Milky Way Marmalade

by Mike DiCerto

  * * * *

  The rear courtyard of Geldersnaps and Hoo's filled a two-acre lot overgrown with sturdy, smelly weeds. A stony path followed the crest of the hillside and led into the well-kept stable built under the protective watch of two arching porker elms. Yin, Poe and Violet entered through the portico, Violet's hand lingering around her pistol as her eyes adjusted to the murky sunlight. Yin's nose poked at the air as the musky smell of the zebadoos surrounded them. Poe 33, who had already quietly scanned ahead, entered without concern.

  The powerful yet good-tempered beasts had stripes of soft dandelion and pleasing lilac. Large wings, folded at their sides like those of mallards, gave the creatures the ability to fly and glide at great altitudes and over tremendous distances—a skill aiding greatly in the species’ survival and evolution. There was also the matter of the double anal orifices, not only used for the disposal of excrement but also for the emission of the impossible volume of gas produced in their six stomachs. Often used in flight for a jet-propelled boost, the afterburner effect of its flatulence allowed the zebadoo to reach cruising speeds of near one hundred kilometers an hour.

  Violet stroked the neck of the nearest animal, which was feasting from the large bails of red straw. Poe 33 studied it.

  "Rather handsome creatures. I recall a farmhand I met on the chilly and rather lonely planet of Revpert II who was rather fond of a creature much like the zebadoo. He cared for the animal so dearly he often spent the long, cold evenings huddled up close to it. In the nude, if I recall correctly. He said the color of his clothing often frightened the poor animal."

  "How thoughtful of him,” Violet retorted with a roll of her eyes.

  "I thought so,” agreed Poe

  "Poe?” Yin asked as he sniffed a fresh and steaming pile of zebadoo poop. “Do you know what an Horatio-stick is?"

  "Nay, dear Bopple,” Poe 33 admitted off-handedly.

  Violet took the metal rod from her pocket and handed it to the Portsmith. Yin explained the simple yet exotic form of communication.

  "Etched somewhere on that bar is a line, mere atoms in width. The decimal number of the ratio of the length of the right side to the left is the coded message—each digit corresponding to a letter in an alphabet. In this case—the Plethorian standard alphabet."

  "Well! Beat me with a chair and call me Marvin! I guess even the great Poe 33 can learn something new!” exclaimed the android as he scanned the surface of the bar. “I have identified the etched line ... calculating the ratio ... now I am transposing the digits for letters. I have the message. Shall I speak it aloud?"

  Violet rubbed her temples in frustration. “No, Poe, walk to Hogsville and scream from a mountaintop."

  She grabbed the android by the shoulder before he could take his second step toward the door. The android cleared some static from his vocal unit then spoke the message.

  "'Dear comrades in harmony, I pray this message finds you in good health. O.T.H.E.R spies have identified a nest of O.D.O.R Fly Craft gathering at the foothills of the Potbelly Mountains in southern Butterborough. We fear an imminent invasion of the neighboring world of Polksava followed by the inevitable extraction. Despite the fact that Polksava is a planet of accordionists and pan flutists, we must hold true to the O.T.H.E.R ideal and protect their love of music, no matter how annoying and repetitive it may be.’”

  Yin chuckled delightedly. “Must have been written by Vanderplum! What a card!” He was so pleased he lifted his hind leg and ripped another doggie fart.

  The android continued: “'Seven O.T.H.E.R platoons are gathering. The eighth was swallowed, tragically, by the giant lamb of Bartsmington'—bloody bad break,” commented Poe. “’ ... We stand on solid foundations of lyricism. Victory is near. Signed, your brother in harmony, Captain Ennison Vanderplum.’”

  "I knew it!” chortled Yin, slapping his paw to his tush.

  "There is a postscript,” Poe 33 said. He paused, even more theatrically. “'P.S. The Portsmith may be able to open a portal to Nefarious's dimension in the Chapel of Bombadillo, which is located in the heart of the Forest of Medieval Stereotypes. If he is adept and capable.’”

  "Adept and capable of what?” Yin wondered. “What else does it say?"

