The Twiller

by David Derrico

  How an inanimate object managed to convey such a degree of pent-up rage is hard to describe, but anyone who has ever seen a Veraxian starship invariably remarks the same thing.

  This particular Veraxian warship appeared to be in an even worse mood than normal.

  The savagely beweaponed machine slowly crept toward the Anasazi ship, the ship that had had the unmitigated gall—not to mention extremely poor judgement—of being within the same galaxy as an enraged Veraxian starship. As if that weren’t enough, the Anasazi ship had the incredibly unfortunate luck to be that exact shade of bluish green that elicited the very strongest, most visceral hatred from Veraxian warships.

  The upshot of all of this is that the Anasazi were about to have a very bad day.

  With a frenzied rush, the Veraxian ship sped toward the blue-green vessel, smashing into it with its proton battering rams, beating at it with its force generators, and generally harassing it with its ion field emitters. The Anasazi ship shuddered at the assault, seemed to scream in the void of space, and generally appeared to lose a great deal of its resale value.

  It seemed as if the Veraxian ship smiled, just a bit.

  The onslaught continued.

  . . . . .

  What Ian hated most about the attack was the noise. No, actually, it was perhaps the shaking and breaking of things around him that he hated most. But when he really came to think of it, it was in fact the being thrown violently about the room that was the absolute worst part of the whole experience.

  Ian didn’t like that part very much at all.

  He cradled the injured Twiller in his hands, even as his own body was—quite inconsiderately in his opinion—thrown against every solid surface in the room. He wondered if it was some sort of punishment for killing the Anasazi doctor/torturer with a bedpan.

  Abruptly, the noise and the shaking and the being thrown violently about the room all stopped at once. Ian had a few moments to be thankful, before a huge hole was ripped in the wall and what appeared to be a brown leather Barcalounger emerged therefrom.

  “You will come with me,” it said, floating as it did several inches above the ground.

  Ian considered this for a moment. It didn’t look like a particularly comfortable reclining chair, but he didn’t seem to be in a position to be picky. He walked over and tried to sit on the thing.

  A burst of electricity coursed through Ian’s body, and he fell to the ground, dropping the Twiller as he did so. He looked up to find his small marshmallow friend floating inches from his face.

  “Twill,” it said weakly. “Twill twill.”

  Ian considered this for a moment. It made as much sense to him as anything else that had happened so far today.

  “Okay,” he said, struggling to his feet. “I’ll walk.”

  He followed the Barcalounger into the gaping hole.

  . . . . .

  The Veraxian ship was somehow even more bizarre to Ian than the previous one, and also a good deal more mean. What struck Ian first (quite literally) was the fact that the hallways were lined with rows of unhealthy-looking spikes. Why this was, Ian could not possibly imagine. It just seemed like a pointlessly mean thing to do.

  The Barcalounger hovered before him, leading him into the ship. It turned a corner and directed Ian into a small cell.

  “Get in.”

  Seeing as how the cell didn’t look much more uncomfortable than the hallways, Ian obliged, squeezing past his captor and snagging his shirt in the process.

  The cell door slammed solidly closed, and Ian for some reason felt reassured that the Twiller had managed to follow him in. It looked at him questioningly.

  “What is it you want?” Ian asked, feeling as if he already knew the answer.

  “Tw—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. ‘Twill.’ That is what you were going to say, right?”

  The Twiller lowered its large eyes to the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” Ian apologized, feeling like quite the cad. “I know it’s not your fault. But since we seem to be stuck together, we should find some way to communicate.”

  The Twiller seemed to nod, doing so by hovering its entire body up and down.

  “Very good, then. How about one ‘twill’ for yes and two for no?”

  “Twill.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Twill.”

  Ian considered this for a moment. “Are you saying yes?”

  “Twill.”

  “I need to ask some better questions, don’t I?”

  “Twill.”

  Ian sighed. “Okay. Are we trapped together in a cell?”

  “Twill.”

  “Twill. Yes, good. Now, are we going to be able to escape anytime soon?”

  “Twill twill.”

