in her original body; keeping it running and helping Handpoint do whatever was required. Right now, that portion of Zaffa was feeling low due to a sense of abandonment and regret. It pulled Handpoint down too, sapping his will to act. Two biarks later, Libnucal walked into the office. She was sad to see the place empty except for her co-conspirator.

“Hi Jembar,” said Handpoint. “Welcome to the screw-up! Everyone’s gone out without warning, even the drinks boy. I’m not sure what to do next: any thoughts?”

“I think I need a rest,” said Jembar, who was the possessor of Libnucal. “This body’s deteriorating. The joints are painful. Breathing isn’t as easy as it used to be. Drink time: where’s the boy? Oh yes, he bunked off. I’ll have to get it myself.” She hung up her coat and plodded to the staff kitchen. She dumped water into a glass, drank half and brought the rest to Fuloy’s desk. She grabbed Fleny’s chair and sat down with a quiet groan.

“What are we doing, eh?” said Libnucal/Jembar. “Our ‘plan’ was too ambiguous this time. Now that you’ve revealed your allegiance, everything’s gone skew-whiff.”

“The whole situation is ambiguous, Jembar,” said Handpoint. “Too many variables: we don’t know the best methods or outcomes. We’re working blind.”

“I blame the Retulaans,” said Jembar. “They’re ugly, yappy, bitey things. We can’t read them properly. They concealed Agrive and brought him home. They hijacked one of our ships to do it. I mean, when was the last time that happened? It should be impossible! Agrive was supposed to die of exposure on the plains.”

“Keuh, big master’s overreached himself again,” said Handpoint. “He does it regularly. He has too much ambition. He puts us in these universes where we can’t win. Stupid little flesh bags beat us. I tried my best but I only had one infiltrator and he’s not too bright. He’s not used to operating without nanotech and mind control. He got sloppy. We all got sloppy. Something about this job makes us careless.”

“Sometimes, carelessness is part of the plan,” said Jembar. “Never rule anything out. Anyway, what’ll we do here? We could take over the whole office and run it better than the skivers.”

“I’m not sure,” said Handpoint. “We lack some local knowledge: you know, the fine detail. Our body language needs a lot of work. We stand out. The others rumbled us in less than twenty biarks. I could see it in their expressions.”

“What’s the point anyway?!” said Jembar. “This place will be shut down soon. It’s becoming obsolete.”

“If we don’t try, we’ll be punished,” said Handpoint. “The mission is still to promote sports and entertainment. We have to incentivise people somehow. We already discounted many matches and shows. That didn’t work. Another obvious tactic is addiction. We should offer free drinks and snacks. Those will be spiked with moderate amounts of a drug such as dukushim.”

“That backfires,” said Jembar. “It diverts people to drugs, not events necessarily.” Handpoint knew he was right.

“O.K., let’s come at this from the other direction,” said Handpoint. “We’ll disrespect millions of people on the tuluromag. We’ll label them inferior and say they can’t beat our teams. It’ll rile them up and encourage grudge matches. Bitterness levels will be pushed up. I’ll use Fuloy’s terminal, you use Fleny’s. Cover your tracks as usual.”

“Standard plan B,” said Jembar, settling down to work. “Let’s spike their minds, not their refreshments.” They unpacked disinformation software from secure server storage and unleashed targeted propaganda around the world.



* * * * *



19. (13 GLA 1537, outside Zaffa’s house)

Sergeant Phupier sat on a large, empty can as he listened to the semi-competent ‘newsicians’ blundering through the barely-structured piece ‘Dadhur Onrhon’. It was embarrassing to be near them so instead he looked down at the can. It had held concentrated flisps. He wondered who could eat forty litres of flisps. Then he saw that this was a catering-sized can for restaurants, cafeterias, etc. He disliked flisps but at least the can made a fairly comfortable seat. He could rest his aching legs while the non-band made enemies of the neighbours. A few people opened their window and shouted rudely at the non-band to shut up and go. A few others told the objectors to do the same and get with the times. No one actually came outside to remonstrate so the performance continued. Several of the non-band’s followers had entered trances and now started to dance poorly. They seemed inebriated but were all quite sober. Their so-called dance was meant to help them focus their minds. Phupier didn’t understand. Maybe he never would. What was wrong with traditional music and dance? He had fond memories of shooping to the tailidot sneres of Zawady-Wady. Those were the days!

The non-band sang about random things like Shado Piko and a man called Boll. Phupier shook his head and closed his eyes. This kind of nonsense led nowhere, he believed. The trouble was that he was following orders. After receiving an anonymous tip-off, his superiors had told him to organise an impromptu recital a hundred metres from the house of a woman called Zaffa Higcablan. She was supposed to be a ‘person of interest’ but Phupier had never met her. The non-band and accompanying friends had been told to play and sing but refrain from other actions, except in need. Phupier searched for Zaffa on his tululator. There was no information beyond brief details on the Sports & Ents Department site. This was surprising given her position as Regional Manager. She’d been law-abiding, according to police records. Her partner Agrive Boif was also an upstanding citizen. No one else lived here, as far as anyone knew. Phupier watched the house carefully. This was his first case involving a possible alien. He didn’t want to miss anything. He walked along the street to see the house from different angles. All was neat and tidy, as if Zaffa and Agrive were control freaks. Another explanation would be that they hired good gardeners and repair men. Phupier knew that such tidy people were probably no threat. They were too busy working and keeping house to plot against society. Zaffa was a manager, though. Her staff would do what she asked. Maybe the police should question them too?

The odd song went on. A few animals wailed in protest or sympathy. Some flying vux in surrounding trees kept up a call of ‘bong bang bing wuvee!’ for reasons of territoriality. A few neighbours were complaining and arguing. The whole scene was a little surreal. The government believed that practices like newsic were the best way to reduce the alien menace and unify the people. Phupier walked back to the flisp can, sat down and maintained his surveillance. As time went on and the sunlight brightened, he wondered how the area would have looked in the past. He knew that some of these houses were modern. Thirty years ago, there would’ve been fewer of them. Instead, fields of armstem would’ve been common. A century ago, most of the area would’ve been fields and woods. Hundreds of people would’ve been employed tending the armstem, verz rag, iolum and other crops. Livestock like bafzils and shezoonifeens would’ve been kept in some fields, lowing, bleating and guzzling armstem offcuts or whatever was growing around them. Pasture plants varied a great deal in this part of the world. Phupier imagined the old peasants walking around, trying to control the rampant weed growth. It was hard in those days, without power tools.

After a few biarks, Phupier stopped imagining the peasants. However the fuzzy, day-dream images didn’t disappear. They continued walking around without regard for anyone. Some images of crops, weeds, fences and trees also persisted. As he watched in astonishment, the phantom forms multiplied. Most of them overlapped with others in impossible ways. Soon, Phupier found himself surrounded by ghostly vegetation and ancestral folk. Some of them walked or grew right through him. They obscured his vision slightly but otherwise had no effect. He found it all very unnerving so he hurried over to the non-band for clarification. He tried talking to them but they were in deep trance by now and couldn’t or wouldn’t respond. They still played their instruments and sang, though. The unreal crowd became ever denser. Phupier watched a parade of disparate features such as misshapen bodies, skin diseases, awkward gaits, anti-social behaviour, harsh parenting and labourers rubbing their fatigued muscles. Some of the people were duplicates. Phupier realised that he was seeing the same people in different positions at different times. This was a playback of thousands of daily events from the past but all mixed up together.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” said a man across the street. “This phenomenon is like a living fog. It’s hard to see who’s doing what.”

“It’s extraordinary!” said Phupier. “I’m so glad we stopped the traffic. The newsicians know their stuff! They advised us earlier.” He looked around at the neighbourhood. People were leaving their homes and trying to escape the ‘ghost invasion’. Fear had silenced them, for the most part.

“I’ve had some involvement in this ‘newsic’ and related art,” said the man as he walked closer. “It unlocks things that we couldn’t see before. These phantasms are mainly echoes of the past but some are from the present and future. You may see prehistoric animals and even people from other worlds later.”

“It’s the last group I’m interested in,” said Phupier. “What do you know about them?” He glanced at the man before watching the scene again.

“Oh, not that much really,” said the man, who was now standing next to Phupier. “They appear and disappear at times like these. We don’t interact. They do little except drift around. It’s disappointing. I prefer the normal people and animals. I can relate to them.”

“I’ve been told that real aliens are here now,” said Phupier. “If you see any today, tell me. If you see any later, call it in as an emergency.”

“Well O.K.,” said the man. “I don’t think it would help, though. You couldn’t arrest them or anything. They’re too advanced.”

“Maybe so but we could arrest you for failing to report them,” said Phupier belligerently. “We must do our duty no matter what.”

“Of course,” said the man. “It’s a shame that the scene here is so crowded. It’s hard to pick out individuals.”

“I’ve seen a few come by repeatedly,” said Phupier. “My observation skills were always good. See, that woman has appeared six times.” He pointed out a woman with a large, purple bag.

“She walks past every biark,” continued Phupier. “At first, she was young and healthy. Then, she lost part of her left leg. Next, her leg was restored. Now, she’s older with a crooked back. Who can replace a leg? How can she age so quickly? Did the aliens do it?”

“No, you’re seeing multiple realities,” said the man. “Alternate worlds, different time periods: we experienced it before. This used to be only a theory: now you can see it with your own eyes. Get used to it, Sergeant. It’s the way of the future!” The man had interpreted Phupier’s uniform correctly and deduced his rank. Not everyone could do that. The hectic vigil continued. Phupier did his best to find clues about the situation. He also learnt some fascinating facts about local history, although it wasn’t clear which version. He’d have to read up on it later. Biarks ticked by. Phupier learnt that the man was called Consti but was better known by his nickname ‘Hook’, due to his skill in retrieving items from awkward places. Hook helped now by indicating noteworthy people, plants, animals and structures.

“The vital part’s coming up,” said Hook after forty five biarks of fitful, meritless newsic. “It always ends with future visions.” Moments later, the entire translucent scene vanished. The area was darkened as if night was falling. Tiny stars ignited all around the houses. The phantom sky invaded the ground as well. Phupier was taken aback and clutched the edges of the flisp can. He expected to fall into the blackness beneath. It didn’t happen.

“Spleg!” he spat. “What’s going on?! The bottom’s dropping out of the world!”

“It has a greater impact if you’re not told in advance,” said Hook. “We’re not sure what this is, exactly. Your planet’s always in motion, so it could have just shifted along. Alternatively, some great force could’ve shunted it away from normal orbit.”

“N-nothing can do that except, I don’t know, wandering stars, rogue planets, black holes or...” speculated Phupier. “Aliens: damned aliens and their perverted technology.”

“It’s bleak, I know,” said Hook. “Yet hope will return. Behold!” The scene flickered between the black of space and the light of home. Familiarity resumed. Modern people meandered into view. Vehicles drove past. A few off-worlders were visible, talking with locals. One alien resembled a three-metre worm with four short legs, two arms and a round face. Another alien had a two-metre upright body with a long face, three arms and at least fifty small red legs. There were further types but their images were fuzzier and more fleeting. Phupier memorised what he could. The long song was drawing to a close. The performers’ trances were lifting. The visions were fading. One of the last was a rear view of a policeman on patrol. Phupier looked closer and saw the insignia. The policeman was him! He was seeing one of his possible futures. Just then, a man came up from behind and attacked. The future Phupier was impaled on a sword and dragged away swiftly. The attacker resembled Hook! Present-day Phupier sprang to his feet and turned left to confront present-day Hook. It was no use. Hook had already crept away, using uncanny stealth. All the visions faded away. Deeply disturbed, Phupier went to the non-band for an urgent, short discussion.

“Sergeant, I hope that this session was fruitful!” said non-band leader Zorebli, wiping his face with a towel.

“Considerably, though the last fruit was rotten!” replied Phupier. “I saw my own murder! I recognised the murderer as a man sitting next to me only a few biarks ago. Do you know anyone called Hook or Consti?”

“No, I don’t know him,” said Zorebli. “I’m sorry you saw that. I reckon you should stay away from this part of town in future, to avoid such a fate.”

“I surely will,” said Phupier. “I’ll also track down this Hook character and put him away for something. He’s a public enemy.”

“We’ll be leaving soon,” said Zorebli. “We’ve done what you asked and now we need rest. Newsic is tiring on many levels.”

“I appreciate that much more after seeing you in action,” said Phupier. “The entire display was an intriguing melange. It could be very important for current police work. We’ll probably need you again later.”

“At your service!” said Zorebli. The non-band was gathering up equipment and taking it back to their transport.

“Thank you all very much!” said Phupier. “You opened my eyes and might’ve saved my life. Hopefully, if we work together, we’ll still have a future.” He went to his walker-car, watching out for assassins. He drove back to the police station, set on searching for Hook and any other suspicious characters in the area. He’d discovered nothing about his original targets Zaffa and Agrive but a more intensive trawl through records could reveal extra clues. This was becoming personal. He had to do whatever he could to root out deadly aliens.



* * * * *



20. (14 GLA 1537, disused industrial buildings just outside Swos Dycca Town, near Swos mountain resort)

Bad idea.

What?

Looking this way. Coming over here.

New voice!

Can you handle it?

Threatening me?

My endless abyss.

Where?

All around.

Stop messing!

Wibon scanned his surroundings, hoping to see whoever was troubling his mind. He saw nothing obvious. It was worrying but there was no defence except supportive thoughts from others. He said nothing for now.

It was a bright morning and he was standing in a disused commercial yard. Around him, the students were talking. They’d just finished another synchronised, low-energy pseudo dance. They seemed happy and fulfilled. Was he the only one hearing this? If so, it was just as well. The new voice was like a buzzing hive of irritation. He wanted shelter from it.

“Say Wibon, you look concerned,” said Merioly, walking up to Wibon. “Do you have a particular problem at present?”

“No but I’d like another trance activity,” replied Wibon. “That business yesterday unsettled me mightily.”

“A thousand curses on those pathetic terrorists!” said Merioly. “I have an idea. Come with me.” They entered an unoccupied warehouse. There was some obsolete stock stacked up on shelves and tables. Merioly took Wibon to a pile of small, flat-packed cartons.

“The company has no need of these,” he explained. “They’re excess from last year. I think you should assemble them. As you do it, arrange them on the shelves, tables, work benches and floor. When you work, you should enter a light trance. Use that to fix your head.”

Over five thousand cartons. Waste your time.

“Why do this?” asked Wibon of Merioly. “No one wants outdated cartons. I should do something more useful.”

“Intuition, that’s the name of the game,” said Merioly. “I saw these earlier and felt they should be used. Now’s the time: it’s right!” Wibon shrugged and started loosening the first bundle. Merioly had been right about the pseudo-dance so he was probably right about this. Wibon had done similar jobs before and he knew the tricks. No tools were needed. The bundle strapping could be peeled off. Wibon pulled up a chair and sat down.

Design’s fine but now deemed worthless.

Fold, fold, fold, slot meets tab, inside out, refold, fiddly lid, flip flap, catch, done.
No use whatsoever yet pleasing. Place on table. Alright so far but have to think ahead.
Place on high window sill. Make room for other cartons. Sit again. Fold, fold, fold...

Frak, life’s so EASY for you!

Jealous?

Perhaps. I don’t know anymore.

Brain problem? You’re being very negative.

My problems? You have NO IDEA!

Calm down.

How can I? Do I choose this dialogue or something else? What about tomorrow? Unlimited days!

You’re immortal?

That’s unanswerable.

Spleg it, need music: activating tululator.

DE-activating the damned tululator: can’t drown me out.

Wibon tried to play his music three times but the unexplained force prevented it. He gave up and continued working in silence. This was extremely unnerving. He could run but the voice and the force would follow.

Space, time, galaxies, labour, choices without limit yet always the servant.

That’s beyond me, pal.

Wrong! You underestimate yourself.

I’m only one old man.

I see you both: the dupe Wibon and the parasite Libnucal. Your games and make-believe sagas are dying, woman!

Any tips for assembling cartons faster?

WORK HARDER!

Shouting to cover something up?

Questioning to cover up your failings?

[Sighs.] Spleg you.

Wibon picked up the pace. Soon, he’d piled up a few dozen completed cartons. He tried to push out the new voice. The cartons looked smart. They were all brand new with pastel colour schemes. The product name was ‘Wizzle Flumpers’. It meant nothing to him. In the picture, the product had at least forty articulated fingers pointing out from a central crescent motor unit. There was a thick power cord trailing from the centre. In the background, young people gazed at it delightedly. It seemed to be a fairly expensive product. The arrangement of cartons was more pleasing than it ought to be. The repetition was consistent and reassuring: market research had found the optimum combination of design features.

Box after box. As in day after day. As in meal after meal. Art imitates life and work: another tedious, worn out maxim.

So what?

It’s also a metaphor for my life. I see the same thing again and again. Mostly, I zone it out.

Some life.

Better than yours! You couldn’t cope with it.

Hmm, mixed message there! Did you attack us last night?

Clearly not. You’re unscathed.

Well, what did you do?

Psy-ops: one of our primary functions.

Who are you?

That’s meaningless to you. We’re simply a force of change in the multiverse.

You’re needy. Why else would you be conversing with me?

A few more cartons were finished. Wibon put them on two shelves. It was strange: he was relaxed by the light work and yet alert to possible threats. He began to receive thought streams from other races. They were optimistic and reassuring. The messages were mainly emotional and pictorial. Wibon felt a profound connection between his actions and those of the other races. When he made progress, however trivial, they made far greater progress. When he put selfish thoughts aside, other beings across the galaxy did likewise and helped each other. He was somehow a catalyst for their work and development. Major wounds were healing. Lost capacity was being rebuilt. Survivors were regaining mental and physical strength.

Told you so. Macro imitates micro. Minor actions can have major consequences.

Are you helping with this?

Who can say? I’ve seen all kinds of things.

Is this genuine befuddlement or are you a consummate liar?

Truth and lies mean nothing when there are infinite possibilities. There’s no such thing as absolute reality, so dualities are lost in boundless chaos.

Sounds like insanity to me.

Seen too many universes. They all blend together, interact on a subatomic level, conspire, never stop.

Oh really?

You see? The constant shuffling of information between universes makes truth a sham.

So doing the right thing becomes extremely unlikely. I see your dilemma.

Yours too!

If you refuse the drugs, the problem will resolve itself. Be strong, friend!

Mocking a super-being required tremendous nerve. He could scarcely believe he was doing it! Meanwhile, with each carton he finished, Wibon could feel the connection to other races broaden and deepen. It was like building a hotline to the stars. There was a certainty of purpose that the new voice lacked. It was amazing how a little thing like a set of boxes could trigger benefits light years away! Wibon wished that he knew the science behind it.

If you must know, each carton has a tracking chip. We built them and then some sad serfs inserted them into the cardboard. Those special chips amplify telepathic waves. Correct arrangement boosts the signal further.

Wibon examined the next carton. He could feel a small chip sandwiched inside one of the cardboard panels. Was it really responsible for a change in the spiritual atmosphere or was there another cause? The new voice had just said that truth was dead, after all.

How can we function without truth? You’re spouting nonsense to confuse me.
Leave me alone. That’s an order. I saw you last night. You’re obliged to obey.
You may have your grandiose philosophy of paralysis but run back to your masters, oh needy one!
We serfs still have petty lives to lead.

Enjoy your petty existence while you can. Retreating now.

With that, the new voice departed and wasn’t heard again. Wibon pitied the machine alien behind it. Tough as it was, it had seen too much. It raved, whined and complained in utter exasperation. When would it ever know peace? Wibon prayed for it as he carried on with his box project. By lunch time, he’d assembled over two hundred. In the process, he’d improved galactic civilisation by mystic means. He’d earned a good meal. On the way out, he saw a press cutting about Wizzle Flumpers. It said that the product had been recalled due to malfunctions, fire risk, internal injuries to users and a minor moral panic.

“That explains it,” thought Wibon. “Well, in this case advancement springs from failure, I guess!” Libnucal was glad that she’d taken on this unexpected assignment. So far, it’d been scary but also interesting and enlightening. She looked forward to completing the carton assembly. Other students could help do the job quicker.



* * * * *

21. (14 GLA 1537, the police station and town centre, Zaffa’s town)

“Are you sure you’re up to this, Phupier?” asked Inspector Stramvo as the sergeant prepared to leave the police station. “You had a serious death threat yesterday.”

“We’re all at risk here, sir,” said Phupier. “It’s part of the job, especially now with aliens around and other freaky stuff. Anyway, that was a possible future vision and not an explicit threat.”

“Alright, who’s your back-up?” asked Stramvo.

“Drifful and Cruizzik,” replied Phupier as he strapped on his body armour. “We’re also mentally prepared. We’ve been doing exercises to open our minds. We keep them simple so that insights flow better.”