  "That is the end of the message. What denomination is the Chapel of Bombadillo?” Poe 33 asked.

  Yin parked his bum and recounted. “I believe it was built by the Order of the Spayrigicloons,” he explained. “They were masters of hyper-dimensional rendering and mystical mathematical sketching. I believe they also make terrific brandy."

  "That is what I feared,” said Poe, dropping his head sadly, “Although I was taught in the ancient and pompously esoteric techniques of using multi-dimensional sketches to alter the fabric of space-time, it involved a necessarily intimate connection with my Master."

  Violet exchanged a look with Yin and bit her lip. A definite wash of jealousy had filled the Portsmith's face. She tried a little soothing.

  "Sorry, Poe, old chap, but Caffrey may be capable."

  "I am nothing but the excrement of universal potential."

  "We love you, Poe,” Violet insisted, kissing the android on the cheek.

  "You are a giant amongst androids,” Yin defended. “However, if Caffrey can pull off a miracle in the old chapel, perhaps the seven other O.T.H.E.R divisions can be put to better use."

  And he smiled as a plan filled his powerful little mind.

  * * * *

  Yin and Violet briefed Caffrey on the news, then Yin explained his plan. They would fly the zebadoos out of Heddington to avoid disclosure to O.D.O.R by the electronic signature of The Moby Dick. Caffrey would make an attempt to breech the dimensional walls at the Chapel of Bombadillo, and if it was opened the O.T.H.E.R fleet would enter and destroy Nefarious and all would live happily ever after.

  Of course, Caffrey could just as easily fail, the destruction of additional music-loving worlds would continue and his life would fall further down the path of misery and utter annoyance.

  Caffrey decided to remain optimistic. He ordered another round and toasted O.T.H.E.R, the Spayrigicloons as well as walnuts, Yin's feet and the day after June seventeenth.

  Yin and Violet negotiated a price with Trillaka for rental of the zebadoos then returned to the barn to ready the flying mammals and gather supplies. Poe 33 sat at a corner table alone, and Greppledick decided to step out front for some air—but only after promising he wouldn't search for ways to get killed.

  There was something gnawing at Caffrey's gut. He'd learned, through his vast travels and interspecies communications that it was wise to keep his gnawing gut under close observation. Much like the sneaking suspicions that had crept into his being over the years, the tingle in his belly oft told great truths. As he sat at the musty, moss-coated stone bar beside Violet, his mind processed and pondered the implications of an army preparing to invade the Dimension of Nefarious Wretch.

  Armies, as is their main function, tended to leave death and destruction in their wake. It was simply the nature of their craft. How, he wondered, would this impact the direct instructions of the L'Orange? An instruction to transmute, not destroy, Nefarious?

  The effects of the Ainsberry and the boisterous atmosphere of Geldersnaps & Hoo's made directing his thoughts to the L'Orange impossible. Perhaps something would come knocking on the front door of his unconscious mind, like his uncle had to his parents’ B&B all those years ago, and present a solution. He cleared his head of his concerns and smiled winningly at Violet.

  "So, any chance you'll pay Mum a visit while you're down here?"

  "Not likely. She's dead. Sort of."

  "Sort of? Maybe we should match her up with Greppledick."

  Violet stared down into the remains of her drink. “I would really rather not discuss my mother. Bad enough I have to face her in every reflection."

  "Got your looks from Mum's side, did ya?"

  "Down to the birthmarks."

  "Serious?"

  Violet
's face churned with emotions. It seemed as though she really wanted to get something off her chest. She made a few failed attempts to speak, but something inside continually pulled her mouth closed. Caffrey noticed it and decided to throw caution to the breeze.

  "You can expose whatever's on your chest to me."

  "Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

  "No. I mean, yes. I mean, that's not what I meant."

  She smiled quickly then took a deep breath, as if fighting the urge to barf from the stink around her.

  "I'm my own mother."

  "You mean that figuratively, I assume?"

  "No. I am physically, literally, my own mother."

