Metamorphosis Alpha 2

by Craig Martelle

  The flame throwing robot withstood the hellish streams of blue fire from Lawrence better than the previous three. A ceramic heat shield provided it an additional full second before its metal began sagging under its weight.

  With a portion of the creature drooping between and down the sides of the J9’s lift rails, the monstrosity felt something else. Something filled the space under the portion of its body suspended by the other robot.

  Lawrence adjusted the projector sphincters and expelled another stream of white hot destruction. The bots lower portion enjoyed the protection of the thing’s raised flesh held above the deck, the upper half of the robot received the blast and turned into strings of dripping liquid.

  Travis was not afraid. He knew he should be, but he was on the deck, well connected to Ward who quickly and soothingly talked him through the task at hand.

  The portion of flesh above Travis began a slow but accelerating descent as the destroyed robot continued to melt.

  Travis excreted a three-inch swath of plasteel beginning from the center area where the flesh first contacted the deck. He meticulously continued placing plasteel below the next area of the tissue rolling to the deck. The pattern was: watch, wait, apply plasteel, withdraw and repeat. The plan depending on timing. Travis hoped to be completely out from under the giant blob as the last edge of it reached the deck.

  He made it. Making himself as flat as possible, Travis moved past the burned-out ruins of the J9.

  ***

  Law wasn’t moving. His natural, oozing ripples failed to inch him forward. In fact, something held him back. Assessing the situation, Law reversed his direction.

  Ah. It felt good to move.

  Now, something else was wrong. As Law moved backward, the middle of his body bunched, then rose against the immobile rear section.

  And that niggling thing kept tingling his underside as the unknown annoyance tried to communicate.

  Law moved forward until his body flattened as much as possible. Next, he tried moving forward with all his might. Tugging against the potion that refused to budge.

  Out of options, hunger growing, Law resorted to a desperate measure. Extending his sphincters far enough below to raise the center of his body, he aimed them toward the retarded rear section and executed a fairly minor blast.

  “OW!” Law said as the heat seared, then boiled his blubbery, mushy flesh.

  He moved forward again. “You piece of shit!” he exclaimed with a more intensive fart from hell.

  The offending flesh burned away, and the angry Law finally inched forward toward the next pedestal holding a small morsel.

  The damage portion of Law boiled, steamed, ignited and evaporated leaving a four-foot long, seven-inch gap in his body. The body began to close the gap, and before he reached the top of the next pedestal, it was a charred scar.

  Law’s hunger grew to an insane level. The area he burned away needed to be replaced immediately. He was smaller, not bigger. This awareness weighed heavily with Lawrence.

  ***

  Travis watched Law’s struggle to move. It appeared a job well done – at first.

  When the ridge on the creature’s back arched upward, Travis unconsciously shrank farther away.

  It looked to Travis like the plasteel held tight.

  The area beneath the ridge flashed bluish-green along the glued streak holding the beast in place. A horrible smelling stink steamed then bubbled from the jellyfish-like flesh.

  Travis stared in amazement as Law’s dried charred flesh parted.

  The flame stopped. The crew-killing thing inched forward as the split flesh reformed leaving a scar.

  Travis looked more closely.

  Ha, he thought. The plasteel held fast. A layer of incinerated Lawrence Astrides Smith meat still attached.

  “Well, that could have gone better,” Ward said.

  “My plasteel held,” Travis said proudly.

  Ward said absently, “Why, yes it did. Never doubted that.”

  After a pause, he said, as much to himself as to Travis, “The real question is how are going to stop our friend Lawrence from murdering the entire population of humans on board?”

  “Whatever we do,” Travis said, “it needs doing fast. Lawrence, and I don’t think he knows we are his friends, is eating another one of us.”

  “His fire is very hot, Travis,” Ward said, more thinking aloud than a directed communication.