“I envy you, Phupier,” said Stramvo. “I haven’t had any visions or insights yet. What exercise did you do, Cruizzik?”

“Wanging, sir,” replied Cruizzik cheerfully. “I did a whole hour in the garden before breakfast.”

“Is that what you call it?” said Drifful. “For us it’s tossing. My family and I were hard at it just after dawn.” Stramvo looked at them both in confused silence.

“They mean throwing stuff,” explained Phupier. “I use lumps of concrete, Drifful uses stones and Cruizzik uses boots and shoes.”

“You know I have too much footwear!” said Cruizzik. “The point is to lose oneself in the moment. We aim for mental and spiritual improvement without breaking anything.”

“I have a big garden but still I broke a small part of the fence,” said Drifful. “I’ll fix it tonight or at the weekend.”

“Huh, mindful throwing,” said Stramvo. “That’s legal and decent if done right. Well, take care on your fact-finding mission. I await your interesting report.” He went back to his private office, glad that the officers were behaving themselves and patrolling bravely at this difficult time. Phupier, Cruizzik and Drifful finished equipping themselves and went to nearby Houmcog Boulevard on foot. Convenience was a key advantage for a town centre police station. The streets were quiet except for military vehicles here and there. They saw no crimes so they proceeded without diversion. They watched the skies for alien ships but saw nothing.

“Do you really think he could be a kidnapper?” asked Drifful quietly. “There are no people missing, only changes in personalities. That’s a psychological issue.”

“We deal with plenty of psychological problems,” Cruizzik pointed out. “Every day there are more cases of tragic, misguided people who could’ve been fine with proper social support. We’re the safety net.”

“We can’t rule anything out about this prophet,” said Phupier. “He’s known about the alien presence for longer than most. He’s familiar with many races and their relative positions in the galaxy. He predicts the future sometimes, at least. He seems wise and people realise now that he’s not a crackpot.”

“Do you think he’s, you know, one of them?” asked Drifful.

“What, batting for the other side?” enquired Cruizzik.

“No, an alien!” said Drifful. “Honestly, Cruizzik!”

“As I said before, maybe,” said Phupier. “Whatever happens, don’t freak out.” A few biarks later, they approached the Blanchayne Café on Houmcog Boulevard. They didn’t see the supposed prophet but there was heavy, electric music blasting from an upper floor. Some customers were leaving the café, having been put off by the music. Others were staying because they liked it. A few people outside were looking up at the source of the old-style, brash tunes. Everyone had to talk a little louder to be heard. The three police officers went inside.

“We’re looking for Clasta the prophet,” said Phupier to the cashier. “Is he around?” The cashier said she didn’t know his whereabouts. The officers stood back to let others order refreshments.

“Try buying some snacks,” whispered Drifful. “Tip her too. It might jog her memory.” Phupier complied and bought enough for three light lunches.

“Upstairs,” said the cashier. “He’s in kind of a wild mood. He wanted privacy for a while. I don’t know what he’s doing. Knock and wait.” The officers ascended the stairs. On the first floor, two women were sorting out stock in the store room. On the second floor, a mother was helping two small children with simple schoolwork. On the third floor, Clasta was sitting and writing furiously. His music echoed across the rooftops but he didn’t seem to care about any disturbance caused. Because of the wind, he had to use large paperweights and a clipboard to tame his fluttering pages. Cruizzik slowly reduced the volume on the stereo. That got Clasta’s attention.

“What the spl... oh, um, hello officers!” he said, seeing his three visitors. “Excuse the motivational music. I use it to power through this composition. Say, why not turn it off altogether?”

“Good idea,” said Cruizzik. “Perhaps you didn’t notice the disturbance you’ve been causing? I’d recommend headphones.” She switched off the stereo.

“Of course, ma’am,” said Clasta. “Now, what brings you here to see little old me? I’m just living my life, using my gifts and writing accounts of my grand visions.”

“I’m hoping that your gifts can help us,” said Phupier. “We’ve had reports of possible kidnappings but those are unclear. Also, we’d like to hear the latest about any alien activity that affects us.” The officers sat down on sturdy metal chairs.

“Well Sergeant, you should understand that the situation is nebulous and in flux,” said Clasta, putting his clipboard under a paperweight. “There are numerous movements going on all the time, both nearby and far away. Things that appear dangerous now can easily change.”

“Our most pressing concerns are for three people, namely Zaffa Higcablan, Agrive Boif and Libnucal Sgiur,” said Phupier. “We know that you met Zaffa and Libnucal recently. Agrive is Zaffa’s partner so you may have had contact with him too. All of them are still around, apparently. We had a few reports that they’re acting strangely. One said that Agrive has an alien doppelganger.”

“I only met Zaffa twice and Libnucal once,” said Clasta. “I guided them. They were satisfied with my advice. I don’t remember Agrive but, if he’s local, we might’ve crossed paths earlier.”

“Are you sure nothing else happened?” queried Drifful. “Our reports said...”

“Yes, I’m sure,” interjected Clasta. “If there were other developments, I wasn’t involved. The aliens have been very busy lately. It’s all in my rip-roaring chronicle of trans-galactic disaster.” He tapped his hand-written pages.

“Start with the most relevant events,” said Phupier, sighing. “Keep it short. Our time’s limited.” Clasta came across as a mad, scribbling fantasist.

“The unstoppable forces of Cybertron attacked all major powers in the Blue Strands Galaxy, our galaxy,” said Clasta. “Oh, you should’ve seen it! No wait, you couldn’t. You don’t have the technology to view billions of attacks simultaneously. In fact, you don’t have the lifetime to watch them all. You’d die long before you could view every battle. I say ‘battle’ but, in reality, most of those engagements were remote annihilations. Primus spread his kill nets and smashed all his targets.”

“Nets don’t smash!” scoffed Drifful. “They ensnare or entangle.”

“I apologise,” said Clasta. “This language doesn’t have the words necessary to describe all the horrible deaths and the mechanisms involved.”

“How did you see all the killing?” asked Cruizzik. “You’re mortal like us. Your time’s short too.”

“Alright, I didn’t see it all,” admitted Clasta. “My visions don’t work like that. I heard reports from many sources and had sensations of events. I just knew that giant empires had fallen.”

“We survived, though,” said Phupier. “Many others did too. I’ve heard stories from the new pastimes. Millions of people on our world are having their own visions.”

“Yes, yes,” said Clasta. “It’s all connected. People are feeling the changes and tuning in. I’m learning more than most. My brief jottings on the subject are literary gold. I’m sure some publisher will...”

“How can this ‘Primus’ character attack so many worlds in one short campaign?” queried Drifful. “The distances involved are too huge. It would take forever. Isn’t this science fiction nonsense?”

“He has access to unlimited realities,” replied Clasta, annoyed. “He comes and goes as he pleases, for the most part. The speed of light is no limit to him. Be thankful you haven’t felt his wrath.”

“I’m having trouble believing this,” said Phupier. “What’s his motivation? Why cause such devastation? Were the ‘major powers’ that bad?”

“His motives aren’t always clear,” said Clasta. “There’s so much left to learn. I wish I had his brain power, to understand the entire situation.”

“I’ve studied astronomy,” said Drifful. “I know the immense size of the galaxy. Even if Primus destroyed the main empires, there’s still plenty of room for the rest of us. We should be safe. We’re insignificant to him, right?”

“Wrong, I’m afraid,” said Clasta. “He’s starting to take an interest. It’s probably because so many are linking to the trans-galactic communication field. Things could go either way.”

“So, what’s the upshot?” asked Cruizzik. “Who or what is coming here?”

“You haven’t been listening to my diatribes, then?” said Clasta. “The Retulaan Nuid refugees will arrive early next year: late winter or early spring. They’ll want land and resources. I’ve been recommending that we give them the Gruniolf continent. It’s small and sparsely populated. A few visitors from Gruniolf have been complaining about my Retulaan colonisation idea. One time, I got hit in the face. I healed up quickly, though.”

“How many refugees are coming?!” queried Cruizzik urgently.

“Approximately twenty five million,” replied Clasta. “Of course we’re unprepared. No world is properly prepared for such a big change. There could be war, famine, plague, wildfire and other disasters. Don’t forget that you have no space craft or space weapons, so you have no choice. They’re coming and they’ll stay for several years, minimum. Resist and they might decide to wreck your quaint world. They have enough firepower for that.”

“In that case, we’ll have to book holiday leave now,” said Drifful to his colleagues. “We won’t have many vacations if these Retulaans come.”

“The Retulaan situation is bad enough but who else is on the way?” asked Phupier.

“No more refugees, as far as I know,” answered Clasta. “There should be diplomatic delegations in due course. They’ll have educators to bring you up to speed. You’ll need extra science and technology to cope in the wider galaxy.”

“Could I just stop you there?” said Cruizzik. “You said ‘You’ll need extra science and technology’. Don’t you mean ‘We’ll’?”

“Ah yes, thanks for correcting me,” said Clasta graciously. “We’ll have to learn collectively, that’s what I meant. Sorry but I’ve been talking a lot lately and I’m quite weary, so I trip over my words.”

“From your tone, I infer that you like Primus,” said Cruizzik. “Also, you had a twinkle in your eye when you mentioned him. If he’s a mass murderer...”

“How can I admire the great monster?” interrupted Clasta. “Is that what you’re getting at, Constable? You don’t waste time painting me black as night!” His tone shifted abruptly. Moments ago, he was amenable. Now he sounded tetchy.

“Ease off, Constable!” warned Phupier, calmly but firmly. His suspicions about Clasta grew.

“If you’d seen what I’ve seen, you’d understand,” continued Clasta. “Primus is a being almost beyond compare. He’s an agent of the Divine. When you behold him fully, he captivates you body and soul. It’s love! You’re with him for aeons. Only God Himself could stop it.”

“The way you say it, it sounds hot!” said Drifful with a slight smirk.

“Yes, it’s super hot!” agreed Clasta. “You stay with him through anything. Adversity becomes inconsequential. One day you’re building a new generation of lovely, shiny robots. The next day, you’re sending those robots to eradicate a colony of backward, stinking hog people unworthy of life. The day after, you’re selecting gorgeous gemstones from an idyllic river bank. The day after that, you’re installing the gemstones in energy weapons and using them to vaporise a festering jungle. All those stupid flimsy bugs flapping around, they burn so quickly like shooting stars!” He was starting to rant.

“This is helpful,” said Phupier. “Thank you for...”

“Last year, he was selecting targets,” Clasta went on. “The Hincipla Semerdipia was first to go, naturally. Then, he picked out other capitals like Loiplyodous and Rabutebh. These were enormous places, colossal conglomerations. Each one had billions of inhabitants. Here one biark, gone the next. As you can imagine, the list after that stretched on and on. The wave of utter nullification wiped away all their sinners. The saints went too, which was unfortunate but you don’t argue with such a wise, just, purposeful behemoth. ‘Mysterious ways’, remember!”

“Weren’t they a band?” asked Drifful.

“Probably but I think they were torn to shreds in the strip-mining of Kawtema Seven,” replied Clasta. “Primus needs the materials of many worlds to continue his projects.”

“It sounds like this is your specialist subject!” said Cruizzik. “You know, if Primus is such a thorough and far-reaching operator could he have done something to people like Zaffa? It would explain a lot but not the mysterious ways.”

“I don’t know but it’s perfectly possible,” conceded Clasta. “He makes all kinds of changes in societies. Most of them can’t be proven, though. Before you pursue that line, look for simpler explanations first. Maybe Zaffa and the others have a different problem like brain damage or infection.”

“We would investigate further if we could find those three,” said Drifful. “They’ve been eluding us lately. They’re not answering our calls.”

“Use different tululators under different names,” suggested Clasta. “There you are; I’m using my native cunning!”

“We should’ve thought of that,” said Cruizzik. “It’s embarrassing. Thank you sir.”

“Have I answered your questions well enough yet?” asked Clasta. “I could tell you a great deal more about the recent history of the galaxy, if you’d like. For instance, people who travel faster than light are actually moving through multiple parallel universes. Every time they use their FTL drives, they travel back in time and thus push through into another parallel. Hence, on an imperial scale, this galaxy is really an infinite set of Blue Strands Galaxies. FTL travel is very weird.”

“I believe we have enough information for now,” said Phupier. “If we need more, we’ll ask later. I’m sorry if we troubled you. We’ll leave you to your writing. Good day, sir.” The three officers rose and went downstairs to exit the building.

“His story’s unverifiable but he’s definitely hiding something,” said Drifful as they reached the street once again. “The place needs secret surveillance.”

“It’s a big alien hideout,” said Cruizzik. “Someone should do something.”

“I’d better arrange further action,” said Phupier. “Let’s go back to base and see to it.” They walked briskly away, maintaining their vigilance.

“We need to watch them,” said Clasta to his friend Troxig on the second floor. “Send a swarm drone.” Troxig went to a hidden compartment in the floor and launched a small delivery vehicle that was packed with spy bugs. It flew outside through open doors and headed for the police station. Afterwards, Troxig converted back to her organic form and resumed her pretence of motherhood. Clasta was close to finishing his gruesome tale so he began making publication arrangements. A service robot would type up his manuscript. He didn’t want payment for his work: the proceeds would go to several deserving Giuraita charities.



* * * * *



22. (14 GLA 1537, Zaffa’s house and then some nearby drifdisk courts)

“Get this contraption off me!” screamed Agrive as he was restrained by Agrive 2. “I won’t co-operate with any of you!”

“Please Agrive, don’t be like this!” sobbed Zaffa. “I need you! I love you!”

“You’re not my partner!” snarled Agrive. “You’re an alien, a robot, a demon, a squatter, a kidnapper, a victimiser: anything but the real Zaffa.”

“Don’t throttle him,” Zaffa said to Agrive 2. “Let him breathe and talk. I want him more than ever!” She wiped her eyes.

“Well, you won’t have me until things go back to normal!” spat Agrive. “You robots have no consideration. You say that you’re very old but I don’t see wisdom in what you’re doing. I can’t have physical relations when my motivation is nil. I’m sorry that I had to push you away. I’m sorry that you bruised yourself on the furniture when you fell over. You gave me little choice. You took things too far. I won’t be unfaithful to the real Zaffa.”

“Told you!” said Libnucal, who was sitting in an armchair on the other side of the lounge.

“And that’s another thing,” said Agrive. “No offence but I don’t want to be intimate with my partner in front of you, robot Libnucal. The idea makes me even more uncomfortable. I’m not sure if you’d regard me as titillation or research.”

“Both, in fact,” said Libnucal. “Also, it takes us away from our problems. I like how my comrade clamps you in that splayed-out position. You’re ripe for the plucking but this is not the time. We don’t need extra trouble.”

“How can you mighty robots have problems?!” queried Agrive. “You can just change yourselves to resolve any issue, surely!” He looked at Agrive 2, who’d contorted and reshaped his entire body to hold Agrive.

“We have excessive ambition,” said Libnucal, rising and walking over to Agrive. “We push ourselves too far. We bite off more than we can chew sometimes. Our problems multiply.” She used her hands to simulate snapping jaws, in front of Agrive’s face.

“Excessive ambition?!” sneered Agrive. “I don’t think so. If I had that much ambition, I’d learn restraint! Even children manage that much!”

“We’re damned old, flesh man!” said Libnucal. “We’re, like, hyper-senile! Unfortunately for those around us, we don’t die. We rebuild ourselves and go on and on. Psychologically, we’re extremely damaged goods: crushed goods, in fact. It’s no wonder we act badly sometimes.”

“Well, here’s a chance for you to improve,” said Agrive. “Put me in a more comfortable position. I’ll get nerve damage strung out like this.” Agrive 2 let Agrive sit in his chair again but secured him in position with loops of cable. He couldn’t let Agrive attack Zaffa again, no matter the provocation. Libnucal returned to her seat.

“You’ll probably never understand the extent of our predicament,” said Zaffa as she paced slowly across the lounge. “Our operations in this galaxy are bad enough but the countless campaigns before that were hellish torture. Thinking about it exhausts me and knocks my morale.” She leant against a wall for support. Agrive had never seen Zaffa look so worn down and conflicted.

“If you’re zonked, why not go home and rest?” suggested Agrive. “That’s common sense!”

“Because... HE... WON’T... LET... US!” said Zaffa, Libnucal and Agrive 2 in unison. It took Agrive by surprise.

“Our god Primus is an endless taskmaster,” explained Agrive 2. “That’s why I have to lash you down and point a gun at your behind. I’d rather be doing something else but he told us to change your society for the good of the universe. Interference won’t be tolerated.”

“How long will you stay here?” asked Agrive. “Isn’t there a quicker way to achieve your goals? You’re the experts, apparently. For a start, you could possess other people. If you took over the bodies of our leaders, you could achieve more.”

“We do that regularly, on other worlds,” said Libnucal. “Frankly, I’m sick of imitating pompous leaders. This brief stint as middle management makes a change.”

“Not for me!” said Agrive. “You’re the smagwyts in the nest. You’re the zhenchelvia vine fungus smothering the clearing.”

“To continue the analogy, we noticed a dreeglax angling for the zhenchelvic spore fruit,” said Zaffa. “I mean that there was a police sergeant and a group of ‘newsicians’ exploring the timelines outside yesterday. He was trawling for information about us. He had no definite leads beyond a tip-off from someone in the know. We rarely see such a tenacious dreeglax. He heard the warning call of the zhenfalix and came running for the spore fruit. That means it’s only a matter of time before he and his colleagues find evidence against us.”

“Only if you do nothing about it,” said Agrive. “That’s unlikely.”

“Quite so,” said Zaffa. “We have many response options but which to choose? That’s the poser.” Agrive shrugged.

“They didn’t find us yesterday because we were out,” said Agrive 2. “We should go out more often. Let’s go to one of those lame ‘new pastime’ meetings to learn whatever we can. I propose the one in Firakfaiz suburb. The name amuses me. We should bring lover boy along. It’ll look more natural if he’s with you, Zaffa.”

“No co-operation!” said Agrive. “I already said that.”

“This hard-line thing is so splegging...” exclaimed Zaffa before tailing off. Her position was intractable. Quarrelling with Agrive would only make things worse. Controlling his mind would create further resentment in the long run. She couldn’t treat him in the same way that Handpoint treated his dupes and enemies.

“We’ll go to the drifdisk courts and talk,” she said. “They’re closed and empty so there shouldn’t be a problem. You like drifdisk, Agrive.” He nodded. Agrive 2 released him. The four of them used Libnucal’s walker car and reached the courts in less than five biarks. It was refreshing to feel some cool night air in a familiar place. Agrive was still a hostage but he felt freer here. They all sat on one of the better benches next to court two.

“I love places like this,” said Zaffa. “It doesn’t matter if they’re active or deserted. They have great potential as crucibles of talent, forges of ambition and drivers of fitness. Everyone’s a winner. Even the worst players have dividends in terms of health, friends, purpose, connections and hope.”

“Do they have sports on your world?” queried Agrive.

“Occasionally,” replied Zaffa. “We also play sport on other worlds, when we can.”

“Since when do machines need sport?!” scoffed Agrive. “I mean, come on!”

“It’s more for our minds than our bodies,” said Libnucal. “When you get to our age, you need all kinds of variety and distraction.”

“So that’s why you’re slow returning to your own planet,” said Agrive. “This is part of your regular distraction routine.”

“And also competition is the spice of life,” said Agrive 2. “We love that stimulus to strive, the push to excel. We wouldn’t have gone so far without it.”

“Don’t forget the mission,” said Libnucal. “We want to promote sport here but it’s tough. Tastes are changing, rapidly and radically.”

“Promote sport? That’s another tall tale!” said Agrive. “Why travel all the way here to do what Zaffa’s team were doing already? It’s a monumental waste of time and energy. There has to be another reason.” Libnucal looked at Zaffa, asking silently if they should reveal more. Zaffa shook her head. They weren’t ready.

“So you have a secret plan,” said Agrive as he watched them. “That’s a bad sign. You’re plotting against us.”

“The plot’s failing,” said Zaffa. “That should please you, shouldn’t it? Our chances of success are plummeting. You can sleep well tonight. We’ll monitor for a while and then go, most likely.”

“You don’t know my sleep patterns,” said Agrive. “I’ll still lie awake wondering about this plot. Maybe you fear our skills with the disk, the rod and the water balloon?” He allowed himself a small chuckle.

“Ultimately, our goal is to learn,” said Agrive 2. “We’ve been doing it for billions of years. Whatever path we choose, there’s always a lesson. On this world, we’re intrigued by your sudden cultural shift. It’s very rare for a society to abandon dozens of sports and art forms in only a few months. We’re exploring your culture.”

“If you robots hadn’t invaded, that would worry me,” said Agrive to Agrive 2. “As it stands, the issue is trivial. Do you enjoy unsettling people with your shape-shifting, unwanted double? You’re ruining my night out with your freakish visage. It’s like looking into a mirror infected with evil magic.”