  Caffrey had the misfortune of having dated women with serious issues before. There was one, for instance, living on Avenue B and Seventh Street who feared she was starting to look just like her pet iguana. There had been a handful of drinking excesses, eating disorders, drug problems, maniacal ex-boyfriends and various other understandable examples of damaged goods. Yet, even compared to the sexy tri-ped of Bijora that had been morphing into the brain-eating creature stage of its four-phase existence, Violet had all the signs of damaged in the design.

  He studied her face. She held firm to her serious expression. This was no tongue-in-cheek head game. Caffrey's questioning face precluded the need to ask for an explanation.

  "It's kind of confusing,” she began.

  "I would have never imagined.” Caffrey couldn't resist one last pinch of sarcasm.

  "I will hit you,” Violet promised.

  He nodded apologetically, silently agreeing to let her talk.

  "I was living on Tereka 4. Fifty years ago."

  "How old are you—I'm sorry. Go on."

  "I got called on an assignment to Jull. I was in the middle of writing my thesis on the Revolutionary Tendencies of Phosphorescent Civilizations. The Jullians, a species of luminescent crimson land clams, were taking it to the streets. They were all riled up over legislation that would have made it illegal to flash the natural lights of their bellies in public unless they were attempting to procreate. All artistic or non-reproductive-oriented flashing was to be banned. Planetary security was the reason given."

  "It usually is,” said Caffrey.

  "Anyway, I couldn't miss the chance to see the subject of my paper come alive in a real, historical incident. I rented a Dek-Star Chaser 2000 and headed off to Jull. Alone. Somewhere between a Stop and Pik refueling station and Jull, I hit a temporal anomaly. A fork. As far as I could deduce, me, my ship, my entire essence was split in two. One me continued on. The other me bounced back. Evidently, that me began growing younger and younger, drifting in space. The craft also became changed, transforming into lesser and lesser models until it became, for all practical purposes, a metal sphere containing an embryo. Me as an embryo.

  "Ten years later, I was living here. Meat Street near Avenue of the Butchers. On my fortieth birthday I received a strange transmission from the University of Koplanickus, a remote, isolated world in the Treekan Belt in the Soronian Sector.

  "I've been to the Treekan Belt,” interrupted Caffrey. Violet ignored him.

  "They'd discovered the sphere with my embryo, in a perfect state of hibernation. It had landed on some beach, and the rather parochial locals thought it was the fulfillment of some ancient prophecy and started building monuments and launching bloody crusades. The university people there managed to spirit away the embryo and performed a DNA scan then ran the details through GAL-POP5. They found me. A perfect match.

  "They didn't know what to do with the embryo, and they sure as hell didn't want it; so they stuck it in a cryo-tube and beamed it over.” She paused and sipped her drink as she collected her thoughts and herself together. “Now—you have to understand my emotional state at the time. I was depressed, my career was going nowhere. I had no real social life. Love life was nonexistent. I figured a kid wouldn't be a bad idea. I couldn't just leave this embryo in a can. So, I had it implanted. Nine months later, I gave birth. To myself."

  Caffrey could only stare, mouth agape. He had truly believed he had heard it all. But there was more, as someone once said.

  "When I was a teenager I had constant battles with my mother. Can really put the whammy on your head when you're simultaneously going through your first period and menopause."

  "You mean the young and the old...?"

  "Yes. We shared the same mind. I have all my mother's memories because I am my mother. I have all her hang-ups, phobias, prejudices, neuroses."

  ’”Mama's gonna put all of her fears into you.'” Caffrey softly sang the words of Roger Waters. Violet nodded, appreciating his understanding.

  "I was killed during battle with O.D.O.R forces on Historene 6."

  "You were killed?"

  "Yes. The older me. But I was still alive as a sixteen-year-old. It's weird recalling the moment you were blown to bits by an incoming energy blast and at the same time experiencing your first orgasm. Two separate bodies, one mind."

  "Makes you appreciate bartenders.” Caffrey winked, clinking his glass with hers. He exhaled hard. The intersection of disbelief and empathy he was feeling was incredible. He stared at Violet for quite a while then leaned closer. She moved towards him. They kissed. Long and sweet—then Violet pulled back and returned her entire persona to the business at hand.

  "We should prepare to go. Have you ever ridden a zebadoo?"

