“Goldwater?”
“No! Ronald Reagan.”
“You wouldn’t! Not that washed-up, senile old actor!”
“I wouldn’t, huh? Just wait. And once he’s running the show, I’ll make the country over in my image. I’ll kick fucking welfare mothers out in the street! I’ll have the biggest peacetime arms buildup in history! I’ll take all the rules off Wall Street! I’ll load the Supreme Court with right-wing loonies! When we want oil, I’ll send troops in to occupy the whole Middle East! I’ll even put the fix in on the fucking Olympics!”
The world began to waver around Ken. He uttered one final plea.
“How long, Chuck? How long?”
“Maybe forever! We’ll see if I get sick of it. If you’re lucky, I’ll even let another wimpy Southern donkey-head hold the reins for a while.…”
Ken woke up with a start. Early morning light tinted the air. Mona J. lay slumbering beside him, her earth shoes tumbled in one corner of his familiar bedroom. Somehow her odd footgear looked pathetic and forlorn, as if it no longer meshed with a world that had somehow changed overnight.…
“Wow, what a nightmare!” Ken murmured.
But when he bent to kiss Mona J., he saw the mood ring was gone from her finger.
And to this day, Chuck still hasn’t taken it off.
I fused the identities of two local bands, Miracle Legion and Small Factory, whose drummers I both know, to form the “Miracle Factory” of this story, where once again rock music (and beer) lend propulsive drive to the plot, much as jazz (and Prohibition) might have once flavored a Thorne Smith tale. I was particularly pleased that the Interzone illustrator for this story, working only from my words, exactly replicated the appearance of real-life Phoebe in his drawing, confirming my sometimes wavering faith that anything I write has any basis in reality.
Points will be awarded for spotting all the pop song allusions.
Any resemblance between Master Blaster and Whammer Jammer’s van Bullwinkle, and the Econoline herein dubbed Zed Leper is strictly familial.
Flying the Flannel
l. Our Beloved Revolutionary Sweetheart
phoebe summersquall flopped down on the spring-shot, beer-, tear-, sweat- and other-miscellaneous-exudates-stained couch backstage in what passed for the “performer’s lounge” at Slime Time. The wall above the spavined sofa was covered with layers of graffiti: names of bands never famous and now long dust; injunctions to kill one despised performer or another; proclamations of musicological godhood or ineptitude; scabrous invective about the club’s management.
“Jesus, I’m totally wiped,” said the thin woman. Behind her outsized round black-plastic-framed glasses, her dark eyes loomed bigger than life. Dressed in a Goodwill-bin tulle skirt layered over frayed jeans, a skintight lycra polka-dotted top and suede clogs, her long black hair caught up in back with one of the thinner bungee cords normally reserved for lashing down the band’s amps during transport, she resembled a tired cleaning lady, addled ballerina or unusually neat street person.
Raising a hand to wipe sweat from her brow, she found herself still unconsciously clutching her drumsticks. Wearily, she dropped them, and a frosty bottle of Sam Adams manifested itself within reach.
“Thanks, Scott.”
“You deserve it, Pheeb. You were awesome.”
Scott Bluebottle, round of face and wire rim-bespectacled, occupied tentatively, as was his way, a folding chair. He scraped at the label of his own bottle with a guitar pick. On the two remaining heterogenous lumps of furniture sprawled the other members of Miracle Factory: Mark the Snark and Frank Difficult. The former long-haired and stocky, the latter with the wolf-lean, hot-eyed, gaunt-cheeked look of one of the less well-known German Expressionists.
“Yeah,” agreed Mark in a resonant singer’s voice. “Especially on the last tune.”
Frank chimed in. “I’m extremely proud to have a song of mine that I cherish as much as I do ‘Eat the Shame’ performed by such a talented drummer.”
Phoebe felt herself blushing. “Gee, guys, I bet you’d say that to anyone who replaced someone who sucked as bad as your last drummer.”
Mark chuckled ruefully. “Lonnie was mighty awful.”