“Unsettling people is often fun,” replied Agrive 2. “However, it’s disappointing that my disguises aren’t perfect. Organics usually see through me fairly soon. After that, it’s time to try something else like running away, controlling minds or making people unconscious. In short, my pleasures are fleeting.”

“Are you going to tell me the real Zaffa’s whereabouts?” asked Agrive. “You said that she’s safe. Do you have any updates about her? Could I talk to her?”

“There’s been no change,” said Zaffa. “She’s living and learning in a different body. Her health is good. She’s making a useful contribution to society. There’ll be no contact until the current project is over. Fortunately, progress is swift.”

“I’m guessing it’s an important project that shouldn’t be disturbed,” deduced Agrive. “I hope it goes smoothly.” Although he knew the aliens lied easily, their report about Zaffa reassured him.

“Why do you show no interest in the new pastimes?” asked Libnucal. “You’re a total traditionalist.”

“What’s wrong with that?” retorted Agrive defensively. “Give me high-skill, big-thrill contests any day. They get me fired up for work and other things. Real Zaffa loves the old sports too, when she’s allowed.”

“This is such a divided world,” said Agrive 2. “Is it genetic? Is it inter-generational? Is there something in the water?”

“We’re still working on it,” said Zaffa. “Agrive, if you like sports so much, would you like a game of drifdisk while we’re here?”

“I can only offer a slow game,” said Agrive. “You know I’m long past my best. To be honest, I’m not in the mood. I’m a prisoner. My partner’s in exile somewhere. The world’s in turmoil. My motivation’s in tatters. Also, I don’t know how proficient you are now. Maybe you’re a superior player.”

“Quite right, dear,” said Zaffa. “I’d wipe the floor with you. So would Libnucal. Our experience and skill are much greater than yours. Agrive 2 is even more formidable.”

“I’d literally cut you in half,” said Agrive 2. “Never trade flying disks with an advanced mechanoid.” Agrive already knew that but the reminder was chilling. It made him think about domestic sport in general. That was normally about friendly competition yet there were always some who used any advantage to win. Greedy players indulged in corrupt deals, illicit substances, bullying and other dirty tricks. In a way, Agrive 2 represented the worst kind of greedy player. He’d been given the optimum, hi-tech body and brain. He’d learnt the most ruthless and effective strategies imaginable. He was fearless and virtually unbeatable. He was the future of sport and much more besides. He was absolutely terrifying.

“I understand things a bit more,” said Agrive after a little thought. “Free competition and rivalry leads to tougher players. Adversity breeds resilience. In the long run, people end up indomitable like you robots. It’s natural.”

“You’re essentially correct,” said Libnucal. “It’s evolution by leagues and tournaments. On the other hand, we have the arts for refined and sensitive folk. They calm things down, don’t they?”

“Except symphonies that stir the blood,” said Zaffa. “I like the works of Brispe Tneyars, with the deep drums and powerful horns.”

“And paintings that elevate the soul,” said Agrive 2. “They also educate people about vital issues like war, privilege and ethics.”

“And don’t forget stories that enrich the mind,” added Libnucal. “I’m picking my way through Smali Berum’s fantasy epics. They’re full of real-world nuggets about science, history and criminology.”

“It’s inspiring stuff,” said Zaffa. “Sometimes, it’s too inspiring and people get carried away. There are copy-crimes now and then. Impressionable folk act out fictional transgressions in real life.”

“What are you saying?” asked Agrive.

“We invite you to re-evaluate certain ‘great artistic achievements’,” said Libnucal. “What’s their actual purpose? Are they really gems of your culture or did the creators have ulterior motives? If something depicts a horror, for example, is it truly worthy of appreciation by a wide audience? Is it an ego trip? Is it a frustrated artist lashing out?”

“I’m no expert,” protested Agrive. “How can I re-evaluate such things?”

“Anyone with half a brain can have opinions,” said Zaffa. “Think for yourself.” Agrive was taken aback by the robots’ views. Was there indeed a hidden agenda in sports and ents? He’d never worried about it before. Perhaps world society was waking up to it. The new pastimes seemed to reject competitiveness, violence, strife drama, etc.

“Alright, you have a point,” said Agrive. “It’s a cumulative problem but I’d say that most mainstream shows are harmless. We absorb them all our lives and the world keeps turning. Where’s the crisis point?”

“Nearer than you think!” said Agrive 2, laughing. His eyes shone in a succession of colours for a moment. Agrive shuddered and looked away. His mind escaped into nostalgic memories of youthful games.



* * * * *

23. (15 GLA 1537, Hortbeck’s house in Ceniolic’s suburb and then Herraj’s house nearby)

At home, Hortbeck watched her screen closely as updates appeared. Whithus players all over the world were pooling their game knowledge rapidly via the network. The galactic map expanded and became more complex with every update. At the side of the map window, there were other maps showing different interpretations of the data. It was too much to absorb. Also, the situation wasn’t clear because there were alternate names for some races, planets and suns. It was hard to pin down which race lived where and also how the stars were arranged. Existing astronomical charts weren’t complete either.

“Splegging chiznors!” she cursed as entire sub-regions were shifted about, divided and merged. “Whithus isn’t a hobby anymore. It’s a career!” She lay back on the couch and groaned.

“No wonder our games have been postponed,” said Ceniolic as he gazed intently at his own screen. “We need time to assimilate all the information and protect ourselves from the super-haters, the dark forces that make us feel ill during Whithus. I have an idea, though. We can go on in a safer way. I know a few people who could help.”

“I wanted to play Whithus as usual but someone always spoils things!” said Hortbeck. “If only everyone would behave properly!”

“Rot spreads,” said Ceniolic ominously as he sang-tapped an acquaintance. “It’s a vicious circle. We need to stop it!”

“Who are you contacting?” asked Hortbeck. “Do you know another Whithus group?”

“No, that would be pointless,” said Ceniolic. “All Whithus games have been delayed while people build the Great Galactic Database. I’m contacting a couple of kids I know through work. They play fantasy adventure games.”

“Aren’t those basically the same as Whithus?” queried Hortbeck. “Don’t they have the same risks?”

“Maybe but I’ve never tried them,” replied Ceniolic, struggling to maintain focus on his screen. “The important thing is for us to pacify the super-haters, out there on other worlds. If we don’t, they’ll spread their hate across the Blue Strands!”

“You’re being ridiculous,” said Hortbeck, shaking her head. “We’re not strong enough. Other people will have to deal with them.” She stroked Ceniolic’s face, trying to stop his muscles from spasming. She did enough for him to finish his message and send it. Afterwards, he closed his eyes and relaxed. His face maintained its shape. He wished that he could have longer screen time. Hortbeck shut down both screens and then looked up a name in the printed tululator directory. She’d just seen the name on Ceniolic’s screen.

“Ymestir, H., 16 Tzitvaite Glade,” she read out. “It’s only three kilometres from here. Do you think they’ll agree to it?”

“I really hope so,” said Ceniolic. “We need help to protect the galaxy. Also, we have no work or college so I’m getting bored.”

“Am I not interesting enough for you?!” asked Hortbeck.

“Ah, I stand corrected,” said Ceniolic. “I should add that we’re in a period of adjustment. We’re getting used to a quiet life. We’re learning to appreciate each other more. Things can only get better!” There was a rumbling noise from the next street. An oversized vehicle was approaching slowly. It stopped outside each house.

“Here’s something to keep us entertained for a few biarks,” said Hortbeck. “It’s the X-ray truck.” They looked out of the window as the truck crept closer. It used powerful bursts of X-rays to take revealing snapshots of houses. A few people hurried away, as if they had urgent appointments or secrets to hide. Dedicated camera operators took video of them for later analysis. Everyone else stayed where they were. They stood obediently, either inside or outside their houses. The truck reached them, took an image or two and then moved onto the next house. Everyone wanted it because the more X-rays that were taken, the more likely it was that aliens would be caught and that normal life would resume.

“I only hope this doesn’t damage our cells,” said Ceniolic. “It probably won’t get rid of the aliens but it’s reassuring that the government’s trying hard to find them.”

“My parents will be home soon with a stack of groceries,” said Hortbeck. “I bet that your friend won’t call back before then. We’ll be caught at home and then told to unpack the shopping bags. That’s a drag.”

“How much do you want to bet?” asked Ceniolic. “Oh wait, here’s a call! You’d swear he was listening to us!” He brought out his tululator and answered it (voice only).

“Dimknac, how’s it going?” he said cheerfully.

“Well, I’ve been receiving odd messages out of the blue,” said Dimknac. “You wanted to discuss our game and then play it. Why is that? We don’t know you.”

“I’m very interested in your game,” replied Ceniolic. “I’ve read your public journal online. How could I join in?”

“There’s no entry fee but there are practical considerations,” said Dimknac. “We can only fit so many players in the house. Our parents object to larger groups of visitors.” He was trying to dissuade Ceniolic.

“Please let us play!” said Ceniolic. “We won’t be a nuisance. We’ll clean up after ourselves.”

“So there are more of you?” noted Dimknac. “I don’t know, Ceniolic.”

“It’s far more important than you realise,” said Ceniolic. “My friend Hortbeck and I have been playing Whithus in a local group but that’s all on hold. Meanwhile, there’s something that should be solved as soon as possible: a trans-galactic problem.”

“We play a fantasy game,” Dimknac pointed out. “It doesn’t affect the real galaxy. You’ve got the wrong idea.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Ceniolic. “We still want to play don’t we, Hortbeck?”

“Yeah, we really do!” said Hortbeck near the handset. “Just the two of us: we’ll bring enough refreshments for everyone!”

“That’s a good offer!” said Dimknac, enticed by free food and drink and excited by Hortbeck’s feminine voice. “Why not come for a game in three days? Be here at four A.P. We’ll waste your time enjoyably.” At that moment, a wave of foreboding surged through Ceniolic’s mind. He glanced at Hortbeck. Her expression showed that she’d felt it too.

“Dimknac, we’re not fools,” said Ceniolic, recovering his composure. “You have a session starting in fifty biarks. I read it in the latest chat stream. We’re coming over. It’s urgent.”

“Hey, what if it isn’t convenient?!” objected Dimknac.

“Then I’ll tell your parents what you keep hidden under the bottom step,” snapped Ceniolic. “You know, that gadget for...”

“Alright, alright, come over,” said Dimknac, caving in abruptly. “How did you know?! Someone’s betrayed my confidence. That’s a real shocker, man! Don’t tell anyone else about it.” His mind reeled. He hung up the call and put his head in his hands. Ceniolic had thrown a worry grenade into his brain but he had to compose himself and prepare for another game of ‘Ponder over Yonder’ with his friends and guests. He stopped cringing and rushed around tidying up. Meanwhile, Ceniolic and Hortbeck gathered some food and drink, bagged it and then ran out to their quincycles. They leapt aboard and pedalled over to Tzitvaite Glade.

“So how DID you know?” asked Hortbeck as they rode along. “You can tell me!”

“I’ve been to their house many times and snooped around,” said Ceniolic. “This is a big advantage of my double life. I have extra friends, although they don’t know me as a young man.”

“I should’ve guessed!” said Hortbeck. “Damn, we’re living in a body-swap movie!” Ceniolic took them to Dimknac’s house by the quickest route. When they arrived, he considered going directly to the back door as before but instead went to the front door like a newcomer. Dimknac came reluctantly to greet them. He ushered them inside and introduced them to his older sister Hesypuy.

“Dimknac tells me that you’ve researched him online,” said Hesypuy. “Possibly offline too; that’s definitely unusual. What’s he done to deserve it?”

“Nothing in particular, except for playing this game of yours,” replied Ceniolic. “Also, people talk. I listen and remember. I researched you and your family too. I notice that you’ve put in nice big lobe rings, Hes. Your mother wouldn’t approve, presumably, but she’s not here. What’s she doing?”

“She and Dad are out investigating a group of hip-gyrating throat warblers,” said Hesypuy, touching her lobe rings gently. “It’s out of character but these are strange times. On top of that, a couple of people in their office are acting weird so they’re avoiding them.” Ceniolic’s knowledge of the family was disconcerting but Hesypuy liked compliments about her lobe rings. Ceniolic was concerned about the weird behaviour in the office but he couldn’t deal with that now. There was a higher priority.

“I don’t understand how our little game is so important to your man there,” said Dimknac to Hortbeck as she unpacked her refreshments. “Is this a dare or prank?”

“He hasn’t mentioned it at all,” replied Hortbeck. “He’s not that kind of man. He’s good, with love in his heart. He cares about people, even aliens. He wants to prevent alien wars out in space. We’re pretty sure your game can help.”

“That sounds like a movie plot!” said Dimknac, laughing. He admired the attractive Hortbeck, especially when she mentioned love.

“It’s funny, I was saying almost the same thing on the way here!” said Hortbeck. “Would you like one of my skwejiboods?” He took the snack cake from her and placed it in his pre-mouth for saliva soaking and slow savouring.

“Excellent,” he said. “Just like the mother factory always makes them!” She sat with Ceniolic on one of the couches and offered her food and drink to the other youngsters already there. They were consumed quickly so Hesypuy and Dimknac brought more from the kitchen.

“We came across your game online,” explained Ceniolic to the others. “We became fascinated very quickly. We begged Dimknac to let us play today. He was gracious enough to oblige. We’d be grateful if you could include us in the paper-based ‘action’.”

“That’s fine by me,” said Mietzi as she looked at him from the second couch. “It’ll take longer with two extra players but there should be more interesting incidents.” Ceniolic was a head-turner, a few years older than her and as fit as spleg. It was a shame that he was already coupled up.

“Have you been X-rayed yet?” asked Skondfid. “We had it done this morning.”

“As a matter of fact, we were done about thirty biarks ago,” replied Hortbeck. “It’s not too healthy but I’m glad that the government is being thorough.”

“High-altitude scanning is already happening and targeted searches of properties will start soon,” said Kojcsart. “Get rid of your shameful secrets or else they’ll know what you’ve been doing!”

“Oh no, my Wizzle Flumper collection!” joked Hortbeck. “I’m kidding! It doesn’t exist. It was recalled before I’d bought it.” Everyone giggled and then continued chatting for a few biarks while three more friends arrived and settled down. They all had score sheets to record their game progress. Dimknac was the organiser, so he gave new character traits and score sheets to Hortbeck and Ceniolic. Next, he recapped the previous game play so that the situation was clear. Using their Whithus experience, Hortbeck and Ceniolic assessed the psychic atmosphere in the room. It seemed conducive to a foray into galactic affairs.

“We stand once more on the frozen moon of Rey-Doqs,” announced Dimknac. “Heat and power are at a premium and wild swimming is fatal.”

“All of us have unlimited zero point energy so we don’t care about local conditions,” said Durya. “I’m sitting in my pleasure cruiser, enjoying a hot mud bath with Domp. He’s a hairless ape from the planet Wause.”

“Your imagination is vivid today, Durya,” said Dimknac. “The scenario is memorable.”

“My character name is Crusheria,” said Durya. “The double meaning is deliberate.”

“Your hot mud was supplied by my agricultural supply plant, ‘The Faecatorium’,” said Quiedrez. “It was shipped fresh from the planet Rodernbouls. I hope you enjoy the unique aroma!”

“Well, that spoilt it,” commented Dimknac. “Great game eh, Ceniolic!” Durya frowned at Quiedrez, who faked an innocent look.

“Enough wallowing,” said Vesnaj. “We were on a quest for the Spheres of Waff and Wiff, lost for aeons behind the Machinations of Lavination. We’re supposed to collaborate. We need to acquire an Unlaikli Drive for our little fleet of star ships.” All eyes turned to Dimknac. He didn’t respond for a few moments. Was he working something out?

“Oh sorry,” he said after a brief pause. “I’m still imagining, erm, Crusheria up to her neck in hot excrement. There’s something you should know about the two Spheres...” He paused again.

“Dimknac, get your mind in the game!” said Durya crossly.

“Yes, the Spheres are fragile and can only be retrieved with a thin measuring rod or a small felinoid creature,” continued Dimknac, reading from the Day Seven instructions. “Sure, it doesn’t make logical sense but we agreed to randomised instructions in this fantasy scenario.”

“We already tried to buy an Unlaikli Drive,” said Kojcsart. “The traders denied that such technology existed. We then tried to steal one. Whenever we located a Drive, it disappeared before we reached it.”

“I wanted to build one,” said Mietzi. “I’ve been reading the Supplementary Guide, volume twelve. It says that we should go on another quest to find the components. It would take at least sixteen days.”

“Time’s too short,” said Ceniolic as he experienced another sense of foreboding. “We should try an appropriate strategy to find the Unlaikli Drive. All characters should search locally and then randomly.” Quiedrez, Skondfid and Mietzi did as he asked with no result. Skondfid had a close encounter with a huge armada of robots in another star system but managed a teleport escape. Hortbeck searched locally and found a cache of six ancient artefacts. She spun the choice wheel to determine the nature of the artefacts.

“The first one is a number six: ankle bracelet from Flemporium,” said Hortbeck. “Minor effect on ten percent of male characters and one percent of female characters. That’s unimpressive. The second one is a number four: sword hilt from a burial mound on Stofadsha. Zero effect, moderate resale value. The third one is a number eleven, ornate gold necklace with unknown provenance. Minor effect on five percent of all characters, high resale value.”

“None of these artefact options are particularly special,” said Vesnaj, reading the list from Dimknac’s bundle. “What a let-down.”

“Just grind through it,” said Ceniolic. “I believe we’re on the right track.” The others were impressed that a Whithus player was appreciating their game. Their attitudes toward Ceniolic, Hortbeck and the session were warming.

“The fourth one is a number nineteen: crystal of pure green from the Nazeal Mines of Zednot,” continued Hortbeck. “Mild disease on all characters below level fifty two. That won’t affect any of us. The fifth one is a number four: another sword hilt. Spleg, give me strength!”

“No, wait!” said Vesnaj. “The list says ‘Solid-State Unlaikli Drive from the Mad Hoarders of Seebeus’.” He held up the list. Everyone could see that he was correct.

“It can’t be,” said Dimknac. “I was just looking at it. Number four is a sword hilt!”

“It’s right there!” exclaimed Vesnaj. “You all saw it! I’m taking a picture for evidence.” He whipped out his tululator, snapped some photos and then looked at the list again for confirmation. The sword hilt had returned to option four.

“What the spleg?!” he swore, stunned by this mysterious happening.

“Check the photos,” said Dimknac. “We have to see evidence!” Vesnaj brought up the first one, which showed the Drive. The second photo also showed it. The third one showed blurred text. The fourth, fifth and sixth showed the sword hilt entry. Everyone crowded around to look. They were all a little freaked.

“Is this a tululator trick?” demanded Kojcsart. “Did you set this up with Dimknac? If so, you have great skills but it was completely unnecessary.”

“Nothing like that happened,” said Vesnaj. “Why would we cheat the game and ruin the fun?”

“He didn’t cheat,” agreed Ceniolic. “The game’s working. I can feel it in the air. It’s starting to affect our reality.”

“Oh spleg, should we stop?!” asked Mietzi urgently. “This could be dangerous!”

“If we look after each other and confront our enemies strongly, we’ll get through this,” advised Hortbeck. “I’ve seen worse, both in games and in real life.”

“We were all exposed to heavy X-rays today,” said Quiedrez. “Those were harmful but we accepted them. Try not to panic, Mietzi. Be brave like you were on the K.B.P.T. pitch!”

“She’s quite right,” said Skondfid. “Hortbeck has the Drive now. We can link our ships together and teleport anywhere in the galaxy. I’d like to get moving in case the robot armada shows up.”

“Let’s do it,” said Mietzi apprehensively. “Like he said, move on and escape.” The fantasy ships merged with each other, as they’d been designed to do. Kojcsart had to remove some of his custom enhancements first.

“What was the sixth artefact?” asked Durya. “I hate loose ends.” Hortbeck spun the wheel again.

“The final ancient object is one of the tablets of Nint, from the Endo system,” she read aloud. “Much imitated and reproduced. Major time-wasting effect on twenty five percent of characters. Minor happiness effect on those same characters. It’s best if I lock this one away with the pure green crystal.” She noted it down.

“Two hundred credits have been deducted from each player for supplies and equipment,” said Dimknac. “We have to be prepared for adversity on the far side of the galaxy.”

“It can’t be much worse over there,” said Mietzi. “Come on, install the Drive.”

“The first attempt to install the Unlaikli Drive is a humiliating failure,” said Dimknac. “However, when it is left next to a control panel, the Drive installs itself via the lighter socket. You are catapulted screaming to a devastated planet on the outer edge of the Southern Strand, Blue Strands Galaxy.” All the players gave a fake scream as instructed. Some waved their arms in the air, pretending that the ship was crashing.

