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And now, Captain Skilling and Nasir discuss Dawndew's fate. And other stuff happens. Maybe some day, I'll figure out what a plot is, and write little self-contained stories that make sense.Till then, we're wandering around on spaceships and planets. I bought some new stickers for my laptop. I'm hoping that will help.

“That can’t be right. She’s clearly sentient…”
“Clearly.”
“You cannot keep her. It is not proper.”
“What would you have me do, Nasir? The Calamarians abandoned her. Even if they took her back, we don’t know what they would do to her. They might execute her as a traitor. Who knows what makes a squid laugh?”
“We could hand her over to the navy.”
“Oh, good. She’s an enemy combatant. Do you know what happens to enemy combatants?”
“No.” Nasir said.
“Neither do I. Because they get shipped off to undisclosed locations, and nobody ever hears from them again. Do you think she deserves that?”
“Of course not. Why can’t we take her home?”
“Because Verdia is on the other side of the Codominion, and it’s a war zone. It’s occupied by the Lizardians, and Heinland is trying to take it from them. By the time we got to Verdia, it might not be there anymore.”
“So you’re telling me the safest place in the galaxy for this girl is aboard a ship full of criminals?”
Skilling leaned forward. “She doesn’t know we’re criminals,” he whispered.
“How does that make this better?”
“I don’t know. All I know is, you were a lot more fun before you converted to Chrislam.”
“Stop mocking my faith, you infidel dog.”
“Woof, woof. The girl stays. Your objections are noted and duly dismissed. Do you have any other concerns?”
“Yes. If we are to keep her, we must assume responsibility for her education.”
“She already has an education. She even has a promising career. As a comm tech. And from what I hear, her boss is a really great guy.”
Nasir crossed his arms. “What about her moral education?”
“Why would she need one of those? She’s a criminal, for God’s sake. As are you, I might mention.”
“We are not criminals. We make war on the faithless. That is halal.”
“We beat up cephalopods and take their lunch money. Why do you need to justify that?”
“Technically, the Calamarians are not…”
“It’s a metaphor. Go with it. Or are metaphors haram?”
“Is that what we will teach this girl?” Nasir asked, “Are we going to teach her religious intolerance?”
“Look, if you care so much, you can be in charge of her education.”
“The hell he can!” Calista stormed into the office.
“Stop doing that!” Skilling yelled at her.
“We were having a discussion, woman.” Nasir said, his voice low.
“Don’t you ‘woman’ me, I outrank you,” Calista hissed, “Whatever you two are planning, you can forget it. Dawn can make up her own mind. Get in here, Dawn!”
Dawn walked into the office, wearing a toga made from a bedsheet.
“Cover your arms, girl!” Nasir admonished, “Have you no shame?”
“What’s wrong with my arms?” Dawn asked, then she noticed Skilling. She knelt, and said, “My liege.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your arms,” Calista said, then turned to Nasir, “You shut up. Stop trying to turn my ship into Assholeistan.”
“That’s weird,” Skilling said, “I thought this was my ship.”
“Sure, it is, Honey.” Calista smiled.
Skilling pointed at Dawn. “Why is she wearing a toga? If you’re throwing a party, and you didn’t invite me, that’s just… hurtful.”
“Oh, that? We were just trying something out. Doesn’t she look cute?” Calista asked.
“Well, yeah,” Skilling said, but it isn’t very…uniformy.”
“Don’t we have some cloth in the cargo hold?” Calista asked, “From that merchant freighter we hit last week?”
“Yeah,” Skilling said, “A couple of tons of synthosilk, I think. Should be in section twenty-six A.”
“Great. I’ll Google up some patterns. How hard can sewing be?”
“Perhaps something with sleeves,” Nasir interjected.
“Good sir, I…” Dawn turned to Skilling, “I’m sorry my liege, I’m not sure how to address this man. What is his rank?”
“Oh, that’s Nasir. He’s my second mate.”
“My liege!” Dawn took a step back, shocked, “Am I to understand you have two mates? Is this a common human custom?”
“What? Oh, no, it’s not like that. ‘Mate’ is just his rank. I don’t mate with Nasir. We don’t mate. But me and Calista, we mate all the time. Well, not all the time. Two or three times a week. There’s no problem there. I guess you didn’t really need to know that, though…”
“Why shouldn’t she know? We all know,” Nasir said, “It’s a spaceship. Sound carries.”
“It seems,” Dawn said, “That I have much to learn about humanity.”
“You and me both, kid,” Calista said, her eyes darting from Nasir to Skilling and back again, as if she was trying to decide which of them to be pissed off at. “Come on, let’s go find that cloth.”
Someday, this will all make sense. I hope. See you in 24.