  While Ward became quiet to process and analyze, Travis thought about hot fires. He knew how to put out a normal fire, but this was no normal fire. Failing a creative solution, Travis drifted in thought about what protected him from fire.

  “Here’s an idea,” Travis said.

  Ward did not respond.

  “Ward, I have an idea,” Travis said again.

  “What?” Ward responded.

  “That time when you had me re-glue the skin on one of our shuttles, remember?” Travis asked, then added, “You said I made it better than new. Remember?”

  Since it was impossible for Ward to forget anything he replied, “Yes, Travis, I remember.”

  “Well,” Travis responded both excited and cautious, “Could we get some of that and put it on the Lawrence?”

  Ward paused.

  “Travis, you are a genius. Your CAS-9 protocol should not allow for this but you dream, and you shouldn’t do that either.”

  Any praise was new to Travis.

  “We have a new plan.” Ward said and added, “You keep an eye on Lawrence until I get back.”

  While Travis did not have any eyes in the traditional human sense, he still knew what Ward meant. He dutifully stayed behind Lawrence, moving slowly to keep a steady distance.

  It pained Travis to watch. Each time the monster topped a pedestal to flame and drain another crewman, Travis felt very sad. Sadness became anger, and Travis wanted to do something. A group of J9 robots floated in carrying an array of shaped freshly printed sheets of carbon-carbon3.

  Vehicles entering an atmosphere must distribute heat or suffer damage, even destruction. In the pioneer days of reentry vehicles, they tested many kinds of metals and tiles. Some were ruled out simply because of weight, others because of brittleness. Ceramic tiles worked initially but became costly as they required replacement after sheltering the vehicle until it landed. The later stages saw the development of carbon-carbon tiles. Made from the sand of pure quartz, these tiles were relatively light and transmitted heat so poorly, a human could hold the corner of a six-inch by six-inch tile while its center glowed red hot. Carbon-carbon was the ticket for many years.

  With the advent of Jupiter’s Tears Diamonds, common as rain drops during massive Jovian storms, diamonds became so pure and so plentiful their value dropped and, before the departure of the Starship Warden, were widely used commercially. As their use evolved, someone realized they could be ground into sand and replace quartz in making heat tiles. Consequently, testing revealed the new carbon-carbon3 tiles continued to work at up to eight thousand degrees centigrade.

  The robots moved to an area in the cabin’s center aisle, two pedestals ahead on Lawrence’s grazing trail and began placing and interlocking sections of carbon-carbon3 on the floor.

  Travis watched in awe at the precision of their movements as Ward provided him directions.

  As the robots completed the assembly of a square section of tile large enough to fit Lawrence, Travis moved forward and began gluing the sections together. Next, the robots held side panels in place around the perimeter of the square while Travis glued.

  Lawrence finished the treat from the nearest pedestal and began moving to the next.

  A smaller, lower to the floor robot, faster than the J9s flew across Lawrence’s intended path. Powdery dust reflected as it shifted downward.

  ***

  Law felt weak. There was not enough nourishment in these morsels. He needed to grow.

  As a portion of the outer ring of suckers touched down, he tasted pure food. The excitement leve
l made his body shiver, and on its own, it changed course, following the trail of powerful flavor. Pure magnesium and potassium. Law never felt anything like it. It was wonderful. He felt light and content.

  He followed the trail of metal over a short ledge and found himself in a virtual sandbox of chemicals. Law discovered a banquet of ingredients.

  So-focused on the pleasure of consuming the delicious metals, Law did not notice a large lid placed atop his sandbox, nor did he notice the occasional movements and sounds as the box’s edges were sealed.

  After some time, Law realized his bulk expanded against the sides of the sandbox. When the chemicals were consumed and experiencing digestive processing, Law moved. Well, he tried to move. There was no room.

  Coming down from the food-fest high, he realized he was trapped.

  He felt something else. He wasn’t moving, but the box was.

  Law did not like this. He flexed some muscles to blast his way out.