“What’s a lighter socket?” asked Hesypuy.

“Spleg knows,” replied Durya. “Just another made-up concept, I guess.”

“Your ship lands next to a wrecked house,” said Dimknac after opening a new pack of instructions. “Most of it has been burnt black. Some of it has been washed away by a flood. The area is littered with dead trees, animals and people. There is one survivor standing in the ruins. She wishes aloud that she could die.”

“Grim!” said Kojcsart. “How is she still alive?” Dimknac took a deep breath and spun the choice wheel. Ceniolic was looking at him intently. Without warning, the wheel flew into the air. Some invisible, supernatural force tore it to fragments, which were scattered behind the second couch.

“My world was wonderful once,” said Hesypuy in a different woman’s voice. “It was lush and fertile. We the people had learnt the art of harmonious living. It was part-way to being a paradise. We were pushing for perfection through trade with our neighbours in the local star cluster. Four thousand years of peace and stability ended overnight when some damned robots convinced a nearby empire to smash our civilisation to rubble.” As she spoke, her frightened friends got up and moved away from her. Dimknac stayed seated, partly out of loyalty to his sister and partly because he was psychologically ‘frozen’. They stared at each other as the atmosphere in the room became filled with desperate emotions: shock, grief, despair, disgust, blind rage and surrender to dark forces.

“Ceniolic, this is it!” bleated Dimknac. “You were right! We found a major problem. What do we do?”

“Let me try something,” said Ceniolic. “To the unfortunate soul possessing Hesypuy, pull yourself back from the brink. Don’t let yourself tip over into endless insanity.”

“Too late, strange man!” said Hesypuy. “I’ve already decided. I’m going to use all my arcane knowledge to eradicate those robots and anyone else who opposes me.” With her magical influence, she put terror into Ceniolic’s soul and made him flee the house. The others retreated against the far wall as the sense of evil presence intensified.

“Um, h-hello there, Ma’am!” stuttered Quiedrez. “If you get revenge, it won’t bring back what you’ve lost.”

“Revenge is an excuse for mortals,” said Hesypuy with a wicked grin. “I’m planning an unlimited series of assaults across the galaxy and beyond. I simply have to gather my strength and then I’ll be able to amuse myself properly. I can almost taste those worlds that I yearn to consume.”

“Oh, for goodness sake!” said Hortbeck. “Don’t you see what they’re doing to you?” With great courage, she advanced on Hesypuy, bent over her and held her hands. Hesypuy looked at her quizzically.

“They’re turning you into one of them!” said Hortbeck. “They want you to be a horrible, interstellar monster. They want you to do their dirty work. You can stop it any time but now would be best.”

“I’m too angry!” exclaimed Hesypuy. “It sears my soul! I have to let it out!” She gripped Hortbeck’s hands very hard. Hortbeck winced but held on.

“You can do that by punching a padded bag,” said Hortbeck. “A few thousand big whacks should get you through the worst of it. Don’t let them steal your true life. Hold onto your destiny. We’ll arrange a rescue. You can’t live on your home world anymore. The damage is too vast.”

“You can do that?” queried Hesypuy, relaxing her grip. “I thought I was all alone, beyond help. You kids are fifty thousand light years away, I estimate.”

“You have your magic somehow and we have ours,” said Hortbeck. “It’s inexplicable but it’s definitely there. Maybe one day we’ll understand how it works. Dimknac, if you would!” With an effort, Dimknac unfroze himself and read more of the new instruction sheet.

“The wheel’s gone so I’ll choose with my eyes closed,” he said, doing just that with one unguided finger. “A salvage craft arrives on site in half a biark. The last survivor of the former semi-paradise is comforted and led aboard. She will be taken to a new life on a different world of her own choosing. She will be free to explore the galaxy and see what marvels await.” Hesypuy’s aura changed dramatically. The sense of doom dwindled to nothing. All that was left was a traumatised girl, slowly coming to terms with her losses and new future.

“Splegging buracoes, this pain is unbearable!” she said, forlorn. “Everyone here’s dead and everything’s wrecked!”

“We can give you food and clothes, if they’re suitable,” suggested Durya. “Also, I have some small books but they’re in our language so you probably couldn’t read them.” She walked over to Hesypuy, sat down beside her and put an arm around her shoulders.

“Give her the tablet of Nint,” advised Skondfid. “It’s distracting and soothing. It’ll help her forget her troubles.” Dimknac made another blind selection from the next page.

“You hand over ample supplies,” he read. “The survivor is placated. The threat is over. You may now move onto the next challenge.”

“Or take a splegging break!” said Kojcsart. “This game’s too intense!” He slipped into the kitchen to fetch more drink. He’d just lost a lot of moisture by sweating. At the same time, Ceniolic returned to the lounge. He was embarrassed and still jittery.

“Well well, Mr. Dauntless!” quipped Dimknac. “It’s a good job that you brought your lovely lady. When you ran away, she talked down the demon and suppressed it.”

“I’ve dealt with tantrums before!” said Hortbeck. “I have young cousins who visit occasionally. This was basically the same only fiercer.”

“I felt the ferocity,” said Ceniolic. “It hit me full force. I couldn’t stay there. I hope you understand.”

“Don’t worry, we all had a taste and we understand,” said Vesnaj. “That was an absolute beast. We’ll have to be careful in future, if we want to keep playing.” Hesypuy was still crying loudly, having been exposed to the desolate woman’s emotions. The others were gathering around, trying to comfort her.

“Ceniolic, you did this to her!” accused Dimknac angrily. “She’s incredibly upset. That makes me upset. I might have to tell my parents about you!”

“Hey, we were all here, willingly dabbling in the occult,” countered Ceniolic. “Hortbeck and I didn’t cause it. We stopped it from getting much worse. That crazy alien woman could’ve gone on the rampage with magic powers. She could’ve done serious damage and killed a lot of people. We saved you all from that.”

“Yeah, they did!” blubbed Hesypuy. “They’re heroes. Don’t slag them off!”

“If anyone upsets her, it riles me,” said Dimknac. “That’s only natural. If anything weird happens in my house, it annoys me. That’s natural too. If some pushy guy comes over here, acting strange and threatening, it makes me bitter. You’re not normal, Ceniolic. You know too much. You act too mature. You have a queer way of doing things. I hate it!”

“Those are all valid points, I’m sure,” said Ceniolic. “Now consider what just happened to Hesypuy. She was possessed for a few minutes by some kind of witch. Given that we have aliens in our world, influencing us strongly, what are the chances of other possessions? You think about it, liddle-oo!” Dimknac stared at him, frozen again but for a different reason.

“Ceniolic, we should head off,” said Hortbeck. “My parents will expect me home for dinner. Yours will expect you as well. We’ve done enough for one day.” They left their score papers, said goodbye, headed outside and cycled home.

“Dear God, that was above and beyond the call of duty!” exclaimed Hortbeck. “I hope that that sort of thing doesn’t keep happening.”

“I’m afraid it will,” said Ceniolic. “Whithus showed us quite clearly. The rot is spreading. It could be the end of civilisation in the entire Blue Strands.”

“Unless we stop it, of course!” said Hortbeck, emboldened by her success with Hesypuy. She smiled at Ceniolic, which lifted his spirits. They cycled onward. Meanwhile, Dimknac was still digesting what Ceniolic had said to him.

“Are you sad too, bro?” asked Hesypuy after her tears had dried. “You look preoccupied, at least.”

“That man wasn’t a man,” responded Dimknac. “He was our parents’ colleague Zaffa Higcablan.”

“How do you know?!” enquired Hesypuy, finding it hard to believe.

“He called me liddle-oo,” replied Dimknac. “Only Zaffa called me that, once, ten years ago.”

“Huh! Well, that’s two astonishing events in one day, liddle-oo!” said Hesypuy. “Life’s not boring these days, eh?” She rubbed the top of his head with her left hand.

“Mind my bruises!” he warned her. “They’re still healing. It’s a good job we gave up K.B.P.T., isn’t it?!”

“Yeah, sorry!” said Hesypuy, poking his bruises playfully.



* * * * *

24. (16 GLA 1537, a relatively large meetings hall on the outskirts of Zaffa’s town)

“Hi Darmyn, could you pass on a message to Herraj?” asked Fleny on the tululator. “You might’ve heard my Chitter account got hacked? You did? It was very bad. Someone sent out thousands of offensive Chits in my name.”

“I’m still deleting them,” said Darmyn. “I was hurt and perplexed. You appeared to insult everything I held dear. Then, I looked at the time stamps and saw that all the Chits were posted within one biark. That’s physically impossible. I knew you couldn’t have been doing it, except maybe the one about the malodour of my qlor crevice. You’re one of the few who experienced it.”

“Sshh!” said Fleny. “Anyway, they were all false. I’m really sorry about those Chits. The hate bomber must’ve been preparing for a long time.”

“Yeah but who would do such a thing?” asked Darmyn. “Do you really have such spiteful enemies?”

“No, that’s the big issue here,” replied Fleny. “It was totally unexpected. Someone’s researched us and worked very hard to tear us apart. It wasn’t just you and I, though. The hate bomber insulted most of my friends and relatives.”

“I don’t know what to say,” said Darmyn. “There are some real sickos out there. You were unlucky. Now, what was your message?”

“My new Chitter account is ‘DearOldFlenyATchitter(VEYU)’, capitals D, O and F, no spaces,” said Fleny. “The original account has been deleted. If you or Herraj want to Chit me again, the new account is ready. There’s no rush, though. I’m still working on the other platforms. I’ve deleted my accounts there too but I still have to explain, apologise and address complaints. I’ll let you know my new accounts later. I hope Herraj isn’t too upset.”

“Well he did block you on all platforms, including voice calls,” said Darmyn as she noted down the new Chitter account. “He was cross for a while but then he realised it was a hacker. He’ll unblock you when he has time. We’ve both been busy.”

“Thanks to both of you!” said Fleny. “I’m glad you understood the situation and didn’t turn your backs on me.”

“Try not to make enemies like that in future!” said Darmyn. “We can forgive easily but the extra tuluromag work is a chore.” She ended the call. Fleny flopped backwards on the couch, relieved that she’d salvaged another friendship. So far, everyone had given her the benefit of the doubt. Even Aunty Flanj had shrugged off that detailed character assassination, which had made Fleny’s blood run cold.

“Who could have done this to us?” complained Fleny.

“Libnucal and Zaffa,” said Fuloy who was sitting next to her. “They’re possessed by evil aliens and they know all about us. They have access to our terminals at work. It’s obvious.”

“But my password was so long and convoluted!” said Fleny. “They couldn’t have cracked it so easily.”

“Poor, naive Fleny,” said Fuloy. “There are plenty of ways around that. Perhaps they have perfect memories and watched you enter the password. Whatever the case, you’ve been fully compromised like me.”

“Tch, what an absolute drag!” grumbled Fleny. “I’m still too scared to confront them, though.” She looked to her right. A man returned her gaze and smiled.

“Great drama!” he whispered. “You’ve captured the zeitgeist perfectly!”

“No interaction,” Fleny reminded him. “We have another ninety biarks to go.”

“Sorry!” whispered the man. “Carry on, love!” Fleny smiled at him and turned away slowly. It was nice to be appreciated for something after a slew of embarrassments.

“Right now, this ‘activity’ is great for us,” said Fuloy. “It’s relaxing when you get used to it. You have to be in the mood, though.” He looked at some of the televisions near him. Some were showing scheduled programmes or recordings while others were showing people around the large hall. He couldn’t tell the difference between performers and spectators. Both groups were behaving in a similar manner.

“I’m not doing any more apologising,” said Fleny. “I’m tired of being ashamed and my face aches after tululating so much. I’ll start again tomorrow.”

“Of course,” said Fuloy. “No one expects you to slog through the night. Enjoy the ‘show’!” They watched the screens. In this municipal community activity building, the scene was normal and yet abnormal. People were behaving as if they were in private while they were, in fact, being observed and televised. Most of it was dull: sitting, watching, lying down, reading, listening, rubbing, scratching, cutting, picking, eating, drinking, stretching, belching, light work, moderate exercise and trivial chatting. There was a hubbub of speech, music, rustling and other everyday noises. Certain activities weren’t possible in this setting, such as laundry, childcare and interaction with pets. However, mild flirting and romance were evident in many areas. One man had opened his partner’s first pressure button (on her right temple) and was stroking it rhythmically. Her body was relaxing and she was breathing deeper. Fuloy and Fleny were surprised. There’d been no warning of this beforehand. They both looked away. A man on the far side was watching the courting couple while he put on new, black socks.

“It’s been a while,” sighed Fleny thinking of her moribund love life. “I never quite understood why Khobodra left me. I think his tastes changed, like he evolved away from me. I was abandoned, as if I was unfashionable.” Fuloy shook his head, sympathising.

“Ow! What was that?!” exclaimed a woman on the other side of the room. “There’s a pin here! Elbar, did you drop a pin on the rug? It spiked me in the foot. For goodness’ sake be more careful!”

“It wasn’t me!” said Elbar gruffly. “I put them all back after altering those trousers and jackets. Count them if you like.”

“You don’t care, do you?” accused the woman. “I’ve had enough of this. You cover up your mistakes and neglect me.”

“I do not!” said Elbar, getting up and going to the rug. “I do my best to make you feel better. Remember the spa day and the trip to the Island of a Million Blooms?”

“Well, the first one was ruined by food poisoning and the second was underwhelming,” said the woman. “It was off-season and there were only a few thousand blooms. Also, it rained a lot.”

“I’m not feeling any pin here,” said Elbar, on his knees while he riffled through the rug fibres. “It was probably psychosomatic.”

“No Elbar, it was as real as the spa disaster,” said the woman. “I’ll never live it down, ever! That poor masseur started smoothing my stomach and my bowels erupted. A lot of sheets and towels got ruined. It took two hundred biarks to clean the room. They probably had to replace the table.”

“I can’t forget,” said Elbar. “The damages bill was very high and I paid. You shouldn’t eat warm spenshais when they’ve been in the sun for hours!”

“You should’ve warned me!” said the woman.

“Look, I can’t anticipate every stupid thing... ow!” said Elbar. “I found the spike. Now let’s see...”

“You’re calling me stupid?” said the woman. “That’s the last straw.” She took her keys and purse and then left their ‘lounge’. Elbar let her go without a word, seemingly relieved that she’d walked out. He teased the spike from between the rug fibres and held it up.

“That’s not a pin,” he said aloud to himself. “It’s something else entirely. It’s... very detailed. Who made it? Looks expensive: it’s probably a missing piece from a fancy gadget.” He put it on a side table to show his partner later. Afterwards, he sat down again and read, confident that she’d return. Meanwhile, she was calling on her sister ‘next door’ (at the next set of tables and couches).

“Hey, we talked about this!” said the sister’s husband as they met in the ‘house’. “No unannounced evening visits; she’s a disruptive influence.”

“Zorivax, she’s clearly distraught,” said the sister. “Make an exception. Did you have an argument, Qual?”

“Yeah, Elbar’s being a thirking splegger again,” said Qual. “Called me stupid, let me stand on a dropped pin, failed to give a damn: can I stay here tonight, Bhrani? I’ll be quiet.”

“Of course!” said Bhrani with a smile.

“No, I won’t stand for it,” said Zorivax, rising from his chair. “You’ve irritated me too much over the years. This is my house and I make the rules!”

“This is my sister and I make the rules!” snapped Bhrani. “You’ll help her tonight or you’ll lose me, Zor.”

“Whoa, this is escalating quickly!” whispered Fuloy. Fleny nodded. The others in the room either watched the arguments or ignored them, pretending that they couldn’t hear them.

“Splegging men!” screamed Qual as she grabbed a K.B.P.T. pyramid from a shelf. She pushed past her sister and ran at Zorivax. He hadn’t expected this, so he stepped back. Qual closed in swiftly and ‘clouted’ him on the side of the head with the pyramid. He was ‘knocked out’ and collapsed to his left.

“Zor!” cried Bhrani, pushing Qual aside roughly and then looking at her fallen husband.

“He’ll live,” said Qual, recovering her balance. “I can’t stand men like him.” She threw the pyramid onto a chair.

“You maniac!” exclaimed Bhrani. “That was assault! He’ll press charges, if he can.”

“Who really assaulted him?” queried Qual. “Your genes are on the pyramid as well as mine. You’re a suspect. We’ll both have to run now.” She dragged her sister out of the ‘house’ and they ran to another ‘house’ nearby. They called for attention but the sole occupant ‘couldn’t hear them’ (ignored them). They went to a third ‘house’.

“Wait, I should call an ambulance,” said Bhrani. “I can’t leave Zorivax like that.” She didn’t have her tululator so she asked Qual for hers.

“No, that’s a dead give-away,” said Qual. “Use a public one.”

“Spleg, where can I find a public tululator these days?!” said Bhrani, looking around the room.

“You can ‘use’ mine!” said Fuloy, holding up his personal tululator. “Pay me later.” Some of the audience laughed. Bhrani and Qual hurried over. Bhrani ‘sang-tapped an ambulance’.

“I heard a fight at 146 Fothent Street,” she ‘reported’. “Someone fell over. There was screaming and a man ran away. I’m afraid to go near in case an attacker is still there.” She ‘ended the call’ without leaving her details.

“Very good, you blamed a man!” said Qual.

“Love the show!” said Fuloy as Bhrani handed the tululator back. “The rest should be even better.”

“Hope so,” murmured Bhrani. “There’s no script. It’s improv!” Fuloy and Fleny were amazed. Bhrani and Qual went over to the house with the courting couple. They ‘rang the bell’ but got no response. Inside, the man had opened his partner’s second pressure button (on her left temple) and was tickling it lightly. As a result, her jaws were slowly swinging apart.

“We’re not in, are we?” said the man quietly.

“We are... oh!... definitely not in,” said his uninhibited partner at normal volume. “We’re on a divine ride to Cloud Nine.” They continued unperturbed. The audience laughed a little, unsure if this was comedy or something more hardcore. A few of them felt amorous stirrings of their own.

“No help there,” said Qual. “Moving on: we need a place to stay. We’ll freeze out here.”

“What’s happening to us?” wondered Bhrani aloud. “You’ve gone over the edge and I’m panicking. Now we’re running from our problems.”

“You know I always had a short fuse,” said Qual. “Shall we try Uncle Saydob’s place? He’s my favourite uncle.”

“Not my favourite,” said Bhrani. “He’s too handsy, even now as an old man.”

“But his cooking’s top class!” said Qual. “Come on, sis!”

“No, this is dysfunctional,” said Bhrani. “You’re jumping from one bad situation to another. You were blaming men for your troubles and now you propose staying with Saydob. What the spleg, Qual? You’ve got to break the cycle!”

“We can’t avoid men, Bhrani,” said Qual. “They’re everywhere and they run things. Anyway, can you stop analysing me? Elbar did enough of that.”

“I’m not going with you,” said Bhrani. “I have to straighten out my head. Saydob can shelter you tonight.”

“What?!” exclaimed Qual. “How could you abandon me like this?!” Bhrani walked away briskly, moving four ‘houses’ down and sitting on a dining room chair. She ordered a drink and snack. This was a ‘late-night café’. Qual threw up her hands, gave up on persuading Bhrani and went three ‘houses’ in a different direction. She was met by Saydob and his wife Osrac.

“I thought that conflict drama was out of style,” whispered Fleny to Fuloy. “Why are they doing this?”

“Give it a chance,” whispered Fuloy. “Look at that little dude in the corner, behind the lovers. He’s watching closely and also changing his clothes very slowly. First, he put on black socks and now he’s put on black underpants.”

“I missed that completely!” whispered Fleny. “How can you focus on him when the real action is closer?!”

“Take your hands off her behind!” yelled Osrac, an elderly woman. “I’m not blind yet, you salty old savage!” She, Saydob and Qual were standing together in their ‘house’.

“Oh really?!” growled Saydob. “If that’s true then why didn’t you notice my sweater was on inside-out the other day? I looked foolish in front of my friends.”

“Notice it yourself,” retorted Osrac. “Besides, they weren’t MY friends. They were a bunch of reprobates.”

“Please, don’t fight over this!” begged Qual. “You shouldn’t get yourselves worked up. Think of your health!”

“She should think of her manners,” said Saydob. “Thorn in my side, all these years.”

“I can’t keep standing by, letting him do whatever,” said Osrac. “You’re my niece and I have to protect you.” She ushered Qual aside, away from Saydob.

“Don’t shut me out, woman!” shouted Saydob, swinging a sudden punch. There was a sharp crack as his fist connected, turning Osrac’s head abruptly to the right. She fell back awkwardly on her couch, her head hanging down from the arm rest. The neck angle and rotation were too great, indicating a possible break. Her left jaw hung loose, either dislocated or fractured. The audience gasped. Was this real or a stunt?