Blog KenGreen

Good news! I actually sold one of my silly stories to an actual publication for actual money. And believe me, I'm at least as surprised as you are. All my life, I've read stories about how real writers collected hundreds of rejection letters before getting published. I figured I would suffer the same fate. Instead, I made a sale with the second story I submitted. And sure, it was to a webzine I had never heard of, put out by a publisher I had never heard of, but they gave me money, and I lost my amateur status, so I'm happy.

Today's offering is more of Dawn and Calista aboard the Bon Chance, a pirate ship in space.

Calista’s boots echoed in the cavernous cargo bay as the two walked past stacked crates, pallets, and bales.
“I’m curious, M’Lady,” Dawn said, “For a naval warship, we seem to be carrying a great many mercantile goods.”
“Naval?” Calista scoffed, “We’re not navy, where did you get that idea?”
“Well, surely we’re not a merchant ship. How could a merchantman best a Calamarian cruiser in battle?”
Calista stopped, turned to Dawn, and kind of hunched down a bit.
“Dawn, we’re pirates. Didn’t Tom tell you?”
Dawn was horrified. She staggered back a step. Then she threw her head back and laughed. Her sweet contralto chortles rang like bells in a cathedral.
“Oh! M’Lady has made a joke, and a very good one indeed! The very idea, that we would be pirates!” Dawn laughed and laughed.
Calista did not.
“Phew!” Dawn phewed, wiping her eye, “That, truly, was a very good joke. M’Lady is as witty as she is beautiful and kind.”
“Dawn,” Calista said, “I’m not kidding. We’re pirates.”
“No,” Dawn said, shaking her head, “Surely, M’Lady, we are not.”
“Well, yeah. We really are.”
“No. No, this cannot be.” Dawn staggered, then collapsed to the deck. “I am sworn to you. I thought that I had found a home, only to discover that I have fallen into the company of thieves!”
“No! We’re not…yeah, I guess we are, come to think of it…”
“You are thieves, and you are murderers, and you have made me one of you. The betrayal is too great to bear. I now wish that I had pushed that big red button. Oh. Of course. That was my crime. Disobedience. And later, treachery. I deserve this. I have earned this pain. I brought this on myself.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Calista sat on the deck next to her, “This is a good life. It’s always exciting, we get to travel, stop being so sad. Be my happy, funny Dawn again…”
Dawn started crying. Calista pulled the girl to her.
“There, there. It’s not so bad, it’s just a lot to get used to, I guess. I didn’t think you’d take it so hard. It’ll be fun. We get to blow stuff up, we steal all sorts of neat stuff, sure, we’re a pack of thieves and murderers, but we’re a fun pack of thieves and murderers. Let me tell you, it gets pretty crazy on trivia night. What do you say, Dawn? Can you give me a smile?”
“I love you, M’Lady.”
“And now we’re back to weird. I guess that’s a good sign, in your case. Are you feeling a little better, maybe?”
“It’s been such a confusing day,” Dawn said.
“Yeah. And you’re just a little rollercoaster, aren’t you? You’re like a muppet. There’s no middle ground with you.”
“I don’t understand any of what you just said.”
“That’s okay. Sometimes I don’t understand myself, either.” Calista hugged Dawn tighter.
“Look at us,” she said, “An hour ago, I didn’t even know you, and now…well, I still don’t know much, but I’m glad you’re here. Can you be glad too?”
Dawn wiped her nose on Calista’s sleeve. “I will fulfill my duties, M’Lady.”
“That’s my brave girl,” Calista released Dawn, and they both stood. “Let’s go find that cloth and get you kitted out. And they we’ll get you cleaned up. You’re all cry-faced.”
“I’m sorry, M’Lady. Truly, I am a disgrace…”
“No! Why are you so hard on yourself? You don’t have to be perfect all the time.”
[I]And so it goes. I'll see if I can hammer out a nice little self-contained story today, but I can't promise anything. See you in 24.

KenGreen Blog Blogs Member Public

And now I'm back to being depressing. I think I have another sinus infection. All I know is, I've been feeling crappy lately. So I wrote the thing that appears below, and that's about all I did yesterday. (Well, I edited some dialog between Darla and Olivia, and that was kind of sweet.) Anyway, here's the thing:


AD ASTRA PER ASPERA
By Ken Green
“Ka-krink, ka-krink, ka-krink,” the ratchet said, as Kathy tightened the last bolt. It was the only sound in the forest clearing. Under the noonday sun, even the birds didn’t bother to sing. It was summer in Texas, and it was just too hot to do anything.
Kathy paused in her work, grabbed the hem of her tee-shirt, and peeled it off, revealing her sweat-stained bra. She wiped her forehead and threw the shirt to the side, not looking where it landed.
“Why are you looking at me like that, Owen?” she asked, not looking up.
“I’m worried about you,” he said, sitting in the shade, “What are you doing?”
“Following instructions,” she finished with the bolt, dropped the ratchet, stood, admired her work. She had built a framework of scrap wood, wire, duct tape, and anything else she could find, buy, or steal. At its core stood a machine with no obvious function.
Owen looked at his friend, if that was what she still was. In the past few months she had transformed from a cute, shy girl, to…an obsessed madwoman. She had lost weight along with her social skills and her sanity. More recently, she had taken to ditching school in order to work on the inexplicable thing she now stood in.
“It’s finished,” she said, staring with reverence at the control panel, a scrap of plywood festooned with buttons she had torn from her clothing and elaborate circuits she had drawn with a sharpie marker.
“What does it do?” Owen asked.
“It proves that I’m worthy,” Kathy said, her voice low, “It proves I deserve it.”
She held her hand out to Owen.
“Come with me,” she said, softly.
“No, Kathy, this is crazy…”
“Please, Owen. Please believe. Come with me. I will show you wonders. It’s beautiful out there. Just believe.”
Owen stood and joined her on the platform.
She smiled, something he hadn’t seen in weeks. She placed her hands on the control panel.
“Activate the transport beam,” she said.
Nothing happened.
“Why?” she screamed to the empty sky, “I did everything you asked! Why is it never good enough?”
She gripped the rough edges of the panel, shook it till it came loose, threw it to the ground. Her hands were bloody. She was crying.
“Why?” she sobbed, hard, racking sobs, “What’s wrong with me? Was I born wrong? Why can’t I be good enough?”
She collapsed, and Owen caught her, held her.
“What are you doing?” she asked, “You don’t love me either. You never did.”
“Kathy,” he said, “You need help.”

I woke this morning, looked at that, and thought about Aztecs. Because the Aztecs (Or it might have been the Maya, the Toltec, the the Olmec, or some other culture, I'm not an expert, and I'm too lazy to Google it.) believed that people with mental disabilities had been touched by the gods. (So they treated them kindly, instead of burning them as witches like my distant relatives would have.)

So, with that in mind, what if aliens were divine in nature? Maybe that's why we don't get them. Because we're not ready yet. But we're on the cusp. So they keep buzzing our planet, hoping to find The One, that they can lead to The Next Step, whatever the hell that is. Just a thought, maybe not a good one. Who can know?

All I know is, I don't want to write sad crap today. So I'm going to take a shower, eat some brekky, and see about pounding out some happy/funny/sexy crap for tomorrow's offering.