  “No. Very good.” Ian thought for a moment. “No, that’s actually not very good at all, now is it? In fact, I might go so far as to say that it is the exact opposite of good. I might even go so far as to say that it is distinctly bad.”

  “Twill.”

  “Right.” Ian slumped down on the ground, wincing as he did so. The ground was rough and uneven, and, seeing as how it was inside an alien spaceship and not some naturally occurring structure, Ian could only assume that this was quite intentional.

  “I don’t think I quite like our new captors any more than I did our old ones,” Ian mused, looking around the tiny cell and its painfully spiked walls. He wondered what sorts of horrible things they planned to do to his person. He wondered if they had any cucumber sandwiches, and if they might perhaps give him one. Looking around his cell, he guessed no on both counts.

  Ian felt a sudden disorientation as the Veraxian ship surged to incredible speed. Though he did not know it at the time, he was going considerably faster than the speed of light. In fact, the speed of light seems downright pokey once one has traveled in a Veraxian starship. Within a few minutes, the ship had stopped, and the door to Ian’s cage opened.

  “Follow me,” intoned the Barcalounger, hovering in the open doorway. “Time to meet your maker.”

  . . . . .

  Ian trudged down a series of spiked hallways, finally emerging from the ship into a spacious hangar. Immediately, an unthinkable range of sights, sounds, and smells assailed him from all directions. It was mostly the smells that caught his attention at first. He doubled over and threw up on the rocky ground.

  “Keep moving,” said the Barcalounger, leading him into the chaos.

  The spaceport roiled with a raucous blend of the galaxy’s seediest inhabitants. Tentacled ospregi led groups of furry tripedal creatures on short leashes. Google-eyed Miraxians slimed their way across the ground, leaving nauseating trails of goo in their wake. Ephemeral light-beings clustered by the ceiling, unmoving, but intensely bright. They hovered above Ian, forming a regularly spaced web of geometric simplicity. Ian at once believed them to be the most amazing and advanced species he had ever seen.

  Upon further reflection, Ian hazarded that they were actually light bulbs.

  Ian spun around to find the Twiller hovering behind him, and only peripherally realized how odd it was that he was comforted by the relatively familiar sight of an alien being, especially one that bore such a strong resemblance to a marshmallow Peep.

  He looked around at his surroundings. The walls seemed to be made of rock, and appeared to be a natural cavern of some kind, some great underground depression with short corridors leading off into separate chambers. It was into one of these chambers that he was being led.

  As he shuffled forward into the chamber, Ian approached a large tent set off in the corner of a poorly lit cavern of some kind. A smallish creature stood outside the tent, skittering excitedly at their approach.

  “I see you have a new toy for me,” the creature exclaimed. “Let me see. Let me see!”

  Ian jerked back as the creature leapt toward him, probing and feeling him with furry appendages and occasionally licking him with a sandpapery tongue. Ian recoiled in horror before realizing t
hat the hairy creature did not seem to mean him any harm.

  “How much?” it asked.

  The Barcalounger seemed to consider this for a moment. “Fifteen,” it replied.

  The furry creature did a somersault. “Fifteen? Are you kidding? I’ve used better species as food for my performers!”

  If it was possible, the Barcalounger seemed to blush. “Very well. Ten.”

  “Ten! Extortion—simply extortion. But I’m in a rather good mood today. And I’ve never seen one quite like it.” The creature felt Ian’s leg once again. “I’ll take it.”

  “Very good,” replied the Barcalounger, and it floated away.

  Ian stood silent, staring wide-eyed at his new owner. “Are you ready to meet your maker?” it squealed.

  . . . . .

  Ian followed the creature into the tent, which was dark and smelled violently of a college frat house. The space underneath the tent was divided into hallways and rooms, and Ian followed the little creature into a doorway to the right that opened into what appeared to be an office. A small pool of light illuminated one corner of the room, and Ian hesitatingly stepped toward it.

  “Turn around,” came a voice, deep and resonant, loud and apparently emanating from all directions at once. “Turn around so that I may see you.”