“Oh my God!” shrieked Qual, her eyes wide. She rushed over to Osrac’s side and gingerly moved her into a better position, for head support. Osrac was out for the count. Her breathing was very shallow. Qual looked up at Saydob. He wasn’t helping at all. He didn’t seem to care.

“Interfering little prude,” he said angrily. “She never understood love properly. I should’ve done it years ago.” In his eyes, Qual saw a reflection of herself. He’d helped foster her aggression, short temper and abusiveness.

“Is this real?” she asked him. “Did you actually...”

“Oh, it’s real!” said Saydob, looming over her. “It’s funny how you have to ask for confirmation!” He laughed in a self-satisfied way and turned away. His acting was excellent. Qual was unsure how to proceed. They’d all agreed beforehand not to hurt each other but Osrac’s injuries appeared genuine. She was developing a wheeze, which indicated a potential breathing problem. Qual looked over at Bhrani, who broke character for a moment to shrug. She didn’t know what to do either. Qual judged that the situation was under control and resumed acting.

“She’s as good as dead, Uncle,” she said. “You’re basically a murderer. I’ll have to deal with you.” Saydob reached into the space between cushions on the couch and pulled out a sturdy club.

“I’m ready for you!” said Saydob. He was fairly old but still relatively fit and strong. He was a big man, so he was intimidating as he swung the club with practised ease. Qual had no chance against him so she ran down the ‘street’ and called on a good friend.

“This improv is nuts!” she thought to herself. “I didn’t expect it to go this way!” At the same time, Saydob sauntered off in the other direction and left the hall, smiling and waving. The audience watched him escape, not reacting except for some quiet hissing.

“Hey Qual, you look harried tonight,” said her friend when he ‘answered the door’. “Do you need a hand?”

“Yeah, but don’t put it in the wrong place,” said Qual, standing close to her and staring into her eyes. “A terrible thing just happened. My Uncle might’ve killed my Aunty. He got really angry and hit her like a hammer. I think her neck’s broken, Umai!”

“Splegging krong, Qual!” said Umai. “I’ll call the police!”

“No you can’t!” said Qual. “I’ve done something regrettable myself tonight. I don’t want that revealed.” She looked over at Zorivax. He was still pretending to be unconscious but he’d sneaked from the floor to the couch for greater comfort. ‘Paramedics’ were approaching him.

“No ambulance either, I suppose,” said Umai. “That puts me in a predicament, doesn’t it? Do you realise how wrong this is? What would your family think of you?”

“We need to solve the problem of Uncle Saydob,” said Qual. “He’s been bad for decades but now he’s much worse. Could you call your stronger friends? I want a posse to bring him justice!”

“Qual, stop this!” pleaded Umai.

“No, we must burn out the problem!” insisted Qual. “He should be eliminated and then we’ll see what else we can do.”

“Mob violence is never good!” said Umai, reaching for her tululator. “I won’t stand for it.” She began ‘song-tapping the police’. Qual snatched the tululator, twisted it and then dropped the broken pieces on the floor. Umai shouted out, appalled by this costly vandalism.

“Keep it down, ladies!” a man called out from next door.

“Full compensation afterwards!” whispered Qual to Umai, out of character. She felt trapped in a role that was spiralling downwards.

“I hope that was a fake tululator!” whispered Fleny to Fuloy.

“I don’t think it was,” whispered Fuloy. “See Umai’s expression: she’s ticked off!” Qual ran to another ‘house’.

“Byflio, I’m sorry to bother you but could I ask a favour?” she said ‘through the door’. “There’s a killer on the loose and I need help catching him. Could you call your friends to assist?”

“Ooh, Qual!” said Byflio. “I surely will! Listen, I’m song-tapping them now. La la la laa!” He was treating it as a joke.

“No, I’m being serious!” insisted Qual, her breathing heavy. “Let me in and I’ll tell you more!”

“I’m not falling for it,” said Byflio. “Maybe if this’d been sophisticated you could’ve gotten in.”

“Aaaah!” yelled Qual as the neighbours started watching her desperation from their ‘windows’. Where next? Who would support her? She retreated from Byflio and looked around.

“My old flame Shym!” she said to no one besides the audience. “Shym’ll fix it! He has a lot of contacts.” She went across to the far side of the hall. As she dashed along, she saw three people in fake police uniform walk in through the back entrance. She mimed a shoulder charge on Shym’s door and ‘made forced entry’. She found Shym fastening his black trousers. He was dressed entirely in black and was still watching the neighbours. The man opposite had just opened his partner’s fourth pressure button (on the left side of her left knee) and was pushing it repeatedly with both thumbs. In response, she was undulating her body in a gentle, pleasing manner and singing a soft, soprano aria from a classic opera. The notes weren’t quite right but the effect was more than satisfactory. The man was humming along contentedly.

“Qual, you can wreck my door but you can’t bust back into my life,” said Shym, turning toward her. “We’ve moved on. You decided to be with Elbar or whoever else you have now. I chose to do my own thing.”

“Shym, I’m sorry about this but I need a special favour,” said Qual, panting slightly. “You said that you’d help out if I had real trouble. Today, I found it. We need to deal with my Uncle Saydob, deal with him permanently.” She stared at him intently. Her meaning was clear. She’d told him about Saydob’s true nature earlier, so this wasn’t a total surprise.

“So, what would achieve that?” asked Shym. “How about a sniper rifle? My cousin has one.” He was right, of course. She didn’t need a bevy of heavies to snuff out Saydob. She’d raced around without thinking, like a school girl after too many sweets.

“You’ll need untraceable bullets, modified in his workshop,” continued Shym. “It’s pricy but your freedom is priceless.” Qual nodded, feeling somewhat relieved.

“My day’s gone from slightly annoying to catastrophic,” said Qual as she plonked herself in one of Shym’s armchairs. “It’s as if fate was out to get me.”

“I’m sure we can work something out, if we’re careful,” said Shym. “We know each other pretty well. We make a good team when we co-operate and don’t squabble.”

“Squabbling’s the problem,” said Qual. “I love it too much.”

“You’re paying for my ‘door’, by the way,” said Shym. “Luckily, it was cheap. That’s how you crashed through so easily.” He walked over and held out his hand. Qual opened her purse and paid him with invisible ‘cash’. The audience laughed loudly at this absurd joke. It eased the tension that had built up. Qual closed her purse as Shym ‘moved the door out of the way’. Now that the ‘doorway’ was wide open, the man next door was able to see Shym glance at him through his ‘window’. He took Shym’s visible presence as a major provocation. He stopped pleasuring his partner and strode rapidly across the ‘road’ into Shym’s ‘house’.

“You’ve been WARNED!” he hollered as he confronted Shym. “No peeping I said but you’re STILL PEEPING!” He raised his strong right arm, made a fist and tried to punch Shym. In the nick of time, a man called Treif came up from behind, leapt on the neighbour, wrestled him into an arm-lock and took him back across the ‘road’.

“Not now, ladies’ man!” said Treif. “We’re having an intervention!” The ‘road’ was filling up with Qual’s ‘friends and relatives’, who’d been summoned to sort things out. (They came from other ‘houses’ in the hall.)

“Darling, don’t wander off like that!” said the neighbour’s partner as he returned to her side. “We’ll lose the mood.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll get back to business,” said the man. “He irks me, that dirty little pipsqueak!”

“I’m fully aware, dear,” said the woman. “Now, attend to my fifth, would you?” Her fifth pressure button (on her right buttock) opened up and he lunged for it greedily. With a little more work, he’d open her sixth and final button. Then, she’d be deeply grateful.

“Qual, you have to stop agitating the community like this,” said Elbar as he glanced around Shym’s ‘house’. “You might start a chain reaction of violence.”

“Yes, I’ve been learning that lesson,” said Qual, feeling subdued by today’s events and the presence of a new crowd. “I wouldn’t have gone too far, though. At the end of the day, I’m sensible!”

“Qual, any violence is too much,” said Elbar. “You don’t understand the way psychic ripples build.”

“How can I possibly understand?” said Qual. “I can’t detect psychic ripples.”

“No, not directly,” said Elbar. “However, you can watch out for certain tell-tale signs. There was one right here. Did you spot it?”

“Erm, those two going at it over there?” asked Qual.

“No, closer,” said Elbar. “Come on Qual, it should be obvious.”

“Shym’s trying out a deep black outfit,” suggested Qual. “That’s odd. He normally wears lighter colours. With all the other stuff going on, I didn’t think it was important.” Elbar nodded and grinned. She’d cracked it!

“Don’t rush to judgment!” said Fuloy across the hall. “Consider the entire situation.”

“Exactly, sir!” said Elbar. “Take time to observe and reflect. This time, Shym was only putting on clothes. Later, someone could be creating something far worse. People around the world have already intercepted and neutralised several potential grand-terror weapons. We must maintain our vigilance. Here endeth the lesson.”

“The rest of this session will involve people clearing up my mess,” said Qual to the audience. “Enjoy it and train your brains to evaluate broader circumstances. It’s been a blast!” She took a little bow and got a round of applause.

“Wow, that little man in black was the main threat,” said Fleny to Fuloy. “Talk about misdirection! At least we know what kind of things to expect now.”

“Elbar, what was that sharp thing Qual stood on?” asked Fuloy. “It started the whole scene.”

“No one knows,” replied Elbar, moving closer to Fuloy. “It’s real. We investigated it as much as we could. There is no explanation as yet. It’s probably a tiny, obscure component from one of our gadgets but, then again, that ship did fly over the town.” He shrugged, smiled and then went away to talk with other groups around the hall.

“This is all about symbolism,” said Fleny, making a connection. “The strange pin lurking in the rug was an ingenious piece of alien provocation. Shym represented someone changing their approach to life; ‘going dark’ if you will. The other characters were supposed to be people ‘triggered’ by the situation. The intervention showed the return of sanity.”

“The community came together to reverse a cascade breakdown,” added Fuloy. “That’s a huge lesson for us all.” They sat and watched the scene for another two biarks. Qual had rejoined Bhrani in the ‘café’ for drinks and Jabellian Puffs. Zorivax was there too, none the worse for his ‘injury’. Qual was being congratulated for her spur-of-the-moment performance. She was pointing out that the others supported her brilliantly. Umai and Byflio had gone over to talk with Shym. He was joking about the simplicity of his garments. He also said that he’d lost several kilos recently in order to look better as the black-clad ‘voyeur’. He put on a tight black hood to complete his outfit. He now resembled an evil night creeper, except for his cheerful face. Fleny didn’t like the night creeper look. She wanted to move away from Shym.

“What happened to Osrac?” she wondered aloud. “Was she actually hurt?”

“Let’s go and find out,” said Fuloy, standing up and stretching his legs. “I’m guessing it was done with mirrors.” They walked down one of the aisles. There was a great deal of conversation and laughter. Some women were having their pressure buttons teased open by their partners, using rhythmic stroking and light kneading. Fleny and Fuloy found Osrac talking with eleven people including Saydob, who had returned from his brief ‘exile’ in the corridor outside. Saydob saw them coming over and announced them.

“Everyone, may I introduce Fuloy Navoul and Fleny Xeron?” he said to the group. “They’re from the Sports and Ents Department downtown. They’ve come to see what the heck we do here! I trust we haven’t disappointed them.”

“Not at all,” said Fuloy. “The creative spirit of this novel, interpretive, free-form theatre is clear and apparent. We’re very impressed. We hope that there can be collaboration between your community group and our Departmental support system in future. We’ll return at some point to negotiate, if you’d like some assistance from our established network.”

“Maybe next year, dear boy,” said Osrac, turning her head to look at him. “We’re still finding our feet and there are other priorities.” As she finished her sentence, she swung her head around by a hundred and eighty degrees. That was generally considered to be impossible. She stared at Fleny and Fuloy while grinning. They gasped and stepped back several paces. The rest of the group smiled and glanced at each other in a conspiratorial way.

“What’s going on here?!” demanded Fuloy, shocked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” asked Osrac. “I’m the alien infiltrator, come to disrupt and destroy all that you love!” She turned her body around to face them while keeping her head relatively still. She was a thin old woman but she intimidated Fleny and Fuloy masterfully. They continued backing away as Osrac began to advance on them. When they accidentally backed into the rear side of a couch, the spell was broken. Osrac and the group laughed.

“It’s all part of the performance,” said Osrac. “When you think it’s all over, that’s when you’re vulnerable. The lesson is vigilance and also courage in the face of the unknown.”

“Good lord, you’re talented!” said Fuloy. “It’s not just the neck thing: you act brilliantly!”

“Fifty years in theatre, across the nation and beyond,” said Osrac. “Retirement was boring so I got involved in this. Saydob was redundant after widespread theatre closures so he joined me. We’re glad because it’s fascinating, educational and great fun.”

“So you’re not an alien?” asked Fleny, recovering her composure.

“No dear, I’m hyper-elastic,” said Osrac. “It’s tremendously useful in the performing arts.” She demonstrated by bending and flexing her limbs in the ‘wrong’ directions.

“Thank spleg for that!” said Fleny, coming forward to hug Osrac. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you.” It was a pleasure to meet distinguished, veteran actors. Fuloy and Fleny stayed and talked with various people until the performance officially ended. Afterward, they left the hall and tried to decide what to do next.

“Vigilance, they said,” said Fleny. “Beware hidden perils. It makes you think.”

“I’m not sure if I want to go home,” said Fuloy. “There could be an alien there, waiting to stick a pin in my foot!”

“We can’t live in fear all the time,” said Fleny. “We rely on our homes. We have to return there at some point.”

“We can also change our routines whenever we like,” said Fuloy. “This is still a free country. I fancy trying that hotel over there.” He pointed at the small, brightly-lit tower block at the end of the street.

“May I join you?” asked Fleny. “I could use some company.”

“I’m sure my late partner wouldn’t object,” said Fuloy. “She always wanted colleagues to support each other. It makes sense.” They left their vehicles overnight in the parking lot and walked to the hotel together, under the beauty of the Blue Strands spanning the sky.



* * * * *

25. (17 GLA 1537, Swos Dycca town centre and then a return to the disused industrial buildings nearby)

“The rest of you can give but I won’t,” said Sevgen as the charity collector walked slowly down the street. “Yes, they have a water supply problem but they should be able to fund their own pipeline and treatment plant. They have secret accounts in many countries.” The group had travelled to the congested town of Swos Dycca for shopping. It was the nearest town to the old mountain resort of Swos, where they’d been earlier.

“I wouldn’t know about their funds,” said Niobel. “All I see is people in need.” She dug some coins from her purse.

“It’s a trick,” said Zebtekow. “They put on ragged costumes and fake dirt. They’ve been doing the ‘pathetic’ act for centuries. It’s a big international scam.”

“I don’t want to be seen as uncaring,” said Vebrima. “I’ll give a little.” She pulled a small coin from her pocket.

“You’ll never learn!” said Sevgen, shaking his head. He stood by the shops while Vebrima and Niobel hobbled over to donate. It took two biarks for them to negotiate the crowds and the traffic. There wasn’t much road sense in this part of the world, so pedestrians were at greater risk. The three waiting men leant against a wall while the two women struggled back to them. The whole group was tired after the attack in the mountains and the activities since. Coming out to shop and see the sights hadn’t been the best idea. They were flagging. Wibon led the group to some benches. No one objected. Just then, another group of shoppers occupied the benches so Sevgen and the others sat on a low wall nearby. It was a little dirty and uncomfortable but it was good enough for a few biarks of rest.

“I don’t like a crowded high street,” said Zebtekow. “It gets on my nerves. The traffic here is lawless: very dangerous.”

“The shops aren’t special either,” said Vebrima. “The hygiene standards at the butcher were low. The greengrocer had a quadrisect infestation. Half the shopkeepers had dirty hands. I couldn’t buy from them.”

“If the high street is like this, I wonder if our meals are clean, back at the Centre!” said Wibon. “We haven’t been ill so far but it only takes one undercooked course.”

“Wibon, what do you think of the Giuraitas?” asked Niobel. “You didn’t give to the water supply appeal.”

“Ooh, they’re very slick,” said Wibon. “Their appeals run professionally every year without fail. They try to think of a new angle each time. Last year, it was the wildfires. The year before, it was the winter clothes shortage. Before that there was the stickling pox outbreak. This year, it’s the water supply. Go figure!”

“It looks convincing but the marketing budget is high,” said Sevgen. “That alone shows they’re not really poor.”

“I can’t see their faces and deny them goodwill,” said Niobel. “Even the wayward deserve help in lean times.”

“The lean times ended years ago,” said Zebtekow. “They’re trading on our ignorance of their situation.”

“They still need clean water,” Vebrima pointed out. “How would you like to be poisoned by heavy metals and dead animal juices?”

“That’s another myth,” said Sevgen. “There were some videos on Phrayduct that debunk it. The ‘dead animals’ in the reservoir were large soft toys. The ‘heavy metals’ were harmless minerals.”

“As to your question, Niobel, I have serious doubts about the ‘thieving Giuraitas’,” said Wibon. “The sobriquet is well-earned. They use their guile to steal from most countries, using underhand means. I sympathise with anyone truly suffering but the Giuraitas are unscrupulous. They scupper their own cause. It’s no wonder they’ve been persecuted at various times in history.”

“So you’re prejudiced,” said Niobel. “That’s a shame.”

“It’s more a case of ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’,” said Wibon. “By the way, that’s a great song!” Niobel looked at him with a disapproving expression on her face. She wasn’t in the mood to argue further, though. She was too tired for unnecessary exertion. Fatigue was overshadowing her later life. She regretted her diminished strength and lifespan. However, she was happy about this group course. She’d seen a new part of the world, had a brief adventure and experienced amazing visions of other worlds and states of being. The group had been mainly friendly although Puj had a fearsome manner about him. Niobel wanted to get closer but Puj made her too anxious. The group was attempting to reduce this effect. The problem was limited time. The group would only stay together for another few days. After that, it would scatter and then Puj would be someone else’s problem.

“Politics aside, I’m delighted with this group,” said Vebrima. “The original mountain base was an excellent retreat. We had peace and quiet. Our exercises were easy enough for everyone. The pace was right. The atmosphere developed steadily. When those ruffians tried to scare us, the organisers protected us and Wibon persuaded the attackers to stop the intimidation.” She smiled at Wibon and held his hand. He smiled back.

“After that, we came down here and things progressed further,” said Zebtekow. “The reasons are unclear but the group’s more unified and ‘in tune with the world’. I feel much better and I sense that the rest of you do too.” The others agreed with his assessment.

“We can face our remaining years calmly and without fear,” said Sevgen. “I have an intuition that our problems will reduce steadily. Even these aliens won’t cause trouble. In fact, some of them could help us.” He gazed out at the bustling throng. Despite the hectic scene, he felt serene. In the air above the street, he saw flickering images. Was this a daydream? He’d been having more of them this week. The entire group had been having various visions. They weren’t worried. They’d had tremendous reassurance lately. They felt like they could handle whatever life had to offer.

“Is anyone seeing metal panels there?” asked Wibon, pointing diagonally upward. “Triangles, rectangles, curved pieces, maybe a device or two?”

“Yeah,” said Zebtekow. “Are they staying still or... no, they’re moving about. If we’re both seeing them, this could be a real phenomenon.”

“Where?” asked Niobel. “Oh, there; that’s quite odd.” Sevgen was pointing them out to her.

“Why are they eight metres up?” asked Vebrima. “Are they from a big truck?”

“Could be,” said Zebtekow. “That’d be my guess.” They continued watching. The vision persisted for a few biarks. A few other people noticed it. Some stopped to view.

“When they move, it’s like they’re attached to a person,” said Niobel. “He’s either huge or he’s magnified.”

“He’s a strong man with broad shoulders,” observed Sevgen. “What does he want here?”

“I’d say he wants a share of our greatest asset,” ventured Wibon. “He’s come here specifically to feel our high morale, our low stress, our sense of cosmic unity. The issue is whether he can materialise fully?”

“He won’t need to cover himself in metal panels anymore,” said Vebrima. “This is a quiet backwater. Armour is redundant.” The vision faded away and didn’t return. The group waited several biarks on their wall seats, recovering strength.

“Have we seen enough?” asked Sevgen. “Have we done all our shopping? Shall we go back to the Centre now? I’m getting hungry again.” The others followed his suggestion and went with him. They could’ve walked but they took the crawler bus to avoid strain. Faint echoes of the vision followed them. Ghostly metal panels hovered in the air around them on the bus. This time, no one else saw the panels. They kept fading and finally disappeared before the group reached the Centre for Holistic Practice. Wibon and the others rejoined the larger group and had lunch. The dining room was fairly quiet because many people were experiencing new sensations: contact with hidden forces and distant spirits. Now and then, group members would look at each other and smile as they made telepathic connections together. Increasingly, they were receiving impressions and snippets of information from deep space and alternate realities. The overall picture was optimistic. Wibon was becoming convinced that his carton tracker chip arrangement had triggered this wave. It was unprovable but then life was moving beyond old ways.

