Imagine Lightning’s shock! But her opportunity to consider the import of her find was abruptly terminated by the sounding of the air-raid sirens for yet another furious attack!
Bombs rained down around the young lady, smashing the chimney and extant walls to bits! Boom! they sounded, all but shattering the place, and the nerves of Lightning, trapped inside!
Despite the possibility that Katzenjammers awaited her outside, Lightning determined that her best course was to scurry to the nearest air-raid shelter, and so she held Eddie’s bomber jacket over her head to shield herself from falling debris. However, there were skirmishes in the street, and as the falling bombs hit, the windows of the shops exploded; Lightning quickly put on the jacket, the better to protect herself as she ran for cover.
A moment here, as we caution you, Gentle Reader: This is indeed a ghost story, and there may those among you for whom this tale is too oversetting. If so, please move on to lighter fare, as we are determined not to shirk our duty in the presentation of this story.
For in the very moment Lightning put on the jacket, she found herself seated in a Sopwith Camel, directly behind her forebear, Edam Merriemouse-Jones himself! Like him, she wore the attire of a bomber pilot, complete with goggles and a silken scarf wound ’round her neck. The synchronized twin-mounted Vickers were rat-a-tatting at an enemy plane, and Lightning ducked down to avoid a return volley.
Forthwith, the Sopwith shot up into the clouds. The enemy plane did not follow. And there, Eddie turned round, saw Lightning, and looked quite pale and astonished.
He said, “How came you here, and who on earth are you?”
“No one on earth,” Lightning replied, a bit sassily, despite her own astonishment (for she was, indeed, an intrepid adventuress and given to quick-wittedness even in the most perilous of circumstances). “If you are Edam Merriemouse-Jones, then I am Lightning Merriemouse-Jones, your relative.” And she proceeded to describe how it was in London, and how she had come across his jacket.
As they flew through the gray mist, he shook his head and said, “Then it is true, and I have known it for some time, though I could scarce accept it: I am a ghost, and I have cursed myself for all time. Alas! For I swore I would kill Orloff von Limburger, but he is dead already!”
“I beg your pardon?” Lightning asked.
Gnashing his teeth, Eddie explained, “On July 6, 1917, von Limburger was shot through the head, and I and many others believed he had died. But he came back to the skies-much changed-and rumors spread that his evil masters had taken his body and performed blasphemous rites over it, creating the ghostly apparition that continued to mow down the valiant and the true! When I felled that mouse who resembled him, I wondered at the time if it was some ruse to throw us off his scent, but I did not dream that he had become a monstrous, undead killing machine.”
He regarded young Lightning. “That you are here, in my jacket, tells me that my vow to kill him is impossible to keep, and thus I am doomed to fly throughout eternity, fighting a war that will never end.”
Lightning was very sorry, both for himself and for her own sake, and she wondered aloud if she, too, had perished-in her case, during the most recent wave of the Blitz.
“What do you speak of?” he asked her, and as she proceeded to explain that England was again at war, he gnashed his teeth once more and raised his paws to heaven.
“Why do you misuse us so unfairly?” he cried. “How is it that British mousedom is so cruelly tormented throughout the decades of this century? Why were our trials not brought to an end on July 6, 1917?”
As Lightning bore witness to his anguish, his words caught her attention: for she remembered in that instant that 070617 were the numbers on the mysterious black aeroplane that led the bombing runs on England!
She cried out, “Mr Edam, I have had a startling revelation!” And she described to him the strange registration number on the black aeroplane.
“It is the date when von Limburger was killed!” she concluded. “And you swore to defeat him upon the lives of yourself and your descendants-and I am here!” Her beady eyes shone.
“I believe I have been sent to help you defeat the Bloody Rat Baron, once and for all!”
As soon as Lightning uttered those words, a tremendous mist rose around the Sopwith Camel, followed by a ferocious thunderclap. She covered her ears with her paws and shut tight her eyes… and when she opened them again, she found herself in the front seat of the Sopwith Camel, quite alone… approximately ten thousand feet above the ghastly catillion of Katzie bombers unleashing yet another barrage of bombs over London. And there, at the head of the flotilla, flew the black plane numbered 070617-the plane of the ghastly von Limburger!
