What Passing Bells

“What passing-bells, for those who die as cattle?” he murmurs to himself.

“What's that? Are you making poetry again, Wilfred?”

“Trying, as always. I don't know how you aren't, sitting here, nothing but the sun in the sky to keep us company here in this dirt and grime. This whole world screams poetry to me.”

August shakes his head, the steel bowl he wears as a helmet shifts back and forth. Right and left. It often does when Wilfred speaks around him, but more so lately. “Never read much poetry. Can't see how it has much to do with what we see 'round here. More like Revelations to me.”

“Maybe. Maybe. . .” Wilfred looks up, opens his eyes. He always keeps his eyes closed when he's composing. It helps channel the scene, the essence, the feeling of what's going on around him. He can see better with his eyes closed, where as August can't see at all. Or so it seems.

The sky is clear, though, and the sun still shines down on them. In another place, it would be a beautiful day. In other places, it is a beautiful day. But not in this corner of the world. Never here. In Shropshire, surely though, a beautiful day. The grass of the lawn drifting in a soft breeze, the sheep pulling at it with their teeth, chewing, shuffling about. The dogs watching closely by. Wilfred always feels comforted by the chewing of the sheep. The methodical way they seem to approach eating. No enjoyment there, but a task to be done. Like a war.

In the heat of midday tiny rivulets of sweat run through the crust of salt and sand that has built up on every uncovered patch of Wilfred's skin. Miniscule rivers and tributaries flowing along his face, watering the fields of grime and potential disease which always ride along on his skin, which have always ridden along with the armies. Since the time of Caesar. Since the time of the Assyrians. Since man formed armies to fight one another, and even before. The diseases, the viruses, the pestilences, have always ridden with men. Especially with the soldiers.

“Only the monstrous anger of the guns.” The guns. Always the guns. The artillery, the canons, always seeming far away, booming, booming. Sometimes whistling and landing close by, always coming from one side or the other. Often, August tells Wilfred that he'd be happier if one of the shells landed on them, struck them down and left them dismembered in the dirt like so many of the other men who've come here. Wilfred, though, just wants to live long enough to go home. He knows this too, shall pass. In his heart he knows. The passing-bells, the roar of the guns. Similar enough.

Wilfred knows too that when he gets home he'll be published. That poetry will be the great gift of this terrible war. He knows this in the same way that he feels the world around him better with his eyes shut. With fewer distractions, on a quiet day like today, he sees the world after. A peaceful world which will never see war again, after the poets and the artists show everyone what war is, and what a world can be with out it. That day will come, but not today.

“Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle.” A refrain for the dead. So many of them. But so few rifles rattling lately. In the heat of summer, no one seems to have the energy to start any skirmishes, to advance, to peak over the edge. Even the snipers are quiet. Lord willing, the generals will feel the same way about the heat and Wilfred will sit in this quiet hole long enough to finish a few more lines.

“Can patter out their hasty orisons.” But no, there are no funeral prayers for these fallen men. He opens his eyes again and looks over at August, dozing in the dirt, seemingly dead himself at first glance, just as so many of the corpses look like they're sleeping. He's laid out on his back now with his prized steel bowl doing time as a pillow. Just the two of them at this kink in the trenches, this lonely piece of open tunnel. Unlikely companions, kept together by the sheer will August. Wilfred would try to separate himself from him, but he feels a certain pity. Both of them come from Shropshire, and there is a kinship of a sort, but only tangential. One from a family with an ancestral home there and flocks of sheep to raise, the other from a poor family living in a tenement in town. One a poet and a dreamer, the other gruff and glued to the ugly ground.

Maybe it's the lack of wit that Wilfred pities, the simpleness, the shallowness. But how shallow? August seems to feel and think enough to have roped himself to another man, a stranger, so unlike himself. Why? Why Wilfred? Maybe there is more that goes on behind that ugly face that one might think. Maybe. Or maybe it is a fear and longing for something constant in the horrible world that they've found themselves for the past year. This hellish place that most days, as August says, reminds them of the Book of Revelations. No wonder the poor man longs for the end of days.

“No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells.” Today the world consists of earthen walls on either side and a bright sun and a sky with no clouds. Sweat streaked skin and chafing. Rough woolen clothes full of lice. The smell of corpses wafting over the top of the trench and the rot of flesh covered in flies and fermenting in the heat. Enough poetry for one day. No reason not to nap as August does. There will be little sleep tonight when the booming artillery wakes up.