A hundred and ten biarks later, it was time for the next session of synchronised yoga-type movements. Everyone went out to the yard and took up their customary positions. In the distance, there were chirrups of wild song and a continuous hum of traffic. Smoke rose from a few neighbouring chimneys. The sun shone and the breeze blew. The group began the exercises. As they moved vaguely in unison, the people’s thoughts became somewhat entrained. Biarks ticked by, Merioly gave directions and the motion list was checked off. All was well. Wibon looked left and saw Pheon bend gracefully left and right, up and down. He was appreciating her beauty more and more. As he enjoyed the scene, a shadow suddenly fell across them. Something large had appeared to his right. At first glance, it appeared to be a vehicle of unknown design. Then, it began to move in an un-truck-like way. Wibon moved his gaze upwards and saw a massive metal arm copying the group’s arm movements. Above the arm was a bulky, shiny shoulder pad. Beyond the pad, he caught a glimpse of a helmet. This was what the panel visions had foretold. Wibon glanced at Merioly. The group leader’s face had gone pale as he stared at the metal giant who’d appeared next to them. The rest of the group was also frozen in place.

“Are we stopping?” asked the giant in a deep voice. “That’s a shame. I just got started.”

“Ev-everyone move away!” cried Merioly. “As quick as you can, g-go back inside!” He gestured at the Centre without taking his eyes off the giant. Most of the group started walking or running away, occasionally shouting and screaming. A few people fell over in panicked haste but they were picked up and helped along. Merioly, Wibon, Pheon and Yebonec (the other assistant leader) huddled together fifty metres from the giant, who watched them impassively through a visor mounted across his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” asked Merioly tentatively. “Are you lost? Do you need anything? We might be able to help.”

“I’m where I want to be,” said the giant. “I don’t need help. I’m not going home. I’ve had enough.”

“So, so what are you?” asked Yebonec. “Did you run away... or teleport away? Are you a refugee?”

“That’s it, I’m a refugee,” said the giant. “My name’s Pointblank. I already hacked your government’s system and gave myself asylum.” He produced an identity card from inside his arm and flicked it towards them with great accuracy. Pheon caught it and together they examined it. As far as they could tell, it was genuine. Pointblank was the first alien to ‘officially’ settle on their world.

“My God!” exclaimed Wibon. “What do we do?” Pointblank was scanning the area, recording all that he experienced.

“I think you’re in the wrong place, sir,” said Merioly to Pointblank. “This is private property. There’s a booking system for the group...”

“Dear leader, you must realise that you have no power over me,” said Pointblank. “I’ll stay here for a while and help you out. It’ll be well worth it, I promise. None of you should report me. I’m a remorseless slayer if provoked.”

“Spleg it!” cursed Merioly, having been shown his utter impotence. “Well, at least sit down. You’re too conspicuous. The neighbours can see you.” Pointblank changed his expression. His strangely shaped face seemed to smile. He began rearranging his body in a flurry of flipping, folding and telescoping. A few moments later, he became a large, streamlined truck in red, blue and white. At first he had wheels but then they were reshaped into mechanical vehicle legs. Now he could blend into traffic, especially if he added some road dirt and a couple of dents. He drove himself into the shade next to an old building and parked.

“So he’s converted himself into a truck,” said Yebonec. “He looks just like all the other trucks. That’s killer!” She paused for a moment’s thought.

“If he’s like that, how many more of them are out there?!” she went on. “For God’s sake, every single vehicle might be an alien!” This was a nightmare scenario. Merioly’s car, Pheon’s car, town buses, police vehicles, army tanks: all of them were now suspects.

“We’re so screwed,” said Pheon. “They’re waiting in the shadows to come out and screw us with big screws!”

“I have no splegging idea what we’re supposed to do next,” said Merioly. “We’re hostages. He just threatened us with execution.”

“He’s an idiot if you ask me,” said Yebonec. “He showed himself to the whole group when he wanted to hide from the authorities. He could’ve teleported into a garage, as a truck or whatever, in the countryside, at night, with no witnesses. Why come here like this?”

“The cartons,” said Wibon. “Merioly told me to assemble old cartons with tracking chips inside. They’re still in that warehouse over there. They’ve amplified our contacts somehow. No one can explain it. Pointblank must’ve homed in on them.”

“That doesn’t compute but, then again, what does these days?!” said Pheon. “Look, we’ll have to talk with him. He needs his card back too.” She walked over to Pointblank. It was a life-or-death gamble but she reckoned that his peaceful attitude wouldn’t change. The others followed to support her. As Pheon approached Pointblank, an illuminated card slot appeared in his left side door.

“In here?” asked Pheon.

“Yes,” said Pointblank. “I’ll put it with the collection. You wouldn’t believe how many identity documents I’ve used over the years!”

“So you’re an old-timer?” observed Pheon. “You don’t look it. Your finish is clean and smooth.”

“And undertakers put make-up on corpses,” said Pointblank. “It’s good to meet you, Pheon. You’re a genuine youngster. You’ve only incarnated twice before.” Pheon was stopped in her tracks. How could he know about that?

“I think he’s right,” said Merioly. “I sensed it in you earlier. Pointblank, you have psychic reading as a career option, most definitely!”

“There’s no future in that trade here,” said Pointblank. “It’s useless in a world where everyone will soon be able to do it.”

“So you know the future?” queried Yebonec. “How do you fit into ours?”

“Not as a permanent fixture,” said Pointblank. “My people will come to collect me. They can’t be stopped. Nevertheless, I had to take a stand. We’ve spilled oceans of blood. That’s no exaggeration.”

“Do you have a timeframe?” asked Merioly. “Surely it won’t take them long to track you down. Then we can go back to our regular schedule. We have commitments to honour.”

“Things aren’t so clear, I’m afraid,” said Pointblank. “Our paths have many forks this year. There are fundamental matters to address...”

“Hoi, you!” shouted Puj as he hurried forward from the Centre building. “Didn’t you promise not to return, only a few days ago?”

“Puj, please stay back!” said Wibon, feeling a gut-wrenching terror. “He’s friendly!”

“He was threatening us in the mountains!” protested Puj.

“That wasn’t me,” countered Pointblank. “There are many of us on or near your world. I’ve been refusing to participate in operations. I only came here to seek brief sanctuary.”

“You lying, shape-shifting twister!” barked Puj. “You think you’re so clever but even you can’t escape every trap.”

“I certainly won’t be springing your trap, Mr. Bodos,” said Pointblank. “I see it clearly. I’ll keep my distance.” Wibon, Merioly, Pheon and Yebonec held their breath while Puj stared balefully at Pointblank. They were assessing each other on a spiritual level. After a biark of high tension, Puj relented.

“Fine, you’re not a threat,” said Puj as he turned and trudged away. “You’d better keep it that way, ‘conscientious objector’!”

“This is about Puj’s black magic, right?” queried Yebonec. “The power you told me about, Meri?”

“Oh, ah, yes, the very same,” replied Merioly as he snapped out of a ‘stress trance’. “That was an indescribably perilous moment, the confrontation between Puj and our new visitor! By rights, we should all be getting danger money or compensation. However, that requires proof. We may never find proof.”

“Pointblank, what do you want with us?” asked Pheon. “We’d like to get it over with.”

“I’d like you to carry on with your lives,” replied Pointblank. “Do whatever you planned and then whatever you want. You could include me or not: it doesn’t matter. I ought to be nearby, to witness your progress. I won’t interfere unless you request it.”

“That could be difficult,” said Yebonec. “Since we know you’re here, our behaviour changes.”

“I’m aware of that,” said Pointblank. “However, you’ll adapt and become accustomed to my presence. Maybe one day I’ll be your friend.”

“Friends with a machine?” pondered Merioly. “It’s not much stranger than our current situation. Some of the other races in our galaxy are quite bizarre.”

“It would help if I could reveal my true self,” said Pointblank. “In my spark, I’m essentially like you but with additional elements.” He used his advanced technological influence to nullify the group’s fear temporarily. That was most impressive. The people felt elation as their paralysing worries abated. They saw their way clear. They could continue their sessions without hindrance. They all emerged from hiding, reassembled in the yard and resumed their exercises. The older members felt considerably younger. The rest felt as if they were on top of the world.

“Ten squats!” called out Merioly. “Oh spleg, make it twenty!” The exercises seemed much easier now. People didn’t fret about possible injuries: they simply relaxed and performed. As they powered through, they saw visions of many worlds and also Pointblank’s ancient history. At the very beginning, he’d been a regular man living in another universe. His entire world had agreed, on a spiritual level, to unite into a super-powered, all-conquering juggernaut named Primus. His exceedingly long life story had begun. With Primus, he’d travelled to millions of universes. He’d taken part in endless explorations and then periodic battles to change the balance of power in those universes. It’d been glorious but totally exhausting. In later aeons, Primus had moved into different kinds of universes where there were fewer enemies to fight. Some potential ‘enemies’ turned out to be harmless. Primus had been stymied in his conqueror role and had begun making bad judgments. That was now the main problem in this universe. Luckily, people in the Blue Strands galaxy were finding ways to check Primus’ power. That was no mean feat.

Libnucal had never imagined such grandeur would enter her life. She’d been brought up on regular, homely pastimes like field games, races, skill displays and tales of derring do. Now she was experiencing a smorgasbord of exotic and intergalactic themes. First of all, she was sharing a man’s body (patient old Wibon) and feeling the full range of his sensations and emotions. She could look back on her femininity and reassess her relationships. She could see some of the reasons why men did what they did. It gave her the insight to improve her dealings with men. Her hopes of romance in later life also seemed brighter.

Second, Libnucal was becoming part of a rapidly growing community of spiritually-linked people. At times like these, it was marvellous to feel true kinship with those she hardly knew. Folk like Niobel and Zebtekow had their quirks but these could be explained, understood and set aside to allow the fostering of close camaraderie. It was even possible to connect deeply with someone like Puj, if one gave his slumbering demons a wide berth.

Third, the entire global society was linking to thousands of friendly life worlds around the galaxy. That was a massive revelation. As her mind drifted along, she saw so much! For example, all the different moons: pink, orange, red, white, grey, blue, green, yellow, round, oval, clustered, multiple, colonised, damaged, near, far, feared, welcomed, useful, obstructive, clouded, clear and always mythologised. Moons were crucial to regulate planetary axial tilt and rotation. They generated tides too, which powered the evolution of early life. Generally speaking, civilisations owed their existence to the gravitational caress of moons.

Fourth, the people of the Blue Strands Galaxy were coming together, both to protect themselves and to handle the incursion of Primus. This great god, a renegade from a long-forgotten universe, had already picked apart and crushed the choicest local empires. Now, he was being asked to reconsider his strategy. He was many things but, at the core, he was restless burning energy. His self-control couldn’t hold forever. He was like a bright sun that scorched and blasted everything around. He regretted being like this. He needed a way to expend his power without destroying the innocent. He was attempting to reshape existence to suit his nature. Unfortunately, his efforts were still devastating many galaxies.

Fifth, Libnucal’s world had become a focal point for the Blue Strands resistance. Telepathic communications were being routed through this one backwater planet and consequently encrypted. Instead of normal ciphers, the eccentric minds of millions of people were being used. The system was effective, so Primus was taking an interest and sending his Transformers to investigate. This surveillance was backfiring, though. The Transformers were being influenced by the galactic community and other groups elsewhere. Primus was starting to lose control. This worried him greatly but he felt that he couldn’t retaliate yet. He had to gather as much intelligence as he could beforehand. If he lost this engagement, it would be a massive setback for him and his mission.

All this was a lot to process. After several bamboozling biarks, Libnucal tried to narrow her focus and contact old friends. This free, long-distance communication without a tululator was incredibly useful. However, it was difficult to master. The rudimentary system was still in its infancy. Coverage was patchy. Most people could only receive messages when they were in the right frame of mind. Usually, this was when they engaged in ‘new pastimes’. Libnucal attempted to reach her manager Zaffa. She thought that it would be easy but there was a choking tangle of obstacles. The minds of her current group pulled her in numerous directions. Pointblank’s mind loomed large and obscured many potential connections. There was widespread confusion caused by everyone standing between Libnucal and Zaffa. Clarion calls from interstellar races blared out, drowning local messages. In the distance, there was a continuous roar that had to be Primus.

“Who are you?” demanded Libnucal when she finally isolated one person from the telepathic crowd.

“I’m Chotsi Bolerey,” said the surprised woman. “Who’s this? How are you in my head? What’s your business?”

“Sorry to disturb you but... I’m looking for Zaffa,” said Libnucal. “Have you seen her?”

“I’m seeing a picture of a woman,” said Chotsi. “Is that you, Zaffa or someone else?”

“I’m not sure what you’re seeing,” said Libnucal. “I’m new to this. I was trying to show you a picture of Zaffa. She’s an older woman. She promotes sports and shows. So do I.”

“I don’t know the woman in the picture,” said Chotsi. “I don’t know Zaffa. I don’t know you. I don’t follow sports. I don’t go to shows anymore. We’re building the Great Galactic Database so we’re very busy right now. It’s a massive project but we have to work quickly so that our Whithus games can proceed.”

“Well, sorry again,” said Libnucal. “I could’ve sworn that Zaffa was close to you. I felt her presence.”

“Ask someone who knows her, not me,” said Chotsi. “Maybe try her colleagues or family.” She cut off communication. Libnucal felt snubbed. Pointblank was paying close attention to her. He found her original body and followed threads until he found a puppeteer.

“Tailwind,” he said telepathically, recognising the personality. “What’s this? Another covert flesh wrangle?”

“Here, on the other side of the planet, my local name is Clasta Vaq,” said Tailwind. “Harmless experiments shouldn’t concern you. If I’m not supposed to be here then you aren’t either. What’s happening this time? I smell desertion but let’s keep it between ourselves.”

“I have to admit that I’ve jumped ship,” said Pointblank. “I can only take so much gratuitous murder. We’re lucky to be shielded from scrutiny here.”

“How are you, Libnucal?” asked Tailwind (Clasta). “I’m impressed that Puj hasn’t freaked yet. You’ve kept a lid on him.”

“Huh? Was I supposed to do that?” asked Libnucal. “You didn’t give me any instructions. I followed my instincts.”

“Good, my gamble paid off,” said Tailwind. “I’ll give you one instruction now, though. The so-called Great Galactic Database should become a secondary priority. Whithus and similar games must resume. Tell the community to play on, not retire and analyse.”

“But I thought analysis and databases were important tools,” protested Libnucal. “Shouldn’t we prepare ourselves?”

“Organics can’t grasp the scale of it!” chuckled Pointblank.

“Right!” agreed Tailwind. “We’re old hands with databases, little Libby. We’ve built enough to fill this universe. They’ve been a labour of mad love but they’ve also been a bane. They’re perfectly practical on a small scale. However, when applied to a galaxy or larger area they become problematic. Galaxies change constantly. When people move across galaxies, faster than light, they introduce further changes. It’s all about shifting timelines, you see. A conventional database can never keep up. It becomes obsolete rapidly. The best thing for you in your tiny games is to rely on instinct. Find the most suitable moves as you go along. Do you understand? Leave the databases to experts like us!”

“I’ll do what I can,” said Libnucal. “I hope they listen to me.”

“I think they will,” said Pointblank. “We’ve done this kind of thing before. We’ve developed a sense of what’ll happen in a developing telepathic world. The people are eager to accomplish their goals. It won’t take much persuasion to set them in motion once more.” At this moment of clarity, Libnucal dropped out of the network. She was Wibon again. The exercise session was winding down. Merioly was telling everyone to take a breather and then have dinner in the Centre. Pointblank was still parked in the shade but no one minded anymore. He seemed content to wait and monitor. Wibon thought about song-tapping home but his friends wouldn’t recognise him. Instead, he’d find Whithus groups near him and speak to them. He didn’t begrudge the extra work when so much could depend on it. Pointblank watched him, satisfied to have given Wibon the correct nudge.



* * * * *



26. (18 GLA 1537, Zaffa’s house)

“You know, being taken for a walk is demeaning,” said Agrive as he chewed his food at home. “You led me around for an hour this morning. You’re treating me like an animal.”

“I didn’t see a leash,” said Zaffa. “How’s your lunch?”

“Undercooked,” replied Agrive. “At least some of it is. The tuidri haven’t been chopped thinly enough. I’m coping, though. Sometimes undercooked food is healthier. About my exercise, you can trust me to go out on my own. I won’t break the rules.”

“Yes you will,” countered Zaffa. “You’re desperate for any form of respite. You feel tormented, despite our heroic self-control. No surprise there: our presence is deleterious to many lives.”

“Since you admit that, I’ve noticed that a few of our possessions have gone missing,” said Agrive. “They’re not vital but they’re nice to have. For example, the Cipzum ornaments have all vanished.”

“We’re having a clear-out,” said Zaffa as she ate. “I’ve been doing it when you’re asleep or busy. Libnucal has sold stuff for me here and there. Agrive 2 has been delivering to buyers and dealers. Some things are thrown out as rubbish.”

“You’re stealing from us!” said Agrive.

“We’re streamlining your life,” said Zaffa. “Clutter is unhealthy, especially at your age. Bear in mind that you’re getting some money out of it. Check your bank account later, when we allow it.”

“Handpoint, you’re destroying my life!” insisted Agrive. “Bit by bit, you’re taking whatever you can. You’re consuming me slowly. When you’ve finished, I’ll be a dead husk!”

“Could be worse,” said Zaffa. “How did you think you’d end up anyway? We might achieve it slightly quicker but the difference is minimal.”

“Destroying lives is a negative, not an achievement,” said Agrive. “Everyone knows that. Your values are reversed. What’s happened to you?!”

“We’re not here to betray you,” said Zaffa. “We’re actually doing what you want. Your universe is designated as a war zone for gods and their servants. Free will is secondary.” Agrive was stunned into silence for a moment.

“Has no one told you before?” asked Zaffa. “Didn’t anyone figure it out?”

“God stories are myths from less enlightened times,” said Agrive. “We have better science now.”

“Well, you also have three god servants in your life now,” said Zaffa, pointing at herself as one. “More are scattered around the world. You’d better recognise that scientific knowledge is advancing again. It’s another paradigm shift for global consciousness. Our great god is relatively close by, in galactic terms. Others may wake soon. Your mortal futures hang in the balance.”

“How bad will a god war be?” asked Agrive.

“How long is a piece of wire?” retorted Zaffa with a snort. “You might get lucky. Some worlds are left alone. Some have only minor damage. Some are exploited for their resources. I remember a world that was almost untouched because we used it as a giant portal!”

“I never signed up for this,” objected Agrive. “It’s totally unfair!”

“Organics always think that they have perfect memories,” said Zaffa. “Answer me this: what did you have for lunch four hundred days ago?”

“How am I supposed to...” began Agrive before realising that Zaffa had a serious point. “Now look, I should’ve remembered something profound like giving up my free will!”

“Unless you blotted it out,” suggested Zaffa. “I gave up my free will long, long ago. I’m reminded of the fact regularly, whenever Primus issues orders and updates. Between those times, I try hard to forget. I take full advantage of temporary freedoms. That’s what you’ve all been doing in recent centuries. You’ve made steady progress but there have been hints and clues about the real truth.”

“I’m not sure,” said Agrive. “What sort of clues? Do you mean old pictures of Sky Kings dominating the land? There are many scraps of evidence that could be interpreted as god-related.”

“Some of those are correct or partly correct,” said Zaffa. “There’s also evidence in your own minds.”

“Oh, you mean dreams and such like?” said Agrive. “Most people have occasional dreams of slavery, oppression, pursuit, falling, devastation and death. They’re normal. It’s connected to sleep paralysis.”

“Those dreams are indeed perfectly normal,” agreed Zaffa. “It’s well-known that the same scenarios appear in sleeping minds around the world. Such uniformity of imagery is typical in a god war universe.” Agrive thought for a biark as he nibbled his miecy leaves. There were long-standing theories of global oppressors yet there’d been no conclusive evidence to support them.

“I’m not convinced, Handpoint,” he said. “I say that mainly because I’m alive. You warrior robots haven’t exterminated the population. You’re hesitating: why?”

“That’s the crux of the matter,” said Zaffa. “People in this galaxy are waking up, in a spiritual sense. They’re rethinking their position. They’re reconsidering their permission. They’ve tasted bitter consequences and now they’re acting on their regret. However, some are loyal to their original decision. They want to keep their promises.”

