Afro Puffs Are The Antennae Of The Universe

by Zig Zag Claybourne

  She picked a target, fired a warning shot that took out a ship’s entire unoccupied fore end, then she took up position in front of the fleet to gauge whether they were savvy enough to accept the hint.

  A second’s hesitation.

  They opened fire on her. She put the Aerie into a downward corkscrew aimed directly for the fleet, seemingly ignoring the artillery barrage, most of which missed her, some of which pinged harmlessly off the Aerie’s alien hide.

  The crews on the ships nearest her, knowing a strafing run when they saw one, scrambled for cover, yet Yvonne didn’t fire a single shot. She hit the control for offensive shields, causing a slight electrical ripple to form around the Aerie, about to try something that hadn’t been tried before, but sudden inspiration was a serious spur. The math in her head seemed right, and the lightning-quick counsel from her gut felt sound.

  She rammed the lead ship with all she had, punching a gash through its prow like the angry swipe of a cheetah’s paw. Nobody’d ever tried ramming speed in the Aerie before. Extraterrestrial inertial tech for the win.

  The shuttle twisted over the water, shot upward in a great loop over the fleet, and came to a hovering stop to give all a clear view that she’d suffered nary a scratch.

  Another ship fired on her.

  She fired back. Its crew had to immediately abandon that ship.

  Yvonne fired seven successive shots across the bows of the remaining ships, impacting none. Seven giant, roiling bursts of ocean bashed each ship.

  Y’all really don’t want me making time for you, she thought, and waited.

  Waited another moment.

  And another.

  The ships reversed course.

  “What the fuck are they doing?” Aileen screeched. The ennui disappeared. The ships she’d sent with her own mouth to take Atlantis…were turning back? Were disobeying a direct order? Her fucking order? Did motherfuckers think this was a pleasure cruise they got to turn back from to put into a tourist port? Aileen Stone came for Atlantis and she was going to have it or else—

  “This is Captain Desiree Quicho. You came to kill. You come to die as well?”

  “Turn those fucking Jetstreams to dust!” Aileen commanded.

  The ships dogging Desiree’s subrover redoubled their efforts. The Linda Ann raced past Desiree, swung around a pursuing vessel, and opened fire to become their new immediate concern.

  Bobo dropped from the belly of the Ann, followed by a series of metallic objects that looked as if a machete had cut many grapefruits in half. Undersea traffic was filled with cylinders that were clumsier than the most inelegant shark, as numerous and annoying as them as well. Avoiding them presented no issue. They didn’t care about Bobo.

  Each of his arms grabbed multiple fruit halves.

  Bobo waited for Neon to fire on a ship enough to slow it down. When it did, Bobo jetted like a mighty volcanic current, red, stubbly body changing colors and texture to match the stirring narrative in his head, arms typing out a message of Fuck You to stoopid humans as he quickly attached fruit to the great hull rumbling past him. He dashed to gather more of the slowly sinking munitions.

  Bobo could tell the Linda Ann from the others without even looking. The shape of her energy wasn’t blunt like the stoopids; it was sleek and highly aquatic, as though made of water itself. Neon obliged another ship to pause and change course. Bobo hauled ass to it, attached mines again, and sped to the next.

  His arms were tired, but he didn’t stop, not till the fruit had been exhausted among each of the three ships over fifteen minutes of surface and undersea fighting.

  Bobo the Mag was tempted to enter one of the ships and cause havoc, but Neon nudged his soft cerebellum to dive as deeply as he could, as fast as he could.

  Bobo did so.

  From the darkness, he looked up and saw the blooming of three new stars.

  “Scuttle all but one ship,” Desiree told Yvonne. “If they’re not smart enough to abandon, fuck ’em.”

  “That ship being useless?” Desiree said to Neon. “Keep it where it is.”

  “Shig, I don’t know how retirement works with you guys, but your crews need to slide out of service in style,” said Captain Quicho.

  “War is over?” he asked.

  “War is over.”

  Thirty minutes after all ships had evacuated to one (as well as Sharon’s original complement quickly ferried out of confinement on the mainland to the now-defanged flagship), Desiree gave instructions to Deetz and Compoté to “Talk to your people so I don’t have to kill them.”

  “That’s it?” said Sharon.”

  “I never needed you for more.”