“Remember the night he fell backwards off the riser?” reminisced Scott.
Frank lifted the admonitory hand of a reluctant leader. “Let us not slag the departed. The thing to concentrate on is how good we were tonight.”
“Agreed,” said Mark, threading his fingers through his mane in an eloquent, practiced Hair Lofting that was second nature to him. “It’s too bad there weren’t more than ten people here to see us.”
“It is a Monday night…, said Scott weakly.
“Every night seems to be a Monday night lately” Mark grumped.
The four bandmates sat silently for a time, contemplating the fickleness, bad taste and inexplicable immunity to the charms of Miracle Factory, as exhibited by the club-going public. Then Frank spoke.
“It’s Tuesday morning actually. Almost three. And we’ve got a gig scheduled five hundred miles from here, with a soundcheck in just a little over twenty-four hours.”
“Are you trying to tell us we should start humping equipment?” asked Scott.
“’Fraid so.”
“Can we afford a motel?” ventured Phoebe.
“Everyone who wants to use tonight’s money to eat and put gas in our noble transport, raise your hand,” replied Frank.
“Oh, well, guess we sleep in the van again. Anyway, it’s kinda getting to where I can’t drop off without the smell of exhaust and a row of rivets in my back.…”
Quickly finishing their beers, the four trooped out onto the small stage. Phoebe removed her extraneous skirt, the better to work. With lackluster motions, watched over by the impatient owner, their activity causing ghostly echoes in the empty Slime Time, they struck their equipment and loaded it into their rotting ’79 Econoline dubbed Zed Leper.
On the road, Mark driving, Frank riding shotgun, Phoebe and Scott in the back, several miles passed wordlessly, until Scott spoke.
“That guy was there again tonight.”
Phoebe stiffened. “No way.”
“Yes way.”
“Where? I didn’t see him.”
“You were zoned out on playing. But I spotted him right away. He hung out at the bar all night, never came out on the floor. Had half a dozen empty longnecks lined up in front of him by the time we finished our set. Never smiled that I could see, never spoke to anyone.”
The memory of the stony-faced older stranger who had haunted their last five appearances across as many states welled up in Phoebe. Materializing only since her arrival in the group, he had plainly set his sights on her, focusing a piercing stare on her throughout each performance.
“This really creeps me out,” said Phoebe nervously.
“Maybe he’s a bigshot A & R guy, sizing us up before offering us a huge juicy contract…,” said Frank halfheartedly.
“Yeah, and I’m Sinatra,” replied Mark.
Phoebe turned on Scott, who sat next to her on a mattress placed on the narrow floor space between the ranked equipment. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Scott shrugged. “Didn’t want to spook you. Besides, there’s three of us watching out for you.”
“That’s right, Pheeb,” said Mark. “We’ll protect you.”
“My sentiments exactly,” added Frank.
Phoebe restrained an impulse to shout “bullshit!” Guys.… What was it about them? They meant well, but it was up to her to educate them.
“Well, next time, how about letting me in on what I’m being protected from, okay?”
“Sure, Pheeb.”
“Right.”
“It shall be as you wish, oh Mistress of Snares and Cymbals.”
Phoebe stretched out on her back and rested her head on Scott’s leg.
“For not telling me, you’ve got first shift as pillow.”
“Cramp city, man!”
said Scott good-naturedly.
Within minutes, Phoebe was so soundly asleep that even when, an hour later, the vector of their van changed abruptly from horizontal to vertical and they were engulfed by the spacecraft which had silently paced them since their departure, it took a whole ten seconds before the shouts of the others woke her up.
2. Put a Little Birdhouse in Your Soul
A pearly opalescence flooded the grungy interior of the van known as Zed Leper. The air was perfumed with strange scents: acid, electricity, brine and ginger.
Phoebe leaped to her feet, careful of the low Econoline ceiling.
Around her was utter confusion.