Page 9 Blog KenGreen

FREE ENTERPRISE
By Ken Green
“That’s a funny looking ship,” Blanche Jolene Delight said, squinting at the vidscreen, “Why does it look like that?”
“Madam, the LS-400 is a time-honored design, and one that is perfectly suited to your requirements,” the salesman assured her.
Blanche’s squinty eyes grew even squintier, as if she were trying to intimidate the sales display. Her expression was one of suspicion. The LS-Whatever looked like a submarine having nonconsensual sex with a doughnut. And although Blanche was intimately familiar with sex, and had seen her fair share of doughnuts, and had very flexible views on the topic of consent, especially when money was involved, she didn’t know crap about submarines.
“What does the big round thingie do?” Blanche asked.
“That’s the habitat ring,” the salesman said.
“The habi-what?”
“The living section. That’s where the staterooms are located. The whole section spins…”
“It spins? Why would I want that? I don’t my girls throwing up on the clients. There’s nothing sexy about that.” Although it’s not as gross as what the German ones ask for. I’d better double my order of bedsheets.
“I’m still not clear about the nature of business you’re buying this ship for.”
“It’s a school,” Blanche recited, “For young women from troubled backgrounds. I’ll take my poor, sweet doves into space, and teach them the life skills they’ll need to thrive in the asteroid belt.”
“Why take them to the asteroid belt?”
“What better place to meet young, wealthy men? It’s the new gold rush out there! The belt is crawling with lonely rockhoppers with pockets full of gold dust and nothing to spend it on. Imagine how happy they’ll be to see my girls.” I’m going to be rich. In a few years, I’ll turn this ship into a fleet. I’ll own the asteroid ring.
“And your…girls will be entertaining…clients. In their bedrooms. Exactly what kind of school is this?”
“The curriculum is centered on home economics. Mister, I don’t like the way you’re looking at me. If you don’t want my lottery money, I’ll just point my size sixes out your door, and walk them across the street to your competitor. Maybe he’s more polite. I’m dying to find out. Should I do that, Honey?”
Only a true daughter of the south can say the word ‘Honey’, and make it a curse.
“Please, Mam, I apologize. I would be happy to do business with your fine…school.”
“That’s better, Sugar,” she patted him on the cheek and smiled. Men are such simple creatures. It’s always good to reward them when they behave properly, and sometimes it just takes a simple touch.
“Now tell me, Honeybunch,” she prompted, “What does the submarine thingie do?”
“The submarine…Oh! No, mam, that’s the pinnace.”
“The pinnace…” Of course they would call it that. Why are men so proud of something so stupid?
“It’s where the bridge and m-drive are located. It also functions as a landing craft when it’s detached from the habitat ring.”
“Wait. It detaches? You mean, the ship comes apart?” Blanche didn’t know squat about spaceships, but she didn’t like the sound of that.
“Yes. The hab ring stays in orbit, and you use the pinnace whenever you need to land on a planet. It’s streamlined, so you could even take it into Earth’s atmosphere. Although I don’t know how often you’ll be making the run to Earth…”
“Only when I need new girls…I mean, students, of course.” That’s something to consider. Turnover rate might be pretty high. I doubt that asteroid miners are very gentle. All part of the costs of business.
“Of course,” the salesman nodded.
“So, when the pinnace is detached,” damn, it’s hard to say that with a straight face, “The habitat ring has no…what did you call it? An M-drive? So it can’t maneuver by itself?”
“No. The hab ring just stays in whatever orbit you parked it in. It has a power plant to run lights and life support, but it can’t go anywhere.
Blanche smiled at that. Good. Then the little sluts can’t run away while I’m running an errand. And if they get too mouthy, I can drop them into the sun.
“Okay, Sugar, you’ve convinced me. I want the ship. What happens next?”
“Well, the ship is currently unregistered. Have you picked out a name for it?”
“Yes,” Blanche Jolene said, “I want to call it “The BeeJay Express”. Blanche was an honest businesswoman, and a firm believer in truth in advertising.
“The Bee..”
“That was my nickname, when I was a child.”
“Of course it was.” He checked the ships registry database on his datapad, filed the application, got a confirmation.
“Good news,” he said, “That name is available. Now all we need to do is work out your financing.”