  The fire hit the floor immediately.

  Things weren’t right.

  The tissue around the sphincters heated up as if it were cooking.

  Trying again, he intensified the feeling of being in an oven.

  Law inverted his sphincters and, with barely any room at all, projected them from his topside.

  He released a powerful burst meant to burn through anything. It was as long and as hot as he could make it. Even though the heat around him seared his flesh and caused it to boil near the sphincters, Law felt less pressure and knew he lost size.

  He stopped and used his suction cups to search for an escape, any escape.

  Ward allowed Travis to open the bay doors. After all, it was Travis’ idea.

  The large black box of carbon-carbon3 and its contents drifted into space.

  Author Steve Peek

  First cousins, Steve and Pat Conroy’s families often shared their grandmother’s big house in Atlanta. Both wanted to be writers. Pat became a literary lion by the time he was thirty. Steve began writing semi-seriously in the 1980s. Now, for better or for worse, he writes full time.

  Steve traveled extensively and explored histories and myths of peoples and places all over the world. He loves all things ancient, mysterious and digs deep into lore and enigmas for his subjects.

  Difficult to classify his books, they are always reviewed as unique and fresh storylines with believable characters. Often, he can’t help sprinkling a touch of humor in an otherwise serious scene.

  He loves animals, especially birds and loves to sit and watch them at the feeders when his dogs allow it.

  He appreciates the magic of life and the interconnection of all things.

  He would like to hear from you via steve peek author on Facebook, Steve’s Amazon page, or jstephenpeek@gmail.com

  The Hunt

  By Thomas J. Rock

  “Dartmuth has seen the specter of death and it will soon overtake him…He asks for a confessor.”

  The Shaman stood in front of the dying man’s hut, looking over the crowd that had gathered. He could see the mix of emotions of their faces; the sorrow, the grief, and for some, relief. Some said the elder had been consumed by madness long before now, clinging to fairy tales. Though, he had limited decision-making power in the tribe, in recent years, some still held Dartmuth in the highest regard among the tribal elders. If the healers hadn’t heard Dartmuth’s request for a confessor, the Shaman would have spat and let the old man die so he would leave the tribe in peace.

  A child doesn’t deserve this burden.

  The Shaman held his arms outstretched wide with his tribal staff held high in the air, demanding everyone’s attention.

  “Elaira!” The Shaman saw shocked looks fall upon the faces before him. It was unheard of for anyone but a parent to summon a child as their confessor when death was upon them. To summon a child, not of your bloodline, as an elder, was heresy.

  “Elaira! Step forward.”

  A girl, who had been sitting in silent prayer, looked up. Her eyes swollen with sadness. The ends of her long, golden hair clung to her tears on her cheeks.

  The Shaman held out his hand and beckoned her to him.

  The girl stood slowly, not bothering to brush the hair from her face. She was young and fit. Her body just starting to show the signs she would soon be able to bear children. She was also a promising apprentice hunter, the Shaman remembered. Encouraged by Dartmuth to follow her dead father’s path.

  The irony is cruel, he thought.

  She carefully stepped around those still on the ground, in prayer. Others, standing around her, exchanged a mixture shock and confusing looks at her and each other. As the girl made her way through the maze of people, someone grabbed her arm.

  “No!” He said. It was one of the other apprentice hunters she’d been learning with.

  She shot him an angry glare.

  The Shaman pointed his staff. “She has been summoned. She must go.”

  The boy hesitated for a moment. Elaira pulled her arm free, with a grunt. Her glare was like fire. She let it linger for an extra moment before turning to the Shaman.

  He took her by the hand, bringing her in close. He hugged her, lovingly stroking her hair. She buried her face in the ceremonial skins that draped off of his shoulders.

  “Child,” the Shaman said, “You should go. Elder Dartmuth will be with the lifeless spirit soon. As his chosen confessor, what he will say is meant for you and you alone, but be mindful. His wounds are deep and he’s burning with fever. He may not make sense. But know he asked to share his final moments with you. This time should be cherished.”

