Afro Puffs Are The Antennae Of The Universe

by Zig Zag Claybourne

  Megu toddled off.

  Important things happened behind the closed doors along the massive hallway she traversed. She didn’t care. Up ahead, a containment crew rushed into Metaphysics Lab Four. They weren’t in the blue of biohazard, so no worries. Likely solely a spill of color out of space. A klaxon hadn’t even gone off. Memos would be issued. She had no time for memos.

  She rode her private elevator, relishing the silence that tagged along out of the car and into her private lab.

  She sat at her desk. She stared unseeing at the container of tapioca; was vaguely aware of opening it, sticking a finger in it, and tasting it.

  Tasted terrible, but she knew she was going to eat it anyway. Unless the tapioca hadn’t come with a spoon.

  It had.

  Damn everything.

  She scratched both hands through her short hair, slowing to give herself an impromptu scalp massage. Why was masturbation so excellent but a self-scalp massage a thing of utter disappointment? She wanted someone else’s hands kneading her head, not even Maurice’s; someone who didn’t care whether they were administering to her head or a lump of clay would do. Maybe squeeze her thoughts into a semblance of proper order. Maybe squeeze thoughts out altogether.

  Perhaps music would help.

  Her finger hovered over a selection of Spanish guitar suites just as the klaxon went off.

  She wondered if she should leave or simply put her lab on lockdown.

  She hit the lockdown button. The room’s shielding immediately silenced the klaxon. A red strip running along the crown of the entire lab remained lit.

  Maurice, wherever he was, would receive immediate notification of the emergency. Let him deal with it.

  Nobody and nothing was going to bother her in the box.

  She stared at the tapioca.

  It stared back.

  They both knew she wasn’t going to eat it.

  She took the secret inner elevator to their secret underground exit, got on the secret underground emergency tram, and rode it toward the secret destination only she, Maurice, and the small crew who maintained it knew about. It let out quite unobtrusively into one of Mitaka’s many public parks. This one outlay the financial district by the farthest margin and was generally rarely visited, today being no exception. Outside of birds, no one was within sight to accost Megu, which was fine by her. There was a bench a short distance from the “CLOSED FOR REPAIRS” information station she’d exited, closed for repairs for twenty-five years and counting, but there was a boulder midway, one of several artfully placed to inspire contemplation. She sat on the boulder, drawing her knees up to hug them, and watched the world do absolutely nothing.

  How in hell was she okay with that? She knew seven languages, had failed to patent more breakthroughs than most governments pretended to develop, and her tai chi form was exquisite.

  The fact, she told herself, that you have no soul should not bear upon your interests or endeavors!

  She wasn’t entirely convinced this ennui episode owed to her metaphysical dalliances. As with the fictional Scrooge, it could have been a lump of potato or a piece of undigested beef, some defect less of ghost and more of gastrointestinal. She’d sent out for a McDonald’s meal earlier, for ancestors’ sakes! Her first thought when she’d awakened—there wasn’t one, which was terrifying. She’d rolled over, messaged Maurice that she wasn’t to be disturbed all day, then had actually considered going back to sleep.

  Since the park saw little to no use, it was excessively neat. City services had no need to maintain it; Kosugi kept up the grounds. Her use of the escape route minus any ghost protocols meant a small security detail that never wandered too far from the park had her in sight, but as long as she didn’t see them, she didn’t care.

  Every tree she saw, she knew its genus. Every blossom broadcasting scent, she’d at some point analyzed its chemical structure. She knew what was in the sky and why it was there, even knew about the kaiju asleep somewhere in the world—one of several distinct kaiju, actually, although she’d yet to firsthand verify their existence—but couldn’t explain why the thought of experimenting to learn something new was as appealing as actively trying to find Maurice sexually attractive again.

  She simply hugged her knees and watched every bit of inactivity the park had to offer.

  No one walking any of its paths.

  No children chasing one another.