  “I’m not your enemy, captain,” she asserted.

  “Well, you were. Pardon me if I watch my back.”

  “Next time we meet, maybe I’ll win you as a friend.”

  Desiree turned her attention to Compoté. “Thoughts?”

  “Retirement should be fun.”

  “Excellent. Get your asses over there and deprogram those fools,” said Desiree.

  When Desiree Sandrine Quicho boarded Aileen’s overburdened vessel with all personnel belowdecks save one, and the Aerie hovering directly above the battleship as proper punctuation mark to Desiree’s implicit contract, the first clause of which read, Fuck with me and greet every last one of your misbegotten ancestors, she brought no one but herself aboard.

  The deck’s utter silence made her soft footfalls even sterner. Aileen Stone stood at the prow, awaiting her.

  Nonrich’s breach suits were basically Jetstreams knockoffs.

  Their ships relied on being brutes, and as such were dinosaurs next to the Linda Ann.

  Aileen herself was tall, but Desiree approached her as though the defiant woman were merely a Buford clone.

  Desiree stopped three body lengths away.

  Wind whipped Aileen’s grey hair into her face. She hadn’t bothered tying it back.

  Desiree had. Wind cooled her neck behind her small ponytail.

  “An actual fucking Jetstream,” said Aileen.

  “A Buford flunky with keys to the private elevator,” said Desiree. “What in the absolute lowest fuck did you think you were going to accomplish?”

  “Incorrect,” said Aileen. “Not past progressive. Future continuous. Am going to accomplish.”

  Desiree blew her off. “You are officially and summarily banned from Atlantis, its surrounding waters, and the Blank. Further—and I’m only saying this in deference to Atlantidean governance as a duly commissioned operative of her defense and as a full immigrant within said governance—all personnel aboard your ships are also banned for life. If at any time before the Earth’s destruction or enlightenment you or anyone bound to or affiliated with Nonrich attempt to return, Atlantis will consider that an act of war, I will be thoroughly fucking pissed, and you’d better hope to god I’m either off-planet or one or both of us is dead by then, because I will get my foot so deep in your ass, we’ll live our lives out as conjoined twins. Nod once if you understand and agree with this ‘I’m only going to tell you this once’ end-user license agreement.”

  Aileen nodded.

  “Your charges are murder, accessory to murder, incitement to murder, terrorism, environmental negligence, and violation with intent. I’d give you and your crews life jackets made of chum and tell you to swim for it. Fortunately, I don’t make that call. Thing about folks like you is when shown incredible mercy, you snicker behind your hands. I shouldn’t have to use a fucking spaceship to deal with your petty bullshit. You’re tiresome. You’re unnecessary. I wish to fuck you’d go away, all of you, Nonrich, Thoom, Kosugi, conservative pundits, the NRA, and hipsters who think the word gentrification is artisanal redlining, just leave the Earth. Go someplace else and be fucking miserable without dragging us into it. You send a battlefleet to Atlantis! You’d send panzer units to heaven.”

  “May I interrupt?”

  “No.”

  “I feel I must. You mentioned the
Thoom. Guess who’s currently taken over the Atlantidean capital while you’ve run this mosquito raid against my elephant fucking hide? Try communications.”

  “Yvonne? Raise Shig.”

  Silence for a moment, then “No answer” from Yvonne in the Aerie.

  “Do a flyover,” said Desiree. “Give me visual.”

  “Captain, if I leave you, they’ll attack.”

  Desiree took in the cool smugness of Aileen flipping Stone. “They won’t, will they?” Desiree said.

  “No.”

  “They got me,” Desiree said to Yvonne. “Thoom are fucking up Atlantis. Head out.”

  “Desiree—”

  “Head out, please.”

  “Even my enemies have my phone number,” said Aileen. “It’s how we keep each other honest.”

  “Buford taught you well.”

  Aileen shrugged.

  “I had better teachers,” said Desiree. “Neon, Bobo done?”

  “Yep.”

  “Blow it.”

  A series of underwater explosions rocked the ship so hard, both women struggled to stay on their feet.

  “With the holes I put in this ship,” Desiree said once she had the ocean’s quietude again, “you just might make it back home before you go under. Provided you haul ass. You tried to call mate on me. Okay. You got me. Can you handle me?”

  Aileen said nothing.