Scott was holding his head and moaning, having whacked his noggin on the vans ceiling in the tumult. Behind the wheel, Mark was activating every control on the dashboard in a desperate attempt to regain command of the stalled van. Windshield wipers batted futilely at streams of washer fluid. Frank was rifling furiously in the trash on the floor at his feet, saying, “The nunchuks, where are those goddamn nunchuks!”
Quickly deciding that her bandmates had plainly lost their scanty marbles, Phoebe asserted herself.
“Everybody shut up! Right now!”
Silence dropped, thick as a brick.
“Okay. That’s better. Now—what happened?”
“We—we were just tooling along,” said Mark, “when suddenly I could feel the wheels leave the ground. But I wasn’t even sleepy, honest!”
“I thought we had gone over a cliff,” said Scott.
“I stuck my head out the window,” said Frank, “and something made me look up. There was a huge dark shadow blocking the stars. Then a square of white opened in it. It got bigger and bigger, then swallowed us.”
“Where are we now?”
“Inside the freakin’ UFO, I guess,” ventured Mark.
“Heading who the hell knows where,” added Scott cheeringly.
Phoebe considered, noting the vans open windows. “We can breathe and we can walk. Air and gravity.… Lets get out.”
She threw open the rear doors and jumped down.
Timorously, the others followed.
The van sat in the middle of an enormous space. Walls and ceilings, if any, were lost in the pearly radiance that flowed from every direction.
Phoebe looked at the floor.
Her feet vanished at the ankles in the tenuous, hazy oyster-colored substance, which seemed to offer spongy support at some unknown depth. Lifting a foot, Phoebe was relieved to find her clog-shod extremity apparently intact. Reaching down, she brushed the rarefied material.
“It’s soft, with a nap, like, like—flannel.”
Mark snorted. “Great. Probably built in Seattle then. Maybe something new from Boeing. Used to kidnap any competitors to the Northwest scene.”
Scott was shielding his eyes against the mild glare and scanning the distance. Suddenly, he yelped.
“Someone’s coming!”
The four huddled closer together as a figure approached out of the foggy glowing remoteness.
It was the stranger who had stalked them across five states. Dressed in nondescript Earth clothing, his face so blank and inhospitable as to make Harry Dean Stanton look like Marcel Marceau, he seemed an unlikely starship pilot. Perhaps, Phoebe thought, Mark had been right about this being a ship of human design, however unlikely that seemed. Or perhaps the stalker was a fellow prisoner.…
Phoebe stepped bravely forward. “Did—did the aliens get you too, Mister?”
The man regarded Phoebe with the same unwavering fixity that had unnerved her onstage. Then he spoke.
“I am the owner of this vessel. You may call me Modine.”
Their captors insouciance was the final straw for the impetuous Mark the Snark.
“We’ll be calling you dead meat in a minute, sucker! Let’s get him, guys!”
Before Phoebe could do more than shout an objection, the three men had pinioned the UFO captain without much of a struggle.
“Okay,” said Mark, facing the stranger while Scott and Frank held his arms, “are you gonna take us back home, or do I have to get rough with you?”
“No, please, you do not understand. I am bringing you someplace where your skills will be appreciated.…”
Mark polished the knuckles of his fist on his worn denim shirt. “Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance.”
“I must warn you, this shell is fragile—”
Mark popped the stranger a good one on the jaw.
The alien’s head split open with a sound like the ripping of cooked turkey skin. A jagged crack ran up the middle of his face and down the back of his skull.
Horrified, Frank and Scott dropped him, and Mark stepped back.
Up from out of the lifeless cracked shell fluttered a small agile bird. It resembled a canary—as much as a Lexus resembled a Stutz Bearcat—except that it was colored bright blue.
The supercharged blue canary landed on Phoebe’s left shoulder.
“I did warn you,” it said.
3. Is That You, Modine?
Oh-so-slowly, Phoebe swivelled her head to the left.
The little streamlined bird was still there, its claws gripping the fabric of her shirt. It did not weigh much. A hardly perceptible mass, actually But Phoebe felt her shoulder muscles quivering from the alien’s presence.