  No artists sketching or elders maintaining their balance and rhythm via synchronized motion.

  Now and then a bird, now and then a breeze.

  Now and then a thought escaping her before she could pull it back inside.

  Who was this current Hashira Megu, and why was she so annoying to put up with?

  She certainly didn’t care about this park.

  Megu slid off the boulder to take a walk.

  In front of her: an entire case of watches, each more pointless than the last. All ridiculously overpriced. The clerk, however, was personable, with quick brown eyes that assessed Megu’s moods with lightning precision.

  “This measures vitals and has auto-relay to your doctor.”

  “I am a doctor,” said Megu absently, not even bothering to glance at “this.” “What measures my soul?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Megu waved it away. “How many people buy these?”

  “Many. We service all of Mitaka and Nishitokyo.”

  “Did you know a Black woman from the United States was responsible for the global positioning technology everyone employs today?”

  “No.”

  “Mathematical genius. Developed complex algorithms to model the geoid. Her data is the basis for GPS. Gladys West.”

  “My customers will appreciate this information.”

  “This is not meant for a sales pitch. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “In her thirties, she became project manager for developing a satellite system that could remotely sense oceans.”

  The clerk, wide-eyed yet as blank as respect could manage given the power dynamic, responded, “Hai” and waited.

  Megu narrowed her eyes at her. “You knew this?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to accomplish the same?”

  The clerk hesitated to answer. Customers didn’t generally analyze her life. “I’m not a mathematician.”

  “Nor are you a watch clerk. Your soul. Where does it usually lead you? In secret?”

  The clerk looked left and right, then quickly produced a small notepad from beneath the counter, flipping it open as though commanded. The sketches were neither bad nor good; they were serviceable. Yet the attitude of high expectation suddenly suffusing the clerk bolstered the drawings of celebrities and animal hybrids upward.

  Megu flipped quickly through three pages, genuinely respectful, and nodded in lieu of a bow of thanks.

  “Souls find things,” said Megu.

  “Someone should add that to GPS.”

  “They have. You’ll never see it in your store. Good day, young clerk.” She slid the sketchpad to the clerk’s quick fingers. “Arigato gozaimashita.”

  The clerk bowed to the odd, obviously quite rich woman in this technology shop that sold bits of ephemera at exorbitantly-inflated prices. Megu acknowledged the bow.

  The odd, obviously quite rich, well-educated woman left.

  Standing outside the so-upscale-it-tipped-the-scale technology store, Megu watched people doing people things, some of those people likely enjoying the people things, but how many? Japan’s nearly one hundred thirty million population had not yet been broken down according to fulfillment.

  Pity? No. Pity was imbecilic. Envy? She might envy a god, not likely anyone within the confines of Japan or the entire wider world. Or the moon. What did she feel for them?

  She drew a deep breath straight from the diaphragm, released it in the most conscious, controlled fashion, then repeated the action two more times.

  No one noticed her or her
moment of clarity. They were all lost.

  She needed her soul back.

  Neon stretched left, right, then cracked her neck. “I never knew it was possible to be tired all the way to my ass.” Maybe that was Bobo too. I need to up my octopus endurance. “What’s next, boss?”

  Which caught Desiree mid-yawn. “Ele and Fiona are our soul-connectors. They’re in space. We sit tight and study till they get back. Still no update from Milo and crew, by the way.”

  “You worried.”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, you are. What do we do about the guest situation?” said Neon.

  “I’ll address that today now that I’ve got everybody here. Why do I smell French toast?”

  “Gang of Four made it,” said Neon.

  “Hot damn,” said Desiree.

  “Ate it,” said Neon.

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Call a meeting in the mess hall for ten thirty. We’ll let ’em feel our scorn while we get everybody up to speed.”

  The Gang of Four sat dutifully through the entire briefing, one having an eidetic memory, one a superior grasp of meta-mechanics, one furiously writing notes, the fourth asking questions, many questions.