  The girl, Elaira, looked up, wiping more tears from her face. Her glassy, tear-filled eyes, asked: What should I do?

  The Shaman returned her gaze: You should go.

  Without another word, Elaira turned and disappeared behind the bearskin pelt that covered the entry into the hut.

  ***

  Elaira stopped when the pelt had fallen and spread back out behind her. The hut was dark, save for a single torch at the far side of the room. The last flickers of flame were dying out just as her elder…her friend…was. Long shadows were cast across the ground in front of her by the dozens of bowls, and heaps of skins scattered about. The air was a cacophony of odors, pungent and piercing. The healers must have desperately tried all they knew to save Dartmuth from the coming of death.

  She saw Dartmuth on the cot, covered with pelts. He didn’t move.

  No…No!

  She ran to the cot, kicking over bowls and the mixtures inside them. The dying torchlight danced on the old man’s tired face. The scent of the healer’s salves and pastes that were smeared all over Dartmuth assaulted her senses.

  The man’s face was marred with deep cuts and scratches from cougaroid claws. His eyes were closed and he appeared totally at peace. More tears ran down her face. Dartmuth, the man that treated her as his own child after her father was killed by cougaroids, when she was very young, had suffered the same fate. He now walked hand-in-hand with the death spirit and she’d missed her chance to say goodbye.

  She laid her head on the pelts covering his body and wept quietly. Her thoughts flooded with one question: Why? Why? Why!

  Then she felt it. A gentle hand on the back of her head.

  “Elaira…” The voice was weak and raspy.

  She looked up, startled, and found old, familiar eyes looking back at her. Elaira couldn’t contain her joy. She draped her body over his and held him, weeping again.

  “Why…Why were you…” She struggled to find her words. “You know it’s forbidden!”

  The old man groaned as he shifted his body under the girl’s weight. She saw his struggle and pulled herself back.

  Dartmuth spoke softly. “I know it’s forbidden. I was the one…who told you, wasn’t I?”

  The girl found herself chuckling which brought a weak smile to her dying friend’s face.

  “My time was nearly at an end, regardless of what happened to me.” He coug
hed. “I had to know if it was true.”

  Elaira was confused. “What?”

  The man reached for a waterskin on the ground near the cot. Elaira helped him pick it up and put the spout to his lips. Most of the water ran down the side of his mouth but he managed to get a couple of swallows.

  “Please…listen,” he said. “I’m going to tell you something you must never forget and pass on to someone before you cross over.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Please!” He groaned again, putting his hand on the skins that covered his abdomen. “As my confessor, you must listen and follow my wishes.”

  She stared at him, blankly, for a long moment. The anguish on his face was unbearable to look at, but after everything he’d done for her, she owed him at least this much.

  “Yes. Yes, I will!”

  His breathing became more labored. “When I was still an apprentice, I was told a story about The Forbidden Place.”

  Elaira wondered if she should even be listening. It was taboo to even speak of wastes to the north. The Forbidden Place.

  “There is a lost tribe there.”

  She shook her head. “No. We know the forefathers were wiped out by the Rain of Fire.”

  “Yes…The last wondered out of wastes, long after they were thought to have left us, and was found by one of our own tribe generations ago—” He started coughing again.

  Elaira tried to offer him the waterskin, but he pushed it away.

  “He spoke of a lost tribe the Forefathers encountered after the Rain of Fire, after the people became sick and the lands began to wither.”

  The girl was shocked. “Where did they come from?”

  Dartmuth winced, wrapping his arms around his abdomen.

  Elaira wanted desperately to make the pain go away. She tried to straighten the soft pelts that covered her friend. When she pulled her hand back, it was stained red, in the torchlight.

  His wounds were pulling open from the strain

  “Help—”

  “No!”