  Ian did as he was told, wondering as he did what his maker was doing in a smelly tent in a foul corner of a teeming spaceport.

  A tall figure strode into the edge of the light, its features cloaked behind a heavy hooded robe. It reached out a thin, bony hand toward Ian.

  “Nice to meet you,” it said. “I’m Yore Mayker.” It proffered its hand for Ian to shake. “What should I call you?”

  . . . . .

  It took Ian some time to come to grips with the extraordinary things that had just happened to him—fifteen years, to be exact. So, it is not surprising that, ten minutes after these ordeals, Ian was still shaken rather badly.

  “How do you feel?” inquired the furry creature.

  Ian gazed around thoughtfully for a moment. “I feel rather badly shaken,” he replied.

  “Very good, very good,” squealed the creature, which had introduced itself as Stan. “I’m sure you will be very happy here.”

  “Right,” Ian agreed. “And where, um, exactly is ‘here’?”

  Stan giggled so hard it did a somersault. “The Harmrinkle Spaceport. And this is Yore Mayker’s Circus of the Bizarre.”

  “Ah,” said Ian, slumping down onto a dirty mattress. “We’re in New York, then.”

  Stan ignored the comment. “In fact, you are set to perform tonight.”

  “Yes, yes,” Ian said. “Whatever.”

  He thought about this for a moment. “No,” he added, “actually what I in fact meant to say was no. No, I will not be performing tonight. No, I’m quite sure I don’t like the sound of that one bit.”

  If it was possible, Stan became even more excited by this news. “How wonderful, how wonderful! I’m sure you will put on a truly phenomenal show.” It leaned in toward Ian and whispered conspiratorially. “I understand we have a live fohrwurt tonight!”

  With these last words, Stan became so overcome by ecstasy that it ran, hopping, from the room.

  Ian looked down to his grime-streaked hands and tattered clothing. The Twiller still hung silently in the air. Though he wasn’t totally sure at the time, he guessed quite correctly that his marshmallow friend looked profoundly nervous.

  . . . . .

  Ian awoke to a rough tongue licking his ankles. He skittered off the mattress in disgust.

  Stan bobbed enthusiastically before him.

  “You’re on! You’re on!” it screamed.

  “I’ll take a rain check,” Ian promised, and flopped back onto the bed.

  “Come now, come now,” the little fuzzball squealed. “I’m so excited I could almost explode.”

  Ian considered this for a moment, unsure if the repulsive little creature was speaking literally or not. “What exactly am I supposed to do? Go out and entertain a bunch of aliens or something?”

  Stan rubbed its hands together impishly. “Oh yes, yes. Something of the very sort.” It hopped, trying in vain to reach high enough to grab Ian’s hand. “Come, come.”

  Ian shrugged and followed Stan out of the room. Perhaps they would let him sleep after his performance.

  “Through here,” squealed the little creature, and pointed past a curtained doorway. It rolled around excitedly on the ground. “Good luck.”

  “Whatever.” Ian stepped through the doorway.

  Immediately, a bright light assailed his eyes. A thunderous roar came from an assembled crowd that he could not see. It mostly sounded like the Green Bay Packers all clearing their throats simultaneously.

  “And in this corner,” boomed a voice, “from the faraway and exotic world of Nowhere-6, comes a being so bizarre, so repulsive, and so hideously frightful that it has already been banned from most civilized sectors of the galaxy. Only through procuring a series of expensive permits were we able to bring it to you tonight …”

  Ian blinked rapidly, his eyes finally adjusting. A spotlight shone in his face, and he covered his eyes to find that he was in the center of an arena, surrounded on three sides by an audience and—now, wait just a moment. Actually, let’s address the audience in a bit more detail. To call the range of beings surrounding Ian diverse or bizarre would be an affront to either word. To say that Ian was shocked or horrified would hardly do his reaction justice. All that can be said is that Ian immediately threw up, and felt much better, until he looked at his own vomit and back to the audience and back to his vomit and his head began swimming so that he could not really tell one from the other.