  “No, Vanh, we have no idea of the forces we’re unleashing. You know this. Next question?” Desiree put to the group.

  The note-taker’s hand went up. “Neutralization?”

  “Yes, work on that. Nothing—and I stress nothing—gets done without Dr. Flowerpot’s express approval.”

  “Except in case of emergency,” said Vanh.

  “In case of emergency, remember you led a good life,” said Desiree.

  “Or just call me,” said Keita. “Run first, though.”

  The note-taker put a check by that.

  “The new people in the room need to make a choice: work with us or keep seeing the insides of locked rooms till we’re through,” said Desiree.

  The Hellbilly held up a hand. “I was kidnapped.”

  “You were not kidnapped,” said Desiree. “Don’t make me regret getting you in Atlantis. Commander, what’s your play?”

  “With you,” said Sharon Deetz.

  “Why?”

  “It makes sense.”

  Desiree put it to Compoté. “Loyalties, Number One?”

  “Commander knows I’ve got her back,” he said.

  “Will I have that same honor?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “None of you will be given full run,” Desiree specified. “Critical systems will automatically lock you out and alert all of us that you’re requesting royal ass-whuppings. You will, however, have access to information sessions.”

  “We get to sit in on meetings,” the Hellbilly translated.

  “The level of dour in your voice shriveled my ovaries,” said Neon.

  “I respect information,” said Sharon. “All terms accepted.”

  “All terms accepted,” said Compoté.

  “Yeah, cool,” said the Hellbilly. “I’m cool for now, y’know; this ain’t a permanent gig. Beautiful ladies, sweet boat, good fishing. Brotha’s set.”

  (Neon to Yvonne: “Did he call himself ‘brotha’?” “He did.” “See, this is why white boys get slapped.”)

  “We been here three days,” said the Hellbilly.

  “Again: Don’t make me regret picking you up and bringing you here,” said Desiree. “I certainly could’ve used some extra sleep.”

  “I appreciated you coming out by yourself like that. That was classy as fuck. Respect. But, y’know, I was just doing my thang and y’all came for me. I think we need to recognize that dynamic.”

  “Let me speak to you on a level we both understand,” said Desiree. “This room? Full of the good guys, right?” She leaned forward without moving and looked him dead in the eyes two inches from his face from across a very long table. “People think I’m good. I’m just good at restraint.”

  “Captain,” said Neon, “on the fucking bridge.”

  “I’m cool for now,” said the Hellbilly. “No bullshit.”

  “I get any hint of Thoom anywhere near any of my people, you and I dance a very ugly dance,” said the captain.

  The Hellbilly nodded.

  “Keita, you have the floor.”

  Keita sprang at her data. “Okay. We have the Bilomatic Entrance. We have, for lack of anything better than the way Po put it, the soul which powers its curiosity.” She held up a hand to waylay inevitable questions or comments. “I have no frigging idea. I’m an engineer. I’ve never reverse-engineered a soul. This is going to take some time.”

  “What do you need from us?” said Desiree.

  “Run interference till we figure this out,” said Keita. “Nobody knows we’re here. Let’s keep it that way, even if it’s just everybody in this room playing marathon backgammon with the Gang of Four till me, Tash, and Po poke our heads out. Somebody make sure I bathe—”

  “On it,” said Neon.

  “—and absolutely no comm in or out of this place till I hoot, ‘Eureka!’ Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Desiree.

  “Merci. Give me two weeks to start,” said the resident genius engineer.

  “Meaning you’ll have it done in one,” said the captain.

  “You know me well,” said Keita.

  Desiree regarded her crew. Neon and Yvonne, inseparable. Keita, indefatigable. She drew in a sigh of appreciation for the varying strengths surrounding her. “All right, everybody break and chill. This is not the vacation we hoped for, but it’s the one we’ve got. Enjoy the accommodations.”