Regarding her with a questioning expression, the azure avian dipped its head to peck at the feathers of its breast, then resumed eye contact. Plainly, it was waiting for Phoebe to speak.
“Are you—I mean, can it be—”
The bird was not helping her, and she suddenly grew angry.
“Damn it, is that you, Modine?”
“I am glad to see that you can accept the reality of my appearance. Races as primitive as yours generally deny the possibility of sentience in unfamiliar or unlikely forms.” The canary’s tones became prideful. “Yes, it is I, Modine, interstellar voyager and captain of the Dustbath. The artificial human shape you heedlessly destroyed—which was on the point of disintegrating soon anyway—was merely a camouflaged transport, a means of mingling with the natives. You see—”
At that moment, Mark lunged angrily for Modine. But the bird easily evaded his grasp, fluttering up to alight atop the van. Phoebe was relieved, both to straighten her neck and no longer to be functioning as perch to an alien budgie.
“Please,” advised Modine. “Restrain yourselves. It is almost impossible for you to harm me. And even if you could, where would that leave you? You could not possibly learn how to operate the Dustbath, nor how to navigate in twelve-space. You would be stranded at our programmed destination or—even worse, if you managed to interfere with the controls—in some nameless fractal dimension between Earth and the Planet of Sound.”
“Planet of Sound?” echoed Scott. “What’s that? And why are you taking us there?”
“I shall explain all,” promised Modine. “Let us adjourn to the bridge, however. Unlike the cargo hold, it offers seats and refreshments, as well as a view.”
Modine rocketed off, leaving the humans with no choice except to follow.
Phoebe took the lead, trotting to catch up with the speedy bird. It was weird to watch her feet disappear into the floor and re-emerge with each step, and she wondered again what the flannel-simulating substance of the ship was.
Just before the foursome caught up with their host, Frank used the opportunity to whisper to Phoebe.
“This uncanny bird is fixated on you, Pheeb. When it was stalking us on Earth, it always watched you. It landed on your shoulder. And it chose you for the test of appreciating its intelligence. If anyone is going to be able to get us out of this jam, it’ll have to be you.”
“Any other reassuring words?”
“We’ll be there to back your every move,” chimed in Mark.
“I thought not,” said Phoebe.
Now they were in what seemed to be a straight and level corridor of luminescent walls. Modine flew on ahead. Then disappeare
d.
Phoebe and the guys stopped.
“Modine?” Phoebe ventured tentatively.
The bird stuck its head out of the seemingly solid ceiling. “We’ll be landing in a few hours,” it said peevishly. “There’s not much time to waste.”
“But how do we get up there?”
“Just continue to walk.”
Modine vanished.
Shrugging, Phoebe took a step forward, then another, and a third—
There had been no sense of climbing, nor was she now experiencing any disorientation. But Phoebe appeared now to be standing on the corridor ceiling, her head pointing downward at the guys.
“You goofs are hanging upside down,” said Phoebe, smiling at their shocked expressions.
“No, you are,” said Mark.
“Well, my way is Modine’s way.”
“This is true,” said Frank.
“Let’s follow her!” said Scott.
Phoebe took another step, and disappeared.
She found herself in a medium-sized glowing room. Elevated mushroom-like cushions of the flannel-stuff sprouted from the floor. One wall appeared to be transparent, and gave a startling view: the Dustbath was apparently rushing through a medium that resembled an infinite sea of knotted multihued threads, ropes and cables twisting and contorting throughout colorless depths.
Modine was perched on a ledge in front of the view-wall. “Ah,” sighed the bird, “the glorious vistas of twelve-space never fail to stimulate and enlighten!”
Behind Phoebe, the guys popped into existence out of the floor.
“Please, be seated,” Modine said. “And I will serve drinks.”
The humans complied, and Phoebe decided to use the moment to ask a question.
“Modine, what is this ship made of?”
Fractal Paisleys Page 22