“Edam Merriemouse-Jones!” she cried, looking about. “Where are you? What shall I do?”
Then she tingled from head to toe as if she had been struck by, well, lightning-as if volt upon volt ripped through her slender, dainty frame. The brown leather bomber jacket crackled, energizing her and guiding her in her ensuing actions: she pushed the Sopwith down into a death spiral, aiming it directly for the black aeroplane!
“For Crown and Country!” cried the voice of Edam Merriemouse-Jones, deep within Lightning’s being. “It will take a ghost to kill a ghost. Though it may mean your own life, are you with me, young lass?”
“Yes! Indeed!” Lightning cried. “I am!”
Her entire being filled with fursome terror and ecstatic joy as she allowed her relation full use of her limbs and faculties, preparing to dive-bomb into the black-cloaked plane of Orloff von Limburger.
The Sopwith Camel shuddered and whined as it hurtled through the English night. The other planes flying with von Limburger fired at her, but she and Eddie together dodged them all handily. A bullet zinged less than half an inch from Lightning’s silky cheek.
Faster she fell, faster and faster, the Sopwith Camel screaming toward its target-a bomb itself now, racing to smash into the enemy!
Lightning prayed, and she thought of her dear Mama and Papa, and the Summerfield family, and of dear Quincy, who had never understood why she could not be settled. She kept her eyes wide open so that she could witness history-and the liberation of her relative from his ghostly torment!
“Eek! Eeek! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!…” she squeaked, while flames blazed on the wings of her plane as she dive-bombed toward von Limburger’s deathly craft.
IMPACT!
And before she could add the “k” to her final eek, Lightning Merriemouse-Jones stood before the graceful white gates billowing with mist and listened to the exquisite soprano chorus…
… when suddenly, the purplish-green taxi pulled up beside her, and the passenger door opened. [7]
REVOLUTION: NUMBER 9 by Judi Rohrig
Not far from where Rose crouched in the dark, the leafy limbs of the thick bushes and low trees of the woods surrendered to harried chopping and hacking. The Bachyrita posse was in a fevered frenzy now, closing in fast.
Rose tried not to breathe, but her chest swelled and sank in ways she couldn’t control after all the running. And even if she were able to stop her desperate gasping, surely the rataplanning of her heart would betray her. Not that her pursuers would “hear” the palpitations. The Bachyritas’ BrainPods® would “see” her, though. That’s why their posses were known as “pit vipers,” because they could pick up her body heat through their sensors. Neither the dark nor the thick growth of the woods would offer Rose much in the way of cover from these snakes.
Here in the darkness, they would hold the advantage even if they hadn’t dragged a Franklin along.
Rose lifted her head, squinting, begging the dim light to make meaning of the shadows. She’d been through this area before, and if she could just get to the river, she could connect with those still fighting for something that mattered.
But the knots in her deltoids and calves were screaming their exhaustion. She’d be lucky if she could even make it to the river. Forget getting across
the damned thing.
How much time did she have left? A few minutes? Then she’d have to face them, face the death she’d been running from since just before dawn.
A single fiery torch glowed brighter between the trees. Yes, they had a Franklin with them. That could be good. Those “real eyes” might actually slow them down. The flame from the torch in all this jumble of trees and thick bushes might confuse the Franklin.
Rose scrambled under the brush. Perhaps a few rabbits and squirrels could be startled from their havens, providing a muddled set of prickles for the vipers’ super-functioning BrainPorts®.
Sharp thorns and ragged branches ripped at what was left of her already tattered jacket. She clasped her hands over her chest, not to still her ka-thumping heart but to secure the small case she’d tucked under her shirt. Inside the case was the real object of the Bachyritas’ pursuit, and it was more than just a part of Exhibit Number 9.
“This way!” The words bellowed through the shadows of the trees.