  “Any fishing around here? I mean, I really don’t know where I am.” The Hellbilly nodded at Sharon. “You and Sergeant Slaughter know where we are? All I’ve seen is the inside of a boat, a plane with no windows, and this place.”

  “Welcome to our world, Sticks,” said Compoté.

  “Everybody got jokes in this piece,” said the Hellbilly.

  “Cures what ails ya,” said Compoté, causing Sharon Deetz to have the first genuine smile she’d had in days.

  “Where have you been?” Maurice said, dangerously close to a raised voice.

  “I went for a walk,” said Megu.

  “For a week! You ducked your security and went completely dark. Dark protocol is not a thing to be toyed with, wife.”

  “Did you worry?”

  “Yes!”

  “Did you come to any of the secret places?”

  He faltered. Minutely. “No.”

  “Just as well. I wasn’t at any of them.”

  “While you were gone—”

  “Oh, all kinds of hell likely happened while I was gone. Did you know, Maurice, there’s a state of consciousness one only enters on one’s back, in the sun, on a beach? Crucial that it be in the sun.”

  “Megu,” he said, then realized he had very little to add after that to enhance his standing in her life in any way.

  “Maurice, I need to leave for a bit. Do not track me.”

  “I can’t promise that.”

  “I don’t need you to promise it; I need you to obey.”

  “How long?”

  “A week.”

  “Leaving when?”

  “In a week.”

  “Two weeks to do what?”

  “A private quest.”

  “Megu.”

  “A private quest,” she reiterated.

  “And if you don’t return?”

  “Then I’ll signal you to find me.”

  He drew inside himself. “Nonrich and Thoom have requested a meeting with me. Together.”

  “We live in strange times,” she said.

  “I’d rather this happened while you were here.”

  “Have them wait.”

  “A meeting like this can’t be delayed. If the world is to shift, it must be done just so.”

  “I leave the world to you, then, husband. I enjoy that word. Honestly, I still enjoy you.”

  “Two weeks,” he responde
d archly.

  “I enjoy myself more.”

  A week later, from a lab in the upper peninsula of Michigan that not even Maurice knew about, she broke the code of whoever was smart enough to hide her soul away. A day later, she was on her way.

  14

  ’80s Slow Jams

  The things one could do in a week when one was buried in an underground desert complex with access to a Silica Elf library:

  See star charts from several galactic civilizations.

  Teach the elves to play Spades. Whup their asses at it afterward.

  Experiment with recipes designed to spice up the Third Eye.

  Learn proper slap bass on an excellent guitar.

  Actually read Dracula and Moby Dick. Halfway. Each.

  Jogging was big too. A complete circuit of the complex itself was two miles. Getting lost in the elf catacombs increased the burn. Neon had spent the night abusing a device meant for the enhancement of personal enjoyment; she didn’t need the burn.

  She jogged a cool, quiet, muted grey corridor near one of the exit ramps, passed the ramp, then abruptly stopped.

  She backed up. She frowned and listened, because one of the things she didn’t expect at a secret base was a knock on the door, and yet, to Neon’s ear, that had definitely been a knock. More accurately, a clanging.

  She waited.

  It sounded again. Slowly and patiently.

  Neon hit her comm. “Captain…you expecting a delivery?”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m at hatch three and somebody’s knocking.” She checked the hatch monitor. “Nothing’s showing up on visual. Feed looks kinda funky, though.”

  “On my way.”

  Desiree arrived with a portable monitor, jacked it in, and got the same slight visual waver in the section of the screen right outside their “door.” as if someone had scooped a hole in the air then refilled it backward.

  Desiree commed Yvonne. “Hey. We might have trouble. Can you meet me and Nee at hatch three with three focums?”

  “Be right there.”

  An unknown voice broke into their frequency. “Weapons aren’t necessary.”

  The comm remained open. “How the hell’d you—” said Desiree.

  “I just needed you to talk for a moment. I’m a little smarter than whoever helped you steal my property.”