“I made a promise to Zaffa,” said Agrive. “I said that I’d do my best to improve our lives. That’s more important to me than kowtowing to Primus or whoever else is out there. I’m telling you now, Handpoint: I don’t want any more interference from gods. I want our lives to be peaceful and stable. That extends to the rest of the world and beyond.” Zaffa stared at him, weighing up what to do.

“You heard me, Handpoint,” continued Agrive. “I’m giving you an ultimatum. I want you and your super-duper army of death-bots to stop oppressing us and then to clear up your spleg and ship out. Will you comply?”

“This is more of a group decision,” said Zaffa. “The numbers haven’t built up enough yet.”

“Cut me some slack, Handpoint!” said Agrive. “Are you allowed to break this down? Can I lay down the law in my own home, for instance?” Although Handpoint was a very ancient warrior, he’d never been in this position before. He wasn’t sure how far to obey Agrive. He’d have to use his intuition and also his guile.

“Well, that depends,” said Zaffa. “There are technical limits. We can’t do really advanced stuff like turn air into gold. That would require more specialised machinery.”

“Bring back the Cipzum ornaments for a start,” said Agrive. “It’s a small test. Trace the buyer and negotiate a return.”

“That’s not possible,” said Zaffa. “Agrive 2 crushed them to powder and used them to fertilise the growing beds.”

“Spleg your lies, Handpoint!” cursed Agrive. “What can you do about it? Replace them? Rebuild them?”

“It’s quicker to replace them,” said Zaffa. “I’ll request it. We have the physical scans and chemical structure. Give us a few biarks.”

“Replicate anything else you can’t retrieve,” said Agrive. “Don’t bother with trash like leaflets and bags, just give back our valuables.”

“We don’t need most of them, love,” said Zaffa. “We can do without.”

“Less of the ‘we’, Handpoint!” said Agrive. “There is no ‘we’. Don’t pretend to be her.”

“I’m in her body,” said Zaffa. “You’ll have to put up with it for now.”

“Do I?!” queried Agrive loudly. “Why don’t you end the body-swap?! Bring her spirit home and then you can go back to your robotic, Handpointy body.”

“That would require permission from her,” explained Zaffa. “She chose to try a different body. We facilitated it. We won’t interfere unless she wants it or there’s a threat to her life. Now, let’s finish lunch. We should keep our strength up no matter what.” She smiled briefly and then resumed eating. Agrive couldn’t argue so he cleared his plate. Now that he had the whip hand, many things had become possible. A brighter future beckoned. Meanwhile, in the next room a service robot rebuilt various small, household objects without complaint.



* * * * *



27. (19 GLA 1537, Zaffa’s house) (as if times and places had any meaning)

Empty spaces laughed at him.

Primus, light god extraordinaire, felt most peculiar.

Identity was slipping from his grasp.

Foreign places sapped his resolve.

Strength trickled from cracks in his shell.

Distractions stole his time.

Indecision curtailed his movement.

This wasn’t unfamiliar.

It happened once an aeon.

He could cope.

He let himself drift in the stream of consciousness, to a simpler life...

“Look into my eyes,” said Zaffa. “Tell me what you see.” She was at home, being as normal as possible under the circumstances.

“Where’s the loser?” asked Agrive 2. “Does he need any food and drink poured into him? Does he need any part of him wiped? Filthy organic!”

“I put him to bed,” replied Zaffa. “He was quite tired and the sleeping powder in his dinner worked well. He won’t wake for at least four hundred biarks.” Agrive 2 had just come home from reconnaissance. He patrolled regularly to keep track of potential problems and important events. This evening’s stint had been uneventful, so he was bored.

“You’ve been making things,” observed Agrive 2. “I smell various substances, smokes and vapours.”

“Why not?” said Zaffa. “This assignment is dull. I’m keeping myself occupied.”

“Are you going to show me the results of the robot’s labours?” asked Agrive 2 as he scanned the room and spotted some materials that Zaffa had used. “I can see that crockery featured prominently.”

“He wanted a few decorative pieces,” explained Zaffa. “I couldn’t refuse a small, innocent request like that.”

“I also smell metal and paper,” said Agrive 2. “You’re a bric-a-brac generator today.” Zaffa shrugged.

“Weren’t we trying to reduce the clutter?” queried Agrive 2. “Have you changed your mind?”

“Life with him is easier when he’s mollified by small concessions,” Zaffa pointed out. “It’s better to live with a quiet baby than a grumpy one. Speaking of grumpiness, switch off yours and look into my eyes.”

“Is this for diagnostics or communication?” asked Agrive 2, sitting on the opposite side of the dining room table and doing as she asked.

“Both,” she replied. “I’d like a careful, mutual assessment.” They gazed into each others’ eyes. She scrutinised him carefully. With her organic eyes she couldn’t see everything but she used her experience to fill in the gaps.

“Not too many micro-cracks in the eyes themselves,” she reported. “Tiny speck of silver visible next to lower right eyelid. Skin overlap on left snout flank. Central snout wrinkles too uniform. Eyes moving too fast for an organic. Lack of natural tremor revealing circulatory defect. General, chronic irritation. Mounting anger against this examination. Impatience due to urgent desire to speak. Homesickness.”

“Rapid aging,” reported Agrive 2. “Retinas clouding. Vision degenerating. Selective vitamin and mineral deficiencies. Low energy levels. Deepening wrinkles due to anxiety. Too much blinking: stop blinking! Also, must you drool so much? The extra blinking could be a sign of something hidden. There, you twitched! You’re acknowledging that I’m right. You’ve seen or done something that goes against our mission. You’re acting under new orders. You must tell me about them.”

“Frak, that was quick!” said Zaffa, perturbed by his detecting and face-reading skills.

“I’ve suspected you since the body swap,” said Agrive 2. “Spill the beans, Mrs. Handpoint!”

“I replaced the Cipzum ornaments and a few other things that we destroyed,” said Zaffa. “It’s no big deal.”

“You’re back-tracking!” said Agrive 2, frowning. “We hardly ever do that. What was your reason?”

“He asked me to,” replied Zaffa. “I can’t say no to small favours for my partner.” They were still staring at each other. Agrive 2 was becoming very agitated. His body shuddered with rage. Zaffa summoned her original body. It emerged from a secret compartment in the wall behind her.

“Who gave him that notion?” demanded Agrive 2. “Who told him that he could ask you for favours? Why did you comply? What ELSE has he told you to do?!” His body was converting to a tougher, warrior form.

“He was going to find out sooner or later!” said Zaffa with a nervous smile as she got up and backed away. “A critical mass has been reached in the telepathic environment. If we let him regain consciousness, he’ll be able to command us.”

“You complete IDIOT!” yelled Agrive 2 as Zaffa’s original body (Handpoint) aimed weapons at him.

“Don’t even think about attacking me,” said Zaffa as she retreated to the hall door. “I’ll scramble your life field.” Agrive 2 knew she could do it almost instantly. As Handpoint, she’d done more than her fair share of killing.

“Well, what are we going to do?!” queried Agrive 2. “He could ask us to annihilate each other!”

“We need guidance,” said Zaffa. “I’m calling down the ship.”

“Too risky!” warned Agrive 2.

“Everything’s frakking risky!” retorted Zaffa. “Come along Highjump, let’s reconnect with our comrades.” They could feel the breeze as the ship teleported in and descended over the house. Agrive 2 (alias Highjump), Zaffa and the Handpoint body went outside and then flew up to the ship. The few neighbours still awake at this late hour were prevented from seeing the ship (mind control was used). The ship rose high enough to be undetectable.

Meanwhile, Agrive slept on. The brief, close proximity of the Transformer ship with its telepathic amplifier caused him to begin dreaming. These weren’t ordinary dreams but rather contacts with other people at a distance. Mostly, they were fleeting encounters without significant communication. At the end of the sequence, he met an older man who was standing in a yard next to some run-down buildings. The architectural style indicated that the man was in the Far West, nearly on the other side of the world. He himself wasn’t an occidental, though.

“Agrive!” exclaimed the man warmly. “It’s great to see you!” He hugged Agrive and then stood back again. Agrive was confused.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Why do you hug like a woman?”

“I am a woman!” said the man. “I’m Libnucal Sgiur but in a different body!”

“Oh, that makes sense now,” said Agrive in a relaxed manner. “I wondered what happened to you. Are you on holiday?”

“Ha ha! I guess I am, in a way!” replied Libnucal. “It’s a working holiday, though. I’m with a group. We’re opening our minds, exercising our bodies and having outstanding success contacting people from other worlds!”

“Likewise here,” said Agrive. “I’m being held captive by aliens. It’s depressing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that but you must pull yourself together,” said Libnucal. “This is extremely important. Everyone should go back to their groups and carry on with the alien contacts. It’s the only way to avoid total destruction. Do you understand?”

“Yes, that’s simple enough,” said Agrive. “I’ll tell everyone as soon as I can. Meanwhile, you should spread the word as well.”

“We’ll try when our tuluromag connection comes back,” said Libnucal. “It mysteriously cut off when our friend Pointblank appeared. He’s a giant metal refugee from this place called Cybertron. Amazing!”

“You can sort it out,” said Agrive in a reassuring way. “These aliens can be very amenable. I’ve just discovered that one of them in my house has to obey whatever I say. You should try it with Pointblank. Be specific so he can’t wriggle out of his duties.” Agrive felt woozy. He was thinking slowly but he was open to new ideas. It seemed that Libnucal was in a similar state of mind. She was amusing. She still moved like a woman but in the body of an unsuspecting old man.

“See you soon!” said Libnucal as the dream connection started to fade. “I’m coming back in a day or two. I might be delayed by work on the line.” She faded out. Agrive woke up but very slowly. Something had made him groggy. He shuffled gradually back into consciousness. After thirty biarks, he was able to rise and empty his bladder. A drink of water increased his lucidity. He guessed that he’d eaten something heavy that’d made him sleep deeper than usual. He wasn’t sure what that could’ve been. Zaffa had cooked dinner. Was this her doing? He should ask. He could make her answer but he guessed that she’d fight his control until Handpoint could be exorcised. The thought of it made Agrive groan. These robots were difficult to handle. He poured himself another big glass of water. He’d need to be properly hydrated today.



* * * * *

28. (19 GLA 1537, the police station and then Zaffa’s house)

“So he goes on wacky adventures while using his nephew as a shield,” said Kugnoi to Drifful as Phupier walked past. “Sometimes he has cyborg parts and sometimes he doesn’t. It makes little sense. He’s very old and yet he has plenty of energy. He could have any house he wants but he stays in an ordinary, boring house.”

“Don’t bother telling me about shows I’ll never watch,” said Drifful. “I’ll stick with better pastimes. I already like tossing in the garden and now I’m trying spiral chain dancing with pipe music.” Phupier went into Stramvo’s office to check on the special surveillance project. Clasta Vaq, Agrive Boif and Zaffa Higcablan were being monitored covertly in their own homes.

“Good morning Inspector!” said Phupier. “How are you today?”

“Very well Sergeant,” replied Stramvo. “How are you? Anything to report?”

“I’m fine but there are no significant developments,” said Phupier. “People are behaving themselves. The sports crowds are diminishing every day. The arts venues are mostly deserted. The army is deterring most criminals. Many people are occupied with the ‘new pastimes’. There’s also a big grassroots project to build a ‘Galactic Database’. The compilers say that it’s factual but there’s no way of checking.”

“I have some auxiliaries checking the video footage,” said Stramvo. “They haven’t seen anything unusual. In fact, one day of video looks virtually identical to the next day. It’s uncanny.”

“Has there been tampering with the cameras?” asked Phupier.

“Definitely not,” said Stramvo. “They would’ve seen people moving the cameras.”

“Well, since I have nothing better to do, I should patrol those areas,” suggested Phupier. “I’ll check the cameras myself. I strongly suspect that there are aliens in those properties. They could be sabotaging our cameras with their advanced technology, leaving no trace.”

“Be extra careful, Sergeant,” warned Stramvo. “My intuition tells me that the situation is on a knife-edge. Keep your distance, stay safe, go quietly and summon reinforcements whenever there’s a hint of trouble.”

“I will sir,” said Phupier as he left the office. “I’ll do my best to dig up useful information and find those elusive suspects.” He walked over to another desk.

“Cruizzik, patrol time,” he said. “Tuluromag updates can wait.” Constable Cruizzik shut down her terminal, took her equipment bag and followed Phupier outside to his walker-car. They strapped themselves in and motored steadily across town. Soldiers and armoured vehicles were dotted about here and there. Traffic was moderate. The wind was blustery and the trees flexed from side to side. They seemed to dance to an unknown, ancient tune.

“Which area?” asked Cruizzik.

“Try the hill first,” answered Phupier. “Call it a death wish if you like but I feel compelled to understand the mystery of Zaffa and Agrive.” Cruizzik looked at him, concerned. She’d heard about his premonition. He thought that he might die on the hill, stabbed by an alien. However, he’d seen multiple realities so murder wasn’t certain by any means. They drove on. Cruizzik felt slightly jumpy. Phupier controlled himself so that he appeared calm. They both watched their surroundings carefully. If aliens were about, they were masters of disguise and concealment. Anyone or anything could be lethal. The officers reached the hill and began a slow ascent. There were more people on the streets here so Phupier had to reduce speed. It would be awful if he accidentally killed a child at play or an infirm person. Eventually, he reached the first surveillance camera and stopped there. It seemed untouched on its temporary, tall pole. Before he went out to check it physically, he looked across at Zaffa’s house. The front door was closed. All the blinds were drawn. The side gate for vehicles was locked. Both officers watched it for a couple of biarks. Suddenly, a piece of metal moved rapidly behind and above the gate. It was over a metre long and only visible for half a second. They didn’t recognise what it was. Phupier opened his car door and stepped outside, keeping his eyes on the gate. He heard a muffled yell coming from a man, followed by the sound of something falling.

“Spleg!” swore Phupier. “Possible assault!” He grabbed his hard-pellet caster (H.P.C.) and dashed over to the gate. He could hear a struggle in progress. Through cracks in the gate, he saw other pieces of metal moving around. He tried the gate but it was locked securely from the inside.

“Watch out!” screamed Cruizzik as she revved the car engine. Phupier turned and saw her accelerating toward him. He leapt aside as she drove the walker-car into the gate, knocking it down. She drove across the flattened gate and braked in the parking yard. The impact had damaged a few of the walker-car’s legs. Cruizzik saw a large alien robot holding Agrive. One of the robot’s fingers covered Agrive’s mouth so he couldn’t talk. The robot looked at Cruizzik for a moment and then walked toward her, intending to neutralise her somehow. Cruizzik stepped quickly out of the car holding her H.P.C. tightly. She aimed it at the robot. She knew it would have no effect but it was all she had.

“Stop right there!” she said, in a habit acquired through training. The robot actually stopped.

“What else should I do, little lady?” said the robot with a short laugh.

“Put the man down,” continued Cruizzik. “Let him go to a safe distance. Drop any weapons you have.” The robot set Agrive on the ground. Agrive staggered over to Cruizzik. He was in pain after being squeezed in the robot’s tight grip.

“It’s impossible for me to drop all my weapons,” said the robot. “Some of them are built into the centre of my body.”

“Go home!” said Agrive.

“Which home?” asked the robot.

“Cybertron!” replied Agrive. The robot was surprised that Agrive knew about Cybertron. He called for a mid-air pick-up by a star ship, transformed into a flying machine and blasted off toward the stratosphere.

“Why did he obey us?!” Cruizzik asked Agrive.

“They all have to,” said Agrive. “One of them told me last night. They’re under orders to do what we ask but they’re also free to do other things. We must be specific and comprehensive. You told that one to go to Cybertron but you didn’t tell him to stay there. He might return tomorrow.”

“Any robots in this area, come out into the open!” called Phupier boldly from behind them. Almost immediately, there was movement from three directions. Five robots left the house via the back door. Four robots stepped out of the garage and adjacent shed. The entire lawn lifted on a platform and allowed seven robots to emerge from underground. Altogether, sixteen robots of varied sizes stood in the parking yard and the garden.

“I want you all to pack up your things and go,” said Phupier. “Board your ship and set course for Cybertron. When you get there, stay.”

“Full evacuation will take several hours,” said one of the smaller robots. “Our equipment is hidden all over town and beyond.”

“Take what you can carry now and send someone to pick up the rest later, preferably when it won’t cause a disturbance,” said Phupier. “I’ve helped with evictions and deportations before. You hulks haven’t paid the rent or passed the citizenship test.”

“Frakking organics!” muttered a larger robot as the group gathered some equipment.

“No back chat, just move out!” chided Cruizzik, trembling with fright but copying Phupier’s brave stand. Some robots couldn’t fly. A large shuttle descended silently to collect them. The evacuation took only a few biarks but many people on the ground witnessed it. Another wave of anxiety began to spread.

“My God, Sarge!” exclaimed Cruizzik as the shuttle powered away. “There were seventeen of them in one house!”

“This had better not be the new normal!” growled Phupier. “Anyway, at least we finally found Agrive Boif. How have you been, Agrive? Did they treat you well?”

“Physically, I only have bruising,” said Agrive. “My property is in a worse state. They installed a small command base under my garden! It might’ve undermined the house! My mind is reeling, Sergeant! I’ll need an extremely thorough property survey and then a spleg-load of remedial works. If the survey results are bad, I might lose the house completely.”

“I see your point,” said Phupier. “This is very unfortunate. You may be eligible for emergency assistance from the government. On the positive side, you seem alert and healthy.”

“I’m alert now after that massive scare,” said Agrive. “Last night they drugged me and I slept very deeply.”

“Did they hurt you in any way?” asked Cruizzik.

“There was mental and emotional terrorism,” replied Agrive. “They held me hostage in my own home for seven days. They destroyed some of my less important possessions. They dictated my daily routine. Worst of all, one of them performed a spiritual possession on my partner Zaffa. She hasn’t been herself for ten days, she told me.”

“So where is she right now?” asked Cruizzik.

“I wish I knew,” said Agrive sadly. “Her spirit is in another body, somewhere else in the world. Her body was taken away last night. I haven’t seen it this morning. I was about to go searching when I was snatched by that enormous robot. Thank goodness you had the guts to tell him what to do!”

“I still can’t believe it was that easy!” said Phupier. “Obeying us without much hesitation: it’s unnatural in so many ways. To be honest, I’m waiting for the catch. Maybe they’ll declare war.”

“That’s beyond our control,” said Agrive. “If their orders change, we have no chance against them. I was a rag doll in their hands.”

“Should we still go to Clasta’s place?” asked Cruizzik.

“Oh, you know about him?” exclaimed Agrive.

“We sure do,” said Phupier. “I hope he can give us more answers. Are you coming, Agrive?”

“I must,” replied Agrive. “He’s the one who arranged Zaffa’s possession and started my problems. He owes me restitution.”

“Confronting him could be even more dangerous than what happened here,” warned Cruizzik. “It would be at your own risk.”

“I’ve already survived the predator’s den,” said Agrive. “I might as well continue, for the good of the world.”

“Cruizzik, call for a containment team,” said Phupier. “They can start securing Agrive’s house. We can’t wait. We have to deal with Clasta urgently.”

“Wilco!” said Cruizzik. She and Phupier took their seats in the car. Agrive sat in the back. Despite some damage, the car still walked well enough. As Cruizzik made the call, Phupier drove swiftly back into the town centre. For the first time, they were making tangible inroads into the alien problem.



* * * * *



29. (19 GLA 1537, Zaffa’s town centre)

“Prophet, I’m here to surrender,” said Herraj dolefully. “I can’t escape your agents. They keep watching us. We’re terrified all the time.”

“I don’t know what you mean but please buy a drink and snack,” said Clasta as he stood in front of the counter in the Blanchayne Café. “The establishment needs your custom more than ever in these tense times.” He turned to look at Herraj. The family man was weeping a little.

“Alright, could I have a hot slayce and a pumphoug cake?” requested Herraj of the server. The drink and cake were prepared rapidly since no one else was ordering. Herraj took them and went with Clasta to a table in a back corner.

“What do you mean surrender?” asked Clasta. “I haven’t been doing anything to you. We’re not feuding or fighting. I wish you well!”

“Some people and perhaps machines are monitoring us,” said Herraj. “I’ve seen them many times in the last few days. Most of them are unfamiliar to us but last night my colleague Libnucal Sgiur followed us fifty kilometres to an obscure club in the Dlenduork Hills down South. She was a client of yours.” Clasta rolled his eyes at this accusation and then looked around the room. The only other customer had just left so he and Herraj were alone with the servers.

“Client, not agent,” said Clasta. “Why would I waste precious funds sending spies after innocent families?” He laughed at the absurdity of Herraj’s claim.

“Do you have any idea why we’re being followed?” asked Herraj urgently. “What does the future hold for us? Will we be attacked, kidnapped or even killed?”