  "No, but I killed one during my unenlightened days. The right wing is wonderful roasted over an open fire with Geggilin chestnuts."

  Violet was repelled. “How could you shoot a zebadoo?” she wailed.

  "You think there's some secret society of zebadoo elders keeping track of this stuff? There I'll be, a thousand meters in the air and my steed'll turn its head coyly, wink and say, ‘Hey, Quark, remember that incident with my cousin? Adios!’ And I'll be dropped to my deserved death?"

  "I hope so,” Violet teased. “Meet you out back when you've harnessed your nerve. I'll give you a lesson."

  Caffrey agreed; and she left, never looking back.

  * * * *

  Poe 33 never noticed the two burly Heddington locals eyeing him from the next table. He was busy scratching the words “POE 33 RULES” in the wooden table with the sharp tip of his finger. Dreamily, he stared at the pile of wood dust growing with the completion of each letter.

  Finally, one of the locals whispered across the table to him, “Hey! Hey, mock man!"

  Poe 33 turned and nodded.

  "Can we talk to you?"

  Poe 33 processed their request with deliberate delay, finally looking away and shrugging in disinterest.

  The two beings took seats to either side of the android. They eyed him up and down then looked to each other with approval.

  "You are a handsome mock man, mock man,” observed the leader.

  "That compliment, though irrelevant to my mission, is accepted with gracious thanks."

  "What kind of mission is mock man on? Looking for the Silver Sompom?"

  The other Heddingtoner just smiled wide and never said a word.

  "I am seeking a reunion with the Great L'Orange, as was the purpose of my construction. However, I am saddened by my inability to connect with the Great Wise One. If you would like to bow before me, I would possibly feel less like doing something antisocial."

  The leader smiled wide and put his armored arm around the robot. “You will have crowds cheering you. You will be a winner! I can see you have strength, mock man! Smart head, too. Would you like to become local hero?"

  "I would like that very much."

  The locals looked at each other again, their faces trembling in vain attempts to hide their excitement.

  "Follow us, strong and handsome mock man."

  They stood and gestured for the Portsmith to follow them out the rear door. He did.

  In perfect Vedic tradition, as the rear door closed the front door opened, announced by the squeaky hinges. A tall, blond woman entered like a shower
of sparks, her lemon-yellow dress illustrating the beauty of minimalist design on a maximum body. She looked around the room as if trying to find the partner in some prearranged tryst then stumbled to the bar, her awkward gait betraying her potential-for-perfect-grace body. A definite amateur on high heels, she walked as if on stilts, her arms waving spastically to keep her balance.

  The eyes of the dark and swarthy locals turned to the woman, whose golden locks called for the presence of three members of the genus Ursidae. She fell off her own feet and landed with a surprised squeak on the stool next to Caffrey. Feeling Caffrey's eyes on her, she smiled.

  "Hello."

  "Hi,” replied Caffrey.

  She turned and rested her chin on her palm, her long eyelashes batting as if tiny electric motors were driving them.

  "Do you come here often?” She seemed to recite, rather than sincerely wanting to know.

  "No. It's been a quite a while. This was a favorite place of my youth.” Caffrey smiled.

  "Me, too."

  "Really? When were you here last?"

  She seemed confused by the question. “No, I mean ... I don't come here often."

  Her elbow slipped out from under her chin, and she toppled forward. Quickly composing herself, she waved the bartender over. “I would like something in a sexy glass."

  "We don't serve sexy glasses here,” grumbled the bartender. “Can you narrow it down to the type of booze?"

  Feeling sorry for the beautiful stranger, Caffrey intervened and ordered for her. “Get her a zefonic. Neat. The long-stemmed glass will fit perfectly in her lovely hands."

  The bartender rolled his eyes and went about making the drink. The blonde giggled. Caffrey smiled. She continued to giggle. Caffrey soon began to fear she would never stop.

  "Ah,” he interrupted, “what's your name?"

  She composed herself. “My name is Lola. Lola Elo'elay. And yours, handsome?"

  Caffrey felt himself blush with the embarrassment he felt for this sweet but lost soul. “Caffrey."