“Let’s go to your office,” Blanche suggested, “And lock the door. I like to negotiate in private.”

#

End.

Blog KenGreen

OOMLA
By Ken Green
The sun had dipped to the tops of the mountains. It had been a good day of gathering, and the baskets were full. The tribe had returned to the camp, and Shaman was making the fire. Everybody else sat in the circle. Time to make tools.
Oomla sat next to Da, like she always did. He picked up a tool rock, and a chipping rock, as did she, as did the rest of the tribe.
They began chipping, and fell into a seductive, drowsy rhythm.
“Da,” Oomla said, chipping at her rock, “Do you ever think about rock?”
Da’s brow furrowed. And Neanderthals have big brows, so when they furrow them, it’s an event.
“Think about rock all the time,” he said, “Think, ‘This is good rock for making axe.’ What else would I think about?”
“No, Da. Do you ever wonder what rock…is?” Oomla peered deeply at her rock, as if it held secrets.
“Rock is rock,” Da said, settling the issue.
“Yes, but what does that mean?” Oomla asked, “I could take this rock…”
“You already have that rock,” Da said, then gave her rock an appraising look, “That rock make good spearhead. You should make spearhead.”
“Yes, Da. In my hand, I hold one rock. But if I smash it just right, I’ll have two rocks.”
“Why ruin good spear head?” Da objected, “Rocks not grow on trees,” he admonished.
“And if I take one of the two rocks, and smash it into two rocks, what do I have?” she asked.
“Many rocks,” Da answered, “And a father who is angry with you for wasting a good rock.”
“Exactly,” Oomla said, “One rock, two rocks, many rocks. But isn’t ‘many’ just the sound we make when we can’t count anymore?”
“When you talk like this, my head hurt. Why you do this?”
She put the tool rock on the ground. “One rock,” she put the chipping rock next to it, “Two rocks,” frantic, she found a pebble and added it to the collection, “What is that?”
“Many rocks. Why you so stupid?”
“No! It can’t be many. I can still count all the rocks. There has to be something that’s more than two, but less than many. Why don’t we have a sound for that?”
“We’ll never need one. Look,” he said, holding an empty hand up, “One hand,” he held up his other hand, “Two hands. No need for more.”
“Yeah? Well, what about this?” She held up a finger, “One finger,” she held up another, “Two fingers,” she held up a third, “What do I do now, Da?”
“Why you count fingers?” he asked, “Are you afraid you lost some?”
“How would I know?”
“I think you would have felt something. Your hands look fine. Why aren’t you using them to make a spearhead?”
“This is important, Da,” she said.
“No,” Da said, “Spearheads are important. If you can make a good spearhead, we can tie it to a stick, and use it to kill mastodon. Then we can eat mastodon. You like mastodon.”
“But that’s all we ever do. We hunt, we gather, then we make new tools so we can hunt and gather again. Nothing ever changes.”
“Oomla?”
“Yeah, Da?”
“If you don’t start making a spearhead, I’m going to smash your head with my new axe.”
“Fine,” she said, chipping away at the rock, knocking small chips off it, creating a point and edges.
“You’re getting pretty good at that,” Da said.
“Thanks,” she said, not meaning it. “Wait. Look at these little chips I’m making.”
“Yeah,” he said, “You have a fine touch. That spearhead looks great. You’re a very good daughter, when you’re not talking.”
“That’s not the point. Each of these tiny flecks of rock is still…made out of rock.”
“Of course it is…”
“And if I was to take just one of these tiny flecks, and smash it into tinier flecks…”
“Why would you do that? They would be too tiny to pick up. What good is a rock you can’t pick up?” Da asked.
“But, can I do that forever? If I keep smashing bits of rock smaller and smaller, will I get to the point where it isn’t rock anymore?”
“Why would you even want to? What do you have against rocks?”
“Nothing, Da. I just want to understand what rocks are.”
“They’re rocks.”
Oomla’s eyes grew large. “Maybe the whole world is rock! Maybe we’re living on a really, really big rock.”
“What? Wait. No. The world isn’t just rock. It’s also dirt. And trees. And Mastodons.”
“Yes. But think about it. Rock and dirt are very similar.”
“What?”
“Clumps of dirt can be broken down much like rocks can be, only more easily. Maybe dirt is just a bunch of tiny, tiny rocks that stick together, but not very well.”
“Yeah,” Da said, “But how do you kill a mastodon with dirt?”
“Oh, screw you, and your mastodon,” she said, throwing the spearhead to the ground and walking away.
#