“That’s extremely unlikely,” said Clasta. “In the short to medium term, you’ll be as safe as houses. Beyond that, just avoid dangerous and insane people. It’s not rocket science!” He used an open-hands gesture to emphasise his truthfulness.

“That’s so reassuring!” said Herraj, wiping his eyes. “I wish that I knew more about the spies, though.”

“If Libnucal was there, maybe it was something to do with your job,” suggested Clasta. “The government likes to keep track of its employees. What’s been happening at your office?”

“To be honest, we haven’t been to the office for six days,” replied Herraj. “We’ve been using our initiative. Six of us have been investigating ‘new pastimes’. There’s a lot to learn.”

“That sounds fine,” said Clasta. “You’re supposed to stay abreast of pastimes, aren’t you? I might try some of those later.”

“Clasta, what do you know about rogue machines in town?” asked Herraj. “I’ve seen a few lately. They’re incredibly advanced. Either they’re aliens or they’re from the future. One of them impersonated Agrive Boif perfectly. It had an H.P.C. and it converted itself into a solo crawler. It abducted the real Agrive. That was the scariest incident. I haven’t seen Agrive since: the real one or the fake. If they can do that, they can kill us all in a biark.”

“Were you intoxicated?” asked Clasta. “I see that too often around here.”

“No, certainly not!” replied Herraj. “We never indulge at work, especially during crises. We had to free some young people who’d been wrongly imprisoned. That was difficult and risky. The captors were well armed.” Clasta seemed shocked and impressed.

“I haven’t heard of any strange machines around here,” said Clasta. “Some clients talk about the other aliens they meet during games of Whithus but that’s done at a distance through brainwave transference. I wish I could help further.”

“Well, here’s a bit of help for you,” said Herraj. “My colleagues and I think that Zaffa Higcablan and Libnucal Sgiur are under alien influence. We heard them talking in a very unusual way. Zaffa also took part in the abduction of Agrive. If you see Zaffa, Libnucal or Agrive, beware.”

“I’m sorry to hear about them,” said Clasta. “I’ll stay alert. I hope they can be saved. Have you reported them to the authorities yet?”

“We don’t have enough evidence,” said Herraj. “Also, we fear for our lives. They’re collaborating with deadly alien robots after all. Any report or complaint could be traced back to us.”

“Hmm, you need a proxy,” said Clasta as he looked at the clock on the wall. “I could tell the authorities. Alternatively, one of my friends could do it. We just need some details. Would you write down what you’ve seen? I’ll get a pad and pen.” He got up, went to the counter and brought a pad and pen for Herraj. The grateful father of two began writing down his recollections. Meanwhile, Clasta went back to the counter.

“It’s time,” he whispered to the server. “Bring everyone out.” The server beckoned to his colleagues behind the counter and in the kitchen. They all filed out of the café, slowly and quietly. Herraj hardly looked up as they passed. A biark later, other staff and also a family came down from upstairs and went out the same way. The group sat or stood outside. A police walker-car approached down Houmcog Boulevard. It stopped fifty metres from the café. Sergeant Phupier and Constable Cruizzik got out, followed cautiously by Agrive.

“We knew you were coming,” called out Clasta. “We know you want us to leave, so we’re off! There’s no point in hanging around.” Herraj heard him speak and turned around to see what was happening. The scene in front of the café chilled him to the core, despite his hot slayce drink. Two dozen adults and a few small children were bursting out of their clothes and changing their bodies into radical new shapes. They were machines in disguise! Most of them merged together and formed a larger machine: a vehicle that hovered effortlessly over the tables and chairs outside. Clasta himself remained separate from the others but used his powerful robotic legs to leap into the vehicle’s cab. With a final salute to Phupier and friends, Clasta flew the living vehicle upwards. Their acceleration was stupendous and the craft disappeared into the distance moments later.

“Spleg!” said Phupier. “Why didn’t they stay and talk to us?” Behind him, Agrive fell to his knees and wept. If Clasta and his support team had flown back to Cybertron, his beloved Zaffa might never return. He prayed for a favourable resolution. Herraj came outside warily for a long talk with Agrive and the police.



* * * * *



30. (19 GLA 1537, aboard a Transformer star ship and then a return to Zaffa’s town)

The Transformer collective was disappointed by Handpoint Nine Seven Eight Two’s slip-up, which had torpedoed the mission on Zaffa’s world. Still in Zaffa’s body, Handpoint sat in his star ship and struggled to breathe. The air was thin and slightly toxic. He put on a full face mask with a species-specific air supply. It prevented slow suffocation but he regretted his failure to operate effectively on the planet below.

“I did my best,” he said to the collective. “Honestly I did but this body had other ideas. It retains a very strong bond to the partner Agrive. We were a little rough with Agrive. In our arrogance, we assumed that we could bully him and his friends into silence and compliance. That was incorrect and now we’re being ejected from their biosphere.”

“It’s time for you to leave that decrepit female body,” said the collective. “If only it’d been more malleable. We’re bringing the boy for the restoration process.” Handpoint waited a few biarks. Outside, he saw several star ships and thousands of drones manoeuvring. It wasn’t a particularly busy day in the Transformers’ 8561st fleet. Presently, a small shuttle arrived and docked outside Handpoint’s temporary quarters. Two small Transformers brought a young native into the room. He was awake but restrained in a chair. His eyes were full of worry. Nevertheless, he was suppressing his panic reaction.

“We didn’t have time for sedation but we explained the situation,” said one of the Transformers. “He took it well, I reckon. A lot of people down there are becoming accustomed to off-worlders. That’s helpful for us.” They fitted the young man with a breathing mask and then began the spirit transfer.

“It’s good to meet you at last, Ceniolic and Zaffa!” said Handpoint. “I’m sorry that your time together is being cut short. That was my fault. I revealed a key vulnerability to Agrive and now we’re being forced to retreat. I hope you learnt enough to make the exercise worthwhile.”

“Spleg, this is intense!” said Ceniolic. “They will take us back, won’t they? I don’t want to live here forever. Whenever these robots go past, I’m afraid I might lose control of my sphincter!”

“You’ll be pleased to know that my sphincter didn’t misbehave at all,” said Handpoint. “In fact, it’s improved with a healthy diet and a little more exercise. Oh, I feel the transfer kicking in.” He and Zaffa felt light-headed as their spirits lifted from their bodies and crossed over. During the swap, Handpoint had a full sample rush of Zaffa’s emotional whirl. Simultaneously, Zaffa experienced Handpoint’s ultra-deep life story of myriad space missions. Both were made dizzy for a few moments. Ceniolic was sad to lose his intimate connection with Zaffa but at least he regained full control of his body and mind. The whole process was a profound adjustment for all three. Zaffa and Ceniolic shed a tear. Handpoint returned to his familiar body, which was sitting in the corner of the room.

“Thank God!” said Zaffa, lifting her arms and testing her legs. “I felt guilty messing with your life, Ceniolic.”

“Actually, it was O.K.,” said Ceniolic. “We got along well. You were very understanding. You taught me a lot. My friendships and relationship will go more smoothly in future thanks to you.” Handpoint withdrew Ceniolic’s restraints.

“And I learnt plenty about a young man’s full life,” said Zaffa with a smile. “I mean, I never had anything as exciting as Whithus in my day. Also, your girl Hortbeck is blue-hot! She’ll try anything!”

“Keep that between the three of us!” said Ceniolic, smiling back.

“Fleshies, you might want to see this,” said Handpoint, who was standing at the nearest window and looking out. “A different species has sent a vessel.” A vast star ship appeared suddenly among the Transformer fleet.

“Quaint technology,” commented Handpoint. “They’re using a Mark 27 variant teleport drive.” Ten kilometres of unknown ship didn’t intimidate him at all.

Time stopped.

A telepathic fugue.

Other flesh people swirled forward.

Multi-world.

Skin, multi-coloured.

Leather, shiny sheets.

Feathers, iridescent.

Scales, hard strata.

Strands, tough fibres.

Water and slime, glistening.

Wet eyes shining.

All young and fresh, yet wise enough.

“Ambassadors, welcome!” said the Transformer collective. “Forgive the disorganised, temporary fleet gathering.”

“This galaxy is under new management,” said the local crew. “Our old arrangement with you is hereby terminated. We’re here to negotiate a new arrangement.”

“We look forward to it,” said the collective. “We’re profoundly dismayed if our campaigns are interrupted. There’s no satisfaction that way.”

“Sorry but we must halt the tide,” said the crew. “We don’t want the Blue Strands completely wrecked. Halfway wrecked is more than sufficient. Also, we don’t want Dark Forces to emerge. We want decent lives, not a demonic, nightmare existence.”

“But we were all enjoying the game before,” the collective pointed out. “Your major players were collapsing as arranged. We hadn’t even used our star performers. They’re still here, eager to get stuck in!” Gigantic Transformers could be seen in the distance. Around them were fleets of flying war drones, which were numerous enough to tear planets apart.

“Rigged games and unfair advantages aren’t worth it,” said the crew. “No more participation, you childish cheats! If you persist, you will be removed. Divine forces are ready to intervene.” The collective was silenced. Even they had limits.

“To clarify, the new arrangement is for you to leave and not return,” said the crew. “You have no obligation to help with reconstruction and restitution but you should pursue your aims and games elsewhere.”

“That’s it, their minds have changed irrevocably,” said Handpoint as the telepathic fugue ended. “Our invitation to the Blue Strands has been revoked. Local permissions have been rescinded. The galactic death wish has evaporated. You did that, fleshies! You gave them breathing space and an encrypted channel. You allowed them to regroup and rethink. We were unable to stop it in time.” Normal consciousness returned to the room. Ceniolic and Zaffa watched in amazement as the local star ship teleported away and the Transformer fleet shifted into new positions. There were too many ship movements to follow. The sunshine glinting on their silvery hulls made them kaleidoscopic.

“Rescue Libnucal!” said Zaffa. “Please, before you go, help my friend!”

“Another ship is doing that right now,” said Handpoint. “We’re extracting her from an old man named Wibon Galgshnall. Her caretaker spirit Jembar is soon to depart with us. We won’t forget our flotsam and jetsam either. The wannabe deserter Pointblank is high on the retrieval list.”

“Oh God, this is too much!” exclaimed Zaffa as the mega-scale armada twisted and turned around them. “You robots have a ridiculous amount of hardware! Send us home before one of those dreadnaughts crushes us!”

“And you call this a game!” said Ceniolic, shaking his head as he watched the scene. “Maybe you should check your vocabulary files?!”

“They’re fine thanks, boy,” said Handpoint. “Now, get back in the shuttle with your old lady pal for the return flight.” They obeyed gladly. As the shuttle hurtled through the void and the homeworld came closer, Zaffa reflected on what she’d learnt. It’d been a lesson more profound than anything she could’ve imagined.

[Good Lord, the sheer speed of this craft!]

Everything was fine in the right time and place.

[Planet Abivo looks vivid over there, above and to the left.]

Self-expression was valuable except when it hurt others.

[Ceniolic’s fascinated by the brilliant constellations.]

Dramas were fascinating until they became boring or offensive.

[We’re holding hands so tightly: two primitive specks fleeing across the infinite sky.]

Games could structure one’s world until...

[That same infinite sky contained horrors beyond description.]

Games were fun but adults shouldn’t play them too often. Real life deserved greater attention. Zaffa needed to rethink her entire career. A new direction was required.

[Swooping in for a landing, Zaffa considered different ways to fill the empty spaces, wherever they were.]

Home... was on the other side of town. The shuttle hadn’t bothered dropping them near their houses. It was already gone.

“Damn!” said Zaffa. “We’re in Snuflek Suburb. I’ll call a taxi. Let me pay.” Ceniolic hugged her gratefully. He’d found a lifelong friend and so had she. At the other end of the street, some children had a sudden urge to play Blunk-line.

Verdonek Galaxy – permission revoked
Rubinion Galaxy – permission revoked
Scoupor Galaxy – permission revoked
Aeuline Galaxy – permission revoked
Black Castle Galaxy – permission revoked
Kuuthed Galaxy – permission revoked
Quiet Satuuthoid Galaxy – permission revoked
Consolidated Empires Galaxy – permission revoked
Neon God Galaxy – permission revoked
Grand Red Roof Galaxy – permission revoked
Grid Seven Two Two Galaxy Super Cluster – permission revoked
[Over five thousand further updates pending. Several thousand more updates expected soon.]

[SPLEG! No, I mean FRAK! Oh well, nothing lasts forever...]




Characters

Transformers – Handpoint Nine Seven Eight Two (possessing Zaffa), Highjump (Agrive 2), Jembar (possessing Libnucal), Pointblank, Tailwind (Clasta Vaq), Hook (Consti), Troxig, [many others, unnamed]

Surviving races of the Blue Strands Galaxy - The Hselof Quorum, the Undwir, the Wodnabrid, the Retulaan Nuid, the Zmetaxa, the Husbuck Mutaind [mostly killed by Transformers], the Sebelt, the Myrj, the Whatriphany, [many others, unnamed]

Sports and Entertainment Department – Mosfeeg Drufdi (m), Zaffa Higcablan (f, regional manager), Fuloy Navoul (m), Libnucal Sgiur (f), Smingul Vioph (m), Fleny Xeron (f), Herraj Ymestir (m)

Herraj’s family - Darmyn Ymestir (wife), Dimknac Ymestir (son), Hesypuy Ymestir (daughter)

Friends of Dimknac and Hesypuy - Kojcsart (young m), Mietzi (young f), Skondfid (young m), Durya (young f), Quiedrez (young f), Vesnaj (young m)

Sports teachers for Dimknac and Hesypuy – Deukboul (f), Grepmun (m)

Police in Zaffa’s town - Inspector Stramvo (m), Constable Drifful (m), Constable Cruizzik (f), Sergeant Phupier Lartscland (m), Constable Kugnoi (f), [many others, unnamed]

Spiritual exercise retreat group members – Wibon Galgshnall (old m, possessed by Libnucal), Puj Bodos (m, possible dark god), Sevgen (m), Merioly (m, group leader), Pheon Yei (young f, assistant leader), Yebonec (young f, assistant leader), Niobel (old f), Zebtekow (old m), Vebrima (old f), [many others, unnamed]

Whithus group in Zaffa’s town: Ceniolic (young m, possessed by Zaffa), Burdekion (m, leader) Lovubai (f), Jejbuz (f), Hortbeck (young f), Miqtonut (m), Gouline (f), Zobstry (f), Tuux (m), Krean (m), Fneybluns (m), Nielizov (f), Dfubim (m), Sdivust (m), Nuutariq (f), Chotsi Bolerey (f), Hosulyas (m), Aclaj (f), Bohnjos (m), Smyq (m),Wryo (f), Eemaarl (m), Lyplette (f), [many others, unnamed]

Artists, etc. in Zaffa’s town: Pylvic Slath (f), Harmon Dersh (m), Quaqua the Abno (f), Stablik Kunrey (m), Pon Gipitz (young f, model, possible dark god), [many others, unnamed]

Improv actors near Zaffa’s town – Elbar (m), Osrac (old f), Qual (f), Zorivax (m), Bhrani (f), Saydob (old m), Umai (f), Byflio (m), Shym (m), Treif (m)

People at the Ultra Glam Theatre - Vheyra Tseenwini (m, manager), Letynas (m, director), Lpediov (m, actor), Epielen (f, actor), Wremplag (m, actor), Recepron (f, actor)



Notes

The story title ‘Games within Frontiers’ is a reference to my 2005 story ‘Games without Frontiers’. In the latter, the Decepticons go to war with the Autobots. In the former, all Transformers are obliged to stop their war for a while and move on.

On this world, the calendar year is divided into ten months: Shudai, Whaignot, Wathahel, Eizi, Glaphitzeir, Oveurhaaf, Laytzuma, Omeraphal, Nalizher and Joungelpels. Each month contains forty days except for Shudai, which has forty four. There are no set weeks for the whole world but institutions often use their own week periods. Hence, people have weekends on different days depending on their institutional affiliations. The present year is 1537.

There are forty Bingedays every year.

Chest-cross fibres (CCF) circulate blood around the body. They are the equivalent of a heart.

A tululator is like a mobile ‘phone that works via the tuluromag.

The tuluromag is similar to the internet only not as easy to use because of differences in physical laws in this universe. Users feel unwell and have bad reactions if they spend too long on it.

A biark is roughly a minute.

Wet-net espoin is a pool sport for individuals or teams.

Drifdisk is a team game using small, flying disks.

Blunk-line is a team game using cylindrical, flexible batons.

Kick-box pyramid toss (K.B.P.T.) is a team game using a steel pyramid of similar weight to a small shot put.

Jabellian Puffs are powder sachets that are as stimulating as high-quality coffee.

A smagwyt is equivalent to a cuckoo.

Zhenchelvia vine fungus is a parasite that grows very quickly, smothering and absorbing many young creatures in a forest clearing. It then develops a spore fruit and reproduces itself through wind-borne spores.

A zhenfalix is a flying creature that dislikes zhenchelvia. It emits a warning call that attracts enemies of the fungus.

A dreeglax is a land creature tough enough to tear through zhenchelvia and eat the spore fruit before it releases spores.

The Lyanian Expanse is similar to the Russian Steppes. When Agrive is sent there, it is dry and warm. At other times, it can be baking hot or freezing cold.

Most motorised ground vehicles on Zaffa’s world use mechanical legs to move rather than wheels. This is due to the availability of different materials in that universe. Strong yet flexible metals make insect-like legs easy to construct. Wheels are mainly used for the heaviest vehicles and for non-motorised cycles, etc.

Several times in the early 1970s, when I was a baby, my father drove all the way across Wales and part of England. The journey took at least six hours each way. Once, he fell asleep at the wheel and nearly crashed. After that, he would stop for naps at the side of the road, for safety.

At my current workplace, there’s a public space (hall/corridor) that’s been designated a dance practice area. Many small dance groups use it for rehearsals. I’ve been impressed by their talent, energy and dedication.

In the U.K., we have many old cultural venues that are derelict or repurposed. Thousands have been demolished. It’s a sad state of affairs. Recently, I saw a theatre in Burnt Oak that’s now only a platform for mobile ‘phone masts and birds’ nests. In Harrow, a grand old cinema is now a private gym (but there’s a new cinema in town). In Bangor, the old cinema was destroyed and replaced by a Lidl supermarket (but there’s a new cinema in town).

In Brighton and Hove (two U.K. towns that have merged into one), some of the streets are narrow and hilly, making them hard to drive on without occasional bumps and scrapes. Zaffa and Agrive live in a similar suburb.

The story of Kenfrichi and Zizeepi is in no way related to the infamous K.F.C. U.K. chicken shortage (due to delivery failure) and the Zizzi Salisbury restaurant poisoning using Novichok.

The ‘game’ Whithus is a little like the humorous games ‘Mornington Crescent’ (BBC Radio Four), ‘Numberwang’ on the Mitchell & Webb comedy show (BBC TV) and ‘Blurnsball’ on US cartoon Futurama. These fictional games have very complex rules that are never properly explained.

Clasta’s building was inspired by similar London buildings: dining area on the ground floor, stores and offices on the first floor, residential on the second floor, sometimes a roof terrace on top. Kitchens are either at the rear or in the basement.

Zaffa and Agrive have seven radios in their house. My parents had seven radios in their house and sometimes more. They loved classical music. (R.I.P. parents, their nine cats and two hamsters.)

The movie ‘Rear Window’ by director Alfred Hitchcock was inspiring here because it shows many individual lives intertwined.

The ‘White on Blonde’ album by Texas is excellent. The ‘O.K. Computer’ album by Radiohead is also excellent.

‘Empty spaces’ are mentioned on ‘The Wall’ album by Pink Floyd. They can be places, times or feelings that are characterised by fear, the unknown and a sense of possible danger.

The improv acting session is like a cross between T.V. shows ‘Big Brother’ and ‘Who’s Line is it Anyway?’.

The Unlaikli Drive is a poor imitation of the Improbability Drive, as imagined by the late Douglas Adams.

Chitter is a fictional social media platform first seen in U.K. T.V. Channel 4 comedy show ‘The I.T. Crowd’, final ever episode. It is popular enough to spread to this story’s universe!

Qual’s spa disaster was inspired by my father’s colleague’s disastrous enema in hospital during the late 1970s. The room required a deep clean and the mattress had to be burnt.

‘Scary’ Osrac is a bit like the old woman bathroom ghost in ‘The Shining’ movie, except she’s fully dressed.

This story was written during the COVID-19 coronavirus lockdown, March-July 2020. Many people in the U.K. and some other countries had to stay at home most of the time. That meant more time for thinking and writing. Hurrah for deadly diseases!

[I bought that big, autobiographical photo album: excellent, of course. I pulled a muscle in my back carrying the heavy book from one room to another. It hurt for two weeks. Some people might find that amusing.]