  So, they waited, which, considering the circumstances, Desiree thought pretty stupid of the woman.

  After a few minutes of Aileen’s jaw itching to call a manager (as Desiree saw it), Yvonne’s ping came through. Desiree tapped her comm. “Go ahead.”

  “Capital city’s quiet. There’s nobody out. Capitol building’s surrounded by rovers.”

  “A Thoom occupation of the Capitol building,” Desiree informed her.

  “Jesus didn’t just weep,” said Yvonne to this pouring rain, “it was ugly-crying.”

  “This heffa bish here thought we’d have to split forces,” Desiree said directly at heffa bish’s face. “Come back.” She cut the comm.

  “The Thoom have the capital,” said Aileen, as if Desiree hadn’t grasped the severity of the situation.

  “And if I leave them alone, by the end of three days, they’ll all have killed themselves eating cereal.”

  “This isn’t US Thoom. These are elite Thoom.” Then she heard it coming out of her mouth and realized yeah.

  “Yeah,” said Desiree. “Y’know, fuckers like you convince themselves of anything convenience dictates, as if it’s gospel the whole time. Turn around.”

  “I can’t fight.”

  Desiree had read her body language from jump. “Yeah, you can. Turn around or I shoot you. Yeah, I thought so. Hands clasped, feet wide apart. You are hereby under Atlantidean arrest, you stupid fucking Karen; do you understand and accept this reality and its consequences? You say, ‘I do.’”

  “I do.”

  “Consider yourself married to this fate until such time as better judgment divorces you from utter stupidity. You are remanded to the care of the Atlantidean legal system. That’s it for the legalese. Get your ass moving.”

  She led Aileen off the ship and onto the Linda Ann.

  “What is it you want?” Shig asked. He asked a contingent of Thoom, who—in occupying his office and those of his fellow civil servants—branded themselves extreme nuisances. He knew they were Thoom because they’d announced themselves as such.

  “We are the Thoom Protectorate,” their apparent spokesperson had said. Her cheeks, shoulders, and wrists were tattooed in ornate flowery abstracts, placing her as a member of Sip province’s useless elite, a small group responsible for much of the noise behind secessionist movements plaguing Atlantis for years.

  “But Thoom are ‘out there,’” said Shig, meaning the out-Blank world. It didn’t seem right for Atlantis to be so…tawdry. The spokesperson hadn’t been in the mood to answer questions except the one regarding wants.

  “Acknowledgment of Thoom rule across all provinces of Atlantis. That should have been fairly obvious from the way we expertly took advantage of the situation with the outworlders.”

  “I’d assumed as much but imagined there might be more to it,” said Shig. “Citizen polling tends to indicate governance proceeds rather efficiently; I would have thought your rabble intended to improve things in some way? As a minor functionary—”

  “We’ve always found that annoyingly self-effacing. You’re the ruler of Atlantis. Own that!”

  “Ruler is harsh, unnecessary, and inaccurate,” said Shig.

  “This building is hereby occupied by the Thoom Protectorate until further notice. Any attempt to take this building by force will go badly for all.”

  “You’ve set a bad example,” said Shig. “Also, the Jetstreams are likely on their way since they’re not getting communications from me.”

  “Highest on our list is the immediate and permanent expulsion of Jetstreams and all such foreigners to our shores. You have personally allowed them to influence and direct Atlantidean policies for years. By what right?”

  “They make a lot of sense.”

  The spokesperson ticked off responses on fingernails so manicured, they were coiffed. “Heresy. Fallacy. Weakness.”

  “They’ve already routed the invading navy, which no doubt signaled you toward this opportune coup,” said Shig.

  “Say what what?”

  “They are no doubt on their way. Shall we check? You don’t appear to have as much weaponry as a fleet of battleships.”

  “This isn’t how this was supposed to go.”

  “I imagine not. If you’ll permit me to use your communications, since you’ve disabled mine?”

  “To tell them what?”

  “The truth,” he said. Any other option wouldn’t have occurred to him.

  She gestured him over. “Speak your truth, Shigetei Empa.”

  “I will, whoever you are. You haven’t told me your name.”

  “Bickle Reznor.”

  The other Thoom in the room with her visibly crumpled. What idiot gave up a name at the first ask?

  Shig leaned toward her shoulder. “Empa to Quicho.” He waited.