Huddling as close as she could to the scabrous trunk of the large oak where a shaft of moonlight slithered down over her hands, Rose made out the stains of dried blood in the cracks and lines of her fingers: Roddy’s blood.
A twinge of guilt wedged itself in there somewhere. And grief. But she had to make it to the outlaw camp of the Ungatosonrisas on the other side of the river. Her feelings could wait.
Another voice howled from the far end of the woods: “Over here!”
The snapping of twigs and limbs ceased for a second. If Rose remembered correctly, protocol for the vipers dictated confirmation of verbal instructions before they shifted directions. The Ungatosonrisas were said to employ annoying tricks to draw a posse from its prey.
Rose waited a moment, trembling against the craggy wood, wondering if the distant voice could indeed have been help. Was she close?
Not that the Bachyritas would ever give up. “Stop” wasn’t an option for them, except to stop the masses from supposedly harming themselves. “For the protection of all” were the first words flashed through the pleasure goggles. That was their mantra, and it was the biggest lie ever. Bondage was not freedom.
Rose bit her bottom lip, cradled the case closer, and tried to see through the bushes ahead. She didn’t know how to stop either. Moving as quickly and as quietly as she could, Rose shoved her way through the stands of prickly brambles and bristly scrub while legions of dark trees, limbs swaying low, clawed at her clothes and skin. She hadn’t gone far when she reached a sharp drop. Below, in the moonlight, the waters of the river roiled on innocently enough. And for a moment, Rose wasn’t a thief on the run. She was little Rosie MacGregor, big sister to Ellie Bug, and the river below was their secret fishing spot. There would be a “huge-mongus” tree whose long branch would stretch out over the water. And dangling from that branch would be the coarse rope she and Ellie Bug latched on to swing themselves out over the calm, plunging into the cool, deep murk amid unrestrained laughter.
Rose swatted a mosquito away from her ear. But those times were long gone, and the children of the Bachyritas might never know such innocent, carefree delights.
Swimming, like nearly every other endeavor, had to employ some element of pleasure. “All we are saying is give piece a chance!” was off-used expression. Nothing quite official, but certainly accepted. There was no reason to be embarrassed or ashamed about something so natural as sexual satisfaction. To “Make Love Not War”-which was one of the official slogans-was a beautiful thing.
The windows of the downtown department stores, which once had featured elaborate displays of animated skaters and Santas at Christmas time, had been redesigned to mimic the peaceful love-ins of still-revered writers and peace advocates John Lennon and Yoko Ono. Most people didn’t really know a lot about the couple. The yellowed and peeling posters of what they did over a hundred years ago that lay plastered on abandoned storefronts or in alleyways all around the city did offer their images, but that was about all. What they had begun was far more important.
But people engaging in public pleasure was simply old hat, boring even, except for the few who engaged in the bagism ritual where the couple would enter either a black bag or a white one (if one of the parties was a true virgin). One by one, articles of clothing would be shed through the closing, dangled aloft almost theatrically before being dropped as the hand disappeared back inside. Unlike the couples who made love in the store windows, those employing bagism did offer the added feature of sound.
Self-reflection, self-actualization, self-satisfaction: Those were more watchwords of the renaissance. Watchwords. It always came down to the words. And choices.
Rose threw her hands to her face and felt her tears mixing with the scratches and grime. Maybe she had made the wrong choices and for the worst of reasons: selfishness. But she had told herself she wouldn’t indulge her feelings just now. There would be time later. Later. There had to be a later.
Then Rose spotted the yellow glow of the torch.
“She’s at the river!” someone shouted, unexpectedly and surprisingly close.
If her body heat had betrayed her before, the burning sensation she felt from the glasses case under her shirt was no doubt delivering her presence to the pit vipers this time. Their sounds could have all been a ruse to flush her out.
But as she glanced out at the waters below, Rose gripped more strongly the warm booty to her chest. A few hours ago, she’d determined this treasure was worth saving. And more. It was worth her life and Roddy’s to get this to the Ungatosonrisas. They would know how best to use the treasure.