End.

KenGreen Blog

GROWING SHRIMP ON MARS
By Ken Green
“This is Jezebel Hiroshima, coming at you live and direct from southern Acidalia Planitia, on Mars,” Jez said into her microphone, her perfectly sculpted porcelain face displaying concern, “The site of the latest UE raid, a shrimp farm owned by Kathleen O’Hara.”
Steve the cameraman gave her the thumbs up. She didn’t acknowledge him. She knew she looked great. It took two things to become a correspondent for SNN: a pretty face, and amazing oral skills. Jez had both, and the best body medical science could buy.
Phil the sound guy was herding the witness toward Jez. The poor girl seemed to be having difficulty walking.
“And here we have a witness to the event, a young woman who survived the raid.”
Phil gave the girl a gentle push.
“What? Oh. My. God. You’re Jezebel Hiroshima!” the girl said, clearly amazed. “You are so pretty, like a little doll, but sexier.”
“Miss, I understand you’re the owner of this shrimp farm?” Jez asked.
“Yeah, what’s left of it, anyway. Why did the UE blow it up?” her brow furrowed, her lips pouted, and then she yawned, almost as if she didn’t know what facial expression she wanted to go with, and was cycling through them.
“The UE statement claims that this farm was a hotbed of terrorist activity. How do you respond to that?”
“Huh? Hot bed? I don’t have a hot bed, this is Mars! Nothing is hot here. It gets so lonely. You are so damn pretty.” She stared at Jez with the unnerving intensity that only religious zealots and stoners can achieve.
“Miss, can you tell me how you’re feeling?” Jez asked.
“I’m not feeling a damned thing. I adjusted the settings on my breather. I’m running a mix of NO2 and nitrogen.” She lifted the breathing mask to her face, took a long hit, and smiled.
“Hey,” she said, “Do you want some of this?”
“No, thank you. Could you tell the viewers your name?”
“Yeah, I guess. I’m Kathleen O’Hara. Welcome to my farm.” She started to cry. “They blew up my farm! Why?” she bent down to pick up one of the many dying shrimp that were crawling around. She held it up for the camera.
“Does this look like the face of a terrorist? It’s a shrimp, for God’s sake, what has he ever done to anybody? How does this make Earth safer?”
“Well, surely you could rebuild…”
“With what? I don’t have any money. I was counting on the next harvest to make my mortgage payment. Now, I’m going to lose my farm and I’ll probably wind up in Barsoom, hooking or something. Do you think I’m pretty enough to hook? I mean, I still have my looks, right?”
“The United Earth spokesman has stated that the raid was to capture the terrorist leader John Carter.”
“Well, he isn’t here, is he? And how do you capture somebody with a missile? That’s what they shot my house with. A missile.”
The camera panned to the house. Like many structures on Mars, it was constructed from beer-bottle-brown foamglass bricks, stacked like Legos. The missile had blown it wide open, and its contents were burning listlessly in the thin Martian air. Something exploded.
“That was my truck,” Kathleen said, “The fuel cell. Can I get a ride to Barsoom? I wonder if I have enough money to buy lipstick. I don’t want to be a hooker. I owe so much money…”
Jez pressed her hand to her earpiece. “A SNN instapoll shows that 93% of our viewers think you’re pretty enough to be a hooker.”
“Oh. Thanks,” Kathleen said, distantly.
“And now I’m receiving news that our fans have stared a Kickstarter campaign to buy you lipstick.”
“What?” Kathleen asked.
“Another instapoll reports that 97% of our viewers would ‘Totally Watch’ a reality show about you hooking.”
“Really? But I don’t want to…”
“I’ve just received news that your Kickstarter lipstick fund has just topped thirty thousand dollars.”
“That’s a lot of lipstick. Hey! I could buy a new truck with that. Could I use my lipstick money to rebuild my farm?”
“In our latest instapoll, 98% of our viewers agree that you would ‘Totally Suck’ if you backed out of the hooking show.”
“Well, that’s…that’s just mean. I’m just trying to make an honest living. Why can’t I just do that?”
Jez smiled her perfect smile, and said, “Coming up next on SNN: Fashion forecast: new trends in designer pets, and how to dispose of last season’s beloved companions!”
#