  Nearly immediately, Desiree’s voice came through. “How you doing?”

  “Hostage situation but unharmed. I think they’ve taken the building with sheer numbers, no violence.”

  “So, you essentially have a crowded mall on your hands,” said Desiree. “Demands?”

  “They want to rule.”

  “You seem to do a pretty good job of it.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Who’s leading?”

  “Bickle Reznor.”

  The Atlantidean equivalent of Jesus fucking Christ went up mutedly from the background Thoom.

  “Bickle,” said Desiree. “I’m bringing in the ringleader of this afternoon’s bullshittery. Should be there in about fifteen. Just so you know. Oh, also: there’s a spaceship keeping watch on you. Again, just so you know. I plan to arrest the lot of you when I get there…again, informational…and your surrounding of the building has already led to civil forces surrounding you, so unless you plan to raise families in a municipal building, can I suggest you all get the fuck in your rovers before I get there, go home, and seek psychiatric help. Desiree Quicho, acting captain of the Atlantidean navy and civil amelioration service, out.” The comm ended with the softest of electronic clicks.

  “What do we do?” Bickle said to herself. Herself stared into space, wholly incapable of a useful answer.

  Shig provided one. “Stop fighting wars you have no hope of winning, if winning is even the appropriate word. Don’t be so pointless.” He spoke to the group in his office, ten people of varying ages but all of comfort and privilege. “Are any of you prepared to endure high levels of pain? I can assure you that Captain Quicho will be in an uncharitable mood. Our home faced potential loss, and your first thought was to become a sea of nuisance. There are times I wish I
could force you all to Florida and wall you off.”

  (“Florida?” whispered one of the ten. “Out-Blank reserve for their aged or insane,” said another.)

  “I can’t, however, do that in good conscience, an impediment you should seriously consider experiencing,” said Shig.

  “We won’t be taken so easily; that’s one woman—”

  “Yes, you will! That one woman is why you’ve remained in the shadows till now. Those five are who worry your paltry dreams. To you, clogged by your own noise and idiocy, a handful stand in your way, but that handful is legion! And they have taught me,” Shig said, advancing on her, “a few things about dealing with idiots, and if any single one of you moves upon me, I will snap something, and if you all do, a reminder that you will not leave here unaltered. Now get the fuck out of my office and my building before I arrest every last one of you, impound your rovers, and post all your identities to the feed.”

  (“We didn’t wear masks,” one of them complained.)

  “We didn’t need masks!” flared spokesperson Bickle. “We are the Thoom Protectorate. Has anyone here forgotten what that means? True Humans Over Ordinary Man. Leadership is our birthright.”

  “Over whom?” said Shig. “Because I note a distressing lack of leadership and control over yourselves. You are, at the least, worrisome children throwing tantrums over irrelevancies, at most damaging wastes on the psychological resources of your betters.” Stirring, swelling music entered Shig’s speech, but he ignored it as something one of the Thoom thought of as ironic joke. It was from Star Trek, Shig knew from countless viewings with Milo Jetstream, and usually accompanied one of the show’s captain’s speeches. Here, however, it matched Shig’s ire perfectly. He latched on to its crescendo and continued undaunted. “At some point, you have to realize there. Is. No. War. None that exists outside the boundaries of your petrified minds and the succoring psychosis of your innumerable fears. And what part of you didn’t realize that the forces coming in with battleships—despite alerting you—had nothing in alignment with what you think you want? You were little more than a pebble thrown in an opposite direction to distract the guard. A pebble. A pebble which, as you can see, will go unnoticed in the annals of historical retellings and be shunned as a memory by those within this building right now who desire to truly serve. Madam Reznor, you…are irrelevant.” Shig paused. The music stopped. “Leave. And please know everything I’ve said here will be done. You have been identified. You are officially enemies of the peace. Your crime today: unscheduled interruption of civic affairs. This is only because I have infinitely more important things to deal with. If you test me, I’ll charge you with terrorism, place each of you under total house arrest for the next several years, including your children—and do imagine not being able to leave your house at all, trapped with your children—which includes not going into a yard—imagine your home surrounded by dozens of rovers inhabited by me—for the next several years,” he emphasized. “I shall leave you…as you thought to leave me. Effectively marooned in an emotionally barren house. Buried alive,” he sneered close to her face. “Buried alive.”