“She’s ahead on the right. Less than a thousand feet.”
“Get her!”
“I see her!” the Franklin shouted. “There!”
“We’ve got her now.”
Taking only a few steps backward, Rose turned and broke into a run. Pulling the case close to her body, she sailed off the cliff, diving toward the dark water below.
“Think different!” she screamed into the night.
As the moonlit ink swallowed her whole, Rose thought of the color blue. Not black for death or white for baptism or even red for a fiery hell, but blue: the scrubbed denim of her father’s workshirts, the crisp cold paleness of a winter morning’s sky.
Roddy Bach-y-Rita’s blue eyes.
On good days, Roddy called the pit vipers “Pop Rocks,” after the candy that gave a fizzy, tingling sensation to the tongue. That was the same sensation the BrainPort® emitted when its helmet-held computer eye fixed on warm objects-its prey.
Roddy’s chief beef with the entire movement was how it had besmirched his family’s good name and his great-great-grandfather’s honorable intentions by branding themselves “Bachyritas.”
“They were the goddamned military. Soldiers!” He’d spit the last word. Roddy spit a lot in his screeds. Yet like some ancient sage, he’d retell the same tale all over again, varying little except in the expletives he used.
Rose couldn’t decide whether he played storyteller for her benefit, like a peacock with his feathers flaunted, or whether Roddy simply wanted to unleash his ire at the injustice done to him personally. He’d never asked to be born to such respected linage.
It didn’t matter, because the telling was part of the fabric of who Rodman Bach-y-Rita was. Plus, anger made his blue eyes bluer. Like the searing cobalt in a flame.
They’d shared pleasure the first time following one of his tirades. For Rose, they used a white bag.
“They weren’t even the real army,” Roddy said. “Our real army was gone, mostly killed over all the oil crap during the Fifty-Year War.”
“Bastards.”
Roddy riveted his passionate blues on her.
“I didn’t mean our guys were bastards, Roddy.”
“You’re tired of hearing this, aren’t you?”
“No!”
“Yes, you are. You’ve become complacent.”
“You’re wrong. I’m as angry about what’s happe
ned as you are.”
“You have no idea how friggin angry I am about anything. Was it your family that mucked it all up while selling everybody salvation? Hell in a handbasket… let’s give peace a chance… fill in the blank…”
“Roddy, I-”
“Do you even have a family, Rose? Are you anybody’s great-great-anything? You can’t know what life is like for me. You can’t have any friggin idea the generational burdens I carry. Sins of the great-great-grandfather…”
Every time Roddy turned on his heels, facing Rose, she flinched.
“Then who are the bastards, Rose? The stupid shits who perverted my great-great-grandfather’s discovery and turned his good to evil? Why don’t they call themselves the Lennon/Onos? No, they curse my family, curse me!”
Rose’s head replayed known history: The Bachyritas had successfully put down an insurgency of foreign-born revolutionaries through primary employment of the guerilla device that allowed the army the shrewdness of “pit vipers.” The signals of these “Brain-Ports®” were routed to soldiers’ helmet-mounted cameras, allowing them to zero in on the enemy. Heat-sensitive signals were sent to a device on the soldiers’ tongues as fizzy tingles, but their brains read the information as though they were “seeing.” The one thing the rebelling Ungatosonrisas couldn’t hide was the heat their bodies generated.
But Roddy told the story with more panache than the chronicles. That and his blue, blue eyes flashing angrily made the words worth hearing over and over again.
“Ole great-great-grandpa Paul was a neuroscientist at the University of Wisconsin. He explored brain plasticity as it relates to sensory substitution and brain-machine interfacing, in his search for a way to help the blind ‘see.’ Not a bad thing, huh? Anyway, his team-a team, Rose-routed camera images to different parts of volunteers’ bodies. Trial and error, Rose. Basic shit. But what he found was that the tongue was more useful than tasting stuff like lemons, peppers, chocolate…”
Pandora's Closet Page 17