End.

KenGreen Blog - Page 9

“That’s a wrap. Turn the damned camera off.” Jezebel Hiroshima ordered.
Steve complied. Cameramen were a dime a dozen, and Jez consumed them like chicklets.
She marched to the whirly, climbed in, and turned to Kathleen.
“Were you serious about wanting that ride, Sweetie?”
“Huh?” Kath huhed, “Yeah, sure.”
“Well, get your ass in here then.”
“Yes, Mam,” Kathleen climbed into the whirly and Phil, the sound guy, followed.
The whirly’s oversized rotors went thwip, thwip, thwip as they strained in the thin Martian atmosphere.
As they climbed, Kathleen gazed out the window at her destroyed shrimp farm.
“Congratulations, kid,” Jez said, reading a datapad, “You’re a celebrity now.”
“I’d rather be a shrimp farmer.”
“Oh, cheer up and enjoy your fifteen minutes. Hey, look. PETA has issued a fatwa on you.” Jez turned her data pad around to show Kath.
“A fatwa? What’s that?”
“It’s a kill-on-sight order to the faithful.”
“They want to kill me? How is that good news?”
“Relax, they’re militant pacifists. Worst thing they’ll do is throw paint on you. They hardly ever kill people.”
“Why would they want to do anything to me? What did I ever do to them?”
“You got on the news. Face it, Honey, you’re a farmer. You support the eating of animals.”
“But they’re shrimp! What else are they good for? They make terrible pets. They don’t even like to cuddle. I know that for a fact. I tried.”
Jez put the pad down. “You did?”
“Don’t judge me,” Kath said, “It gets lonely on the farm. I have needs.”
Jez pointed at the breather Kath had hanging from her neck.
“Are you still running funny gas through that thing?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, hand it over, then.”
Kath slipped the mask and its strap over her head, and tossed it to Jez, who took a long hit and smiled.
“Wow. That really takes the edge off, doesn’t it? I’ll tell you why it’s good news. This…” she held the pad up, “Is the sound of your cherry popping. You’re nobody until PETA hates you.”
“I liked being nobody. When I was nobody, my house didn’t have a skylight.”
The pad chirped.
“Hold that thought,” Jez read and huffed more NO2, “Oh, this is good. You’re a t-shirt now.”
She held the pad up to show a picture of grinning K-Pop singers wearing t-shirts with Kath’s picture on them, over the caption, “Am I Pretty Enough to Hook?”
Kath’s jaw dropped. “This is a disaster. Wait, how is this even possible? That was like, twenty minutes ago.”
“The Koreans,” Jez sighed, “Sure, they’re my ancestral enemies, but I surely admire their initiative.”
“Why are the Koreans your ancestral enemies?”
“Duh, I’m Japanese. Well, half Japanese, half Apache,” she took another hit, “Ugh, Sweetie, promise me you’ll never eat Garlic Shrimp again.”
“That’s amazing!” Kath exclaimed, amazed, “How did you know what I had for dinner last night?”
“I come from a deeply spiritual people. And my sinuses just cleared up,” she peered into the mask, “Did you throw up into this thing?”
“Yeah, about a month ago. You’re like a detective or something. Can I sue them?”
“Sue who? The shrimp you ate, or my parents?”
“The Koreans. They’re using my picture to sell shirts, and they didn’t ask me. Isn’t there a law about that?” Kath asked.
“Well, sure there is. But it’s one of those laws that only works for rich people, who can afford lawyers. Actually, most laws work like that, don’t they?”
“There has to be something I can do…”
“Forget about it. There’s probably a hundred sweatshops cranking those things out by now. You’re in the wind, you’re a meme now.”
“I don’t want to be a meme.”
“Well, I didn’t want to be fabulously rich, and amazingly gorgeous, but…oh, wait, yeah, I did. And look at me. Dreams really do come true!” Jez smiled.
“Great. That’s really inspiring.”
“Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself. There’s people in this world with real problems. Here. This will cheer you up.”
Jez held up the pad again. It was playing a music video of a woman singing, “Do you think I’m pretty enough to hook?”
“Wait. She wrote this song and produced a video in the time we’ve been flying? How is that possible? Do people just watch the news waiting for something stupid to happen, so they can exploit it?”
“You are so adorable,” Jez said, taking another hit, “You’re like a baby kitten leaving the nest for the first time ever. Everything is brand new for you.”
“None of this makes sense. Is this coming from Earth? Did somebody change the speed of light…”
Jez’s phone rang. She held up a hand to silence Kath.
“Yes,” Jez said, into the phone, “Yes, she’s very excited about this opportunity. Send the contract to my office, and I’ll have her sign it.” She hung up and started a game of Bedazzled.
“What was that about?” Kath asked.
“What?” Jez looked puzzled, “Oh, the phone call. That was Revlon. You’re going to be their new spokesmodel. Well, not you you, they’ll do a body scan and…”
“I didn’t agree to that!”
“No, but I did, acting as your agent. If I’m going to be taking thirty percent of your gross, I should earn it, don’t you think?”
“When did you become my agent? I never agreed to that either.”
“Which shows a complete lack of judgement. Face it, Sweetie, you need me. Look at yourself. You’re a train wreck on a sinking ship during a bad Bat Mitzvah. You need adult supervision. Keep fussing, and I’ll have a judge declare you incompetent and appoint me as your guardian.”
“Why are you doing this?” Kath asked.
“Because I’m Jezebel Hiroshima, the journalist that cares. It says that on my business cards. Besides, the movie rights to your biography will make you rich. Well, not rich rich, but rich enough.
“Movie rights? There’s going to be a movie?”
“I have three studios locked in a bidding war. Isn’t that exciting?”
“I can hardly contain myself.” Kath looked out the window. “Jez, are you expecting an escort?”
“No,” Jez said, engrossed in her game, “Why?”
“Because we have one.”
A utility whirly came racing over the desert, its big side door open to reveal two uniformed men with automatic rifles.