  In any event, the voice, which Ian had mostly ignored, rose to a crescendo, and stopped. The audience became even louder, sounding like, I don’t know, the entire National Football League all clearing their throats simultaneously. Or something. It really was quite hard to describe.

  Emerging from a large, sturdy cage at the far end of the arena was a creature that reminded Ian most of his third-grade teacher, if his third-grade teacher had been an immense alien being with slavering fangs and cruel, razor-sharp talons and a craving for human flesh. The monster sniffed the air for a moment, and bounded toward Ian.

  Ian, calling on the keen instinctual awareness that had served to keep him alive up to that point, peed in his pants.

  The monster froze as if it had slammed into a wall. Its massive, hairy nose worked frantically, and several of its eyes began to tear with a viscous, green-gray liquid. It raised back its head, bellowed defiantly, and collapsed to the ground, dead.

  The audience went absolutely bonkers.

  . . . . .

  Soon Ian found himself back in the presence of Yore Mayker. “Very impressive,” its booming voice pronounced. “That was quite a victory. What do you call that devastating fighting tactic you used?”

  Ian was nonplussed. “The throwing up? Or the pissing?”

  Yore Mayker looked impressed. “Well, if you could defeat the fohrwurt so handily, I don’t really see how you could be of any use to our show. And this battle tactic—this ‘the throwing up or the pissing,’ it could be dangerous.” The tall being sighed. “I suppose I will have to let you go.”

  “Does that mean I can go home?” Ian asked hopefully. “I think I may have left the gas on.”

  Yore Mayker appeared to ponder his question for a moment. “I suppose you could,” its voice echoed, “if you could find someone willing to take you back to Nowhere-6. That whole sector has been defrumped by the Halfragian Empire.”

  Ian rubbed his temples. “I—I don’t know what that means.”

  “Good luck,” said Yore Mayker, and left.

  * * * * *

  Part II

  Ian stumbled through the spaceport, the Twiller close behind him. Every being he passed stared at him curiously. Or perhaps they simply looked curious, and Ian assumed they were staring. Sever
al of them did not appear to have eyes. And several had so many eyes that they seemed to look in every direction at once, including at Ian. Ian resolved to find a drink, and quickly.

  A loud commotion to one side of the spaceport caught his eye, and Ian instinctually stumbled toward the cantina, stepping over several patrons on the way to the bar.

  The bartender, a wide-bodied Hammorian, seemed intent on ignoring Ian’s pleas for attention. He somberly realized he had forgotten to bring his wallet. Or, more accurately, he had been abducted, and his captors had not even had the common decency to allow him to fetch his wallet first.

  A stocky alien at the stool next to him tapped him on the shoulder. “Having trouble?” it asked.

  “Yes,” Ian replied immediately. “I do seem to be having quite a great deal of trouble.” He sighed. “I could use a rather stiff drink,” he added to himself.

  The creature seemed to size Ian up. “Yes, you certainly could.” It proffered a stubby hand. “My name is D-von.”

  Ian shook the hand, trying to hide his disgust at the alien. D-von turned to the bar and snapped his fingers, bringing the bartender over. D-von said something that Ian could not hear, and the Hammorian looked taken aback. D-von repeated his order, and the large bartender sauntered back and started pouring a pair of drinks.

  Ian turned to his new friend. “What did you order?” he asked resignedly.

  “Don’t you worry about that,” he insisted. “It’s the good stuff.”

  Ian shrugged. He absent-mindedly noticed that the Twiller had hovered over to a pool of beer on the bar and appeared to be drinking from it.

  Presently the bartender returned, carrying two tiny thimblefuls of some bubbling, aromatic liquid. He held them at arm’s length and placed them on the bar with trepidation.

  Ian looked to D-von, who eyed the drinks warily, as if they were about to leap off the bar and go for his throat. He took a deep breath and offered one of the thimbles to Ian.

  “That’s it?” he asked. “I thought I told you I needed a rather stiff drink.”

  D-von looked at him incredulously, mouth agape. “Have you ever heard of a Supernova?”