KenGreen Blog Public Member Blogs - Page 9

A utility whirly came racing over the desert, its big side door open to reveal two uniformed men with automatic rifles.
“Those aren’t UE uniforms…” Kath said.
“Pilot!” Jez yelled, “Can we outrun them?”
“I don’t know, but we sure as hell can’t outrun their bullets!” he answered.
A third figure joined the riflemen. He gestured to the ground.
“Set us down.” Jez said, then turned to Steve, the cameraman, “Start rolling.”
“Uplink established.” Steve said, “Requesting a window, no answer so far.”
Jez pressed her earpiece. “Murray, we have a new development. An unmarked whirly has intercepted us, and it looks like they want to talk. I think they’re Martian Separatists.”
The news whirly landed, as did the utility. Jezebel stepped out, followed by Kath, Steve, and Phil the Sound Guy. The riflemen exited the utility, followed by the third figure. They were all wearing paramilitary outfits, but he had the bearing of an officer.
“This is Jezebel Hiroshima, coming at you live and direct…”
“Stop filming,” the officer said, “There will be time for that later.”
“Sir, as a member of the free press, I…”
The officer drew his sidearm. “I do not like repeating myself.”
“Okay, Steve, shut it down.”
Steve lowered the camera.
“Thank you,” the officer said, as he turned to Kath, “Ms. Kathleen O’Hara. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Who the hell are you?” Kath asked.
He smiled, amused, “I am John Carter.”
“For real? Golly, I’ve been wanting to meet you all day!” she smiled, then hauled her fist back and punched him in the jaw.
He went sprawling.
“That was for Shrimpy, you son of a bitch! And his five thousand friends!” she yelled, then “Ow, ow, ow, my hand…”
One of the riflemen swung his rifle butt, driving it into her kidney. The other kicked her in the back of the knee. In short order, they had her face down on the ground.
Carter stood, dusted himself off.
“Let her up,” he ordered.
They let her stand, but kept their weapons trained on her.
Carter wiped his mouth, and spat out blood.
“I didn’t blow up your farm, Ms. O’Hara. The UE did.”
“Yeah, but they were looking for you, weren’t they? What did you do, feed somebody some bad intel, to flush out a mole?”
“I’m impressed. You’re much brighter than you appeared to be on the news.”
“So what do you want? Are you here to ruin my life some more?”
“No. You are the new face of the revolution.”
He held up a datapad. It displayed a video clip of Kath, at the farm, asking, “Why did the UE blow it up?” over and over again, under a headline that read, “UE blunder destroys woman’s home, life.”
“I’m getting really tired of seeing my picture,” Kath said, “Wait. Is that even me? I’ve never looked that good.”
“That’s the ‘Sympathetic victim’ filter, Sweetie,” Jez explained, “It’s part of the video processing software. It really suits you.”
“It does,” Carter agreed, “And your story has blown up bigger than a fuel refinery. You’re a phenomenon. And that’s why you’re my newest recruit.”
“But I don’t want any part of your revolution!” Kath said.
“You don’t want to live on a free and independent Mars?” he asked.
“No. I don’t care about politics. For all I know, you’ll just replace the repressive Earth government with an oppressive Mars government. What good is that?”
“You don’t understand. The wheels are already in motion. The revolution is coming, and you will be part of it.”
“I won’t help you,” Kath said.
“I think you will,” he said, as he stepped forward. He raised his sidearm, and pressed the muzzle against her forehead.
She made a tiny, frightened sound, and squinched her eyes shut. But they she opened them, and they glared in defiance.
“Pull the trigger,” she whispered, “Go ahead and kill me.”
“You’re bluffing. You don’t mean it. If I pull this trigger, I end you. Do you not realize that?”
“Do it. I don’t want to live in a world you control. Either kill me, or walk away. I don’t care which.”
“I believe you,” he said, lowering the gun, “And I’m impressed. You have courage, Ms. O’Hara, and I respect that. But let’s test your resolve.”
He aimed the gun at Phil and fired a shot. Phil crumpled to the ground, clutching his ruined knee.
“No!” Kath screamed. She bent down to help him, but Carter stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
“The next bullet will go into his belly. He will die a slow, agonizing death, unless you join the revolution.
“Don’t do this!” Kath tried to lunge for the gun, but Carter’s goons were quicker. One gave her a quick jab to abdomen, and the other pinned her arms behind her back.
“This grows tiresome, O’Hara, I’d like an answer.”
“Fine,” she said, “I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt him anymore. Please. I’ll behave,” she sobbed.
“And now we know.” Carter shifted his aim and fired, painting the desert with Phil’s brain.
“Oh, my God,” Kath gasped, her eyes wide with horror. She fell to her knees. The goon bent down and secured her wrists with zip ties.
“Why?” she asked, “I said I’d do what you wanted.”
“Yes, and now you know the cost of making me ask twice.” He put his fingers under her chin and gently tilted her head up to peer into her eyes.
“A minute ago, you were beautiful. Your eyes burned with righteous defiance. Now that fire is gone. I shouldn’t be disappointed. You have shown more courage than I would have ever imagined. But your courage is physical courage, the willingness to sacrifice yourself. What you lack is moral courage, the will to sacrifice others.”
“Could we go back to you holding a gun to my head? Because if you’re going to keep lecturing me, I’d rather have the bullet.”
“Oh, good. You still have some fire in you.” He smiled.
“Sir,” one of the goons said, “We need to get going.”
“Quite right. You heard him. Ladies first.”
Walked to the whirly. The goons helped her climb in, and were surprisingly gentle about it.
“Hey!” Jez said, “What about us?”
“You two are free to go.” Carter said.
“Not on your life, Mister,” Jez said, “You promised me an interview.”
“Jez!” Kath cried out, “Are you crazy? He said you can go. Go!”
“Come on, Steve,” Jez said. They climbed aboard the whirly.
“Wait,” Steve said, “Are you sure about this? I mean, he just killed Phil…”
“Yes, and if we don’t pursue this story, Phil will have died in vain. Do you want that on your conscience?”
“He did die in vain!” Kath said.
“No, Miss O’Hara,” Carter corrected, “He died teaching you a lesson.”
“Sir, what about their pilot?” one of the goons asked.
“What about him?” Carter asked.
“Is he coming with us, too?”
Carter climbed back out of the whirly. Moments later, a shot rang out. Carter climbed back into the whirly.
“No,” Carter said, “Their pilot will not be joining us.”.