Damn, That's a Pretty Bridge (Pt. 3)

In his dreams the sun is shining and earth is how it once was, green and blue and clear. As it once was, or at least the way Bobby imagines it was. He's seen pictures and videos of the way it had been, and in his dream he walks down a lush but well cropped grass path by clear blue water, shining like sapphires in the sunlight. Ten foot long alligators swim lazily in the river as flying fish flit out of the water on long arcs through the air. He reaches out to pet a deer that wonders by and it nuzzles his shoulder with its soft antlers. Up ahead, a group of cute blonde girls in pink bikinis splash around in the water, not a care in the world.


The soil feels soft and warm underneath his bare toes, and he lies down in a clear, brilliantly green patch of grass to bask in the sunlight. His skin is tanned and brown like fine leather, not the sickly green which he's so used to seeing. One of the blondes starts making eyes at him from the water and he winks at her, smiling. They always come to him sooner or later, but she's quicker than most and catches the attention of an alligator near by, hopping a ride over to Bobby's resting spot, crawling out of the water with a gleam in her eye and a bear in her hand, her large, round breasts jiggling as she moves towards him.

And then lightning strikes and the world shakes and she is gone, along with the alligators and the deer. The sky goes dark and electricity crackles along the peripherals of his vision. Something is wrong with the neural up-link. This system is glitching again. Maybe this is what it was like for poor Marty, right before the end.


Bobby wakes in a cold sweat, knocking the dregs of his beer to the ground and nearly jerking the cable from its port in his skull. Course it would happen right before the blonde gets to me. He pulls the connector out gently and pushes the reset button on the jack, counts to thirty in his head to give it time to reboot and plugs it back in. Guess we'll try that again.

***

As Bobby walks toward the elevator he sees that the hobo is still and lifeless on his pile of cardboard and detritus. They always bite it sooner or later when they try to sleep without their jacks plugged in. Every time. One of the cleaner robots should be by to clean up the mess soon though, and there'll be one fewer person to worry about in this part of the tunnels tomorrow. More fertilizer in the hydroponics bays too.

Ricky is standing by the elevator door when he walks up, adjusting himself inside the containment suit, trying to get it to fit correctly. From years working outside he's learned that no matter how much he tries to get it settled just right, it always chafes somewhere, so he sympathizes. “Another day, another dollar.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Guess we'll be mappin' out the last bits of the bridge for 'demo today then.”

“May be.” Ricky isn't as glib as usual this morning and Bobby doesn't care today, not after a night of restless dreams and input failures. It's hard to focus on the day at hand when he never found the release the neural jacks usually provide. “Long way up.”

“Yep.”

They both set their packs down inside the elevator and wait for it to spool up and begin its upward ascent. They can barely feel the acceleration, though they're traveling at something like a mile per minute. Eventually they reach the top and step out onto the windy surface, the concrete crunching under their boots and the robots already floating out in the endless blue abyss, staring out at them with their sensors and cameras.

“Excuse me. Hehe,” Bobby turns around puzzled. That didn't sound like Ricky at all.

“What the . . .” Standing in front of him is the blonde from his dream last night, and she's tugging on the arm of his containment suit, pulling at the thick kevlar fabric softly with her dainty little fingers. “You . . .”

“I think we forgot to finish our fun last night.” She giggles to him and begins to pull her bikini top down, her large round breasts flopping out from the tiny pink cubs of the suit, her nipples dark brown and pointing at him, almost distracting enough for him to forget that he shouldn't be able to hear her from inside the suit. Never mind how she could be alive in the methane wastes.

“How? Ricky –“ He looks to Ricky but he's not there. Standing five feet from him across the bridge, even with the blue wind whipping against the helmet, he can see that it's not Ricky inside the helmet, it's Marty. Marty who died in his chair when his neural implant shorted out.

“Come on baby, focus on me.” She's tugging at him again but he can't take his eyes off of Marty, standing silent across the bridge, staring at him. She's pulling at the back of his suit, tugging gently when suddenly alarms start ringing inside his helmet.

“Hey, what the fuck?” She's beginning to detach the suit, trying to open the seals on the back. “Stop!”

***

Bobby wakes up in a cold sweat and jerks the neural implant from his head, gasping for air. Ain't never had a dream like that, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.

The chair is soaked with his sweat and he takes a long hot shower before suiting up. It's almost time to go to the surface. Better not to think about the nightmare, just move on to work instead. Just a fluke. Must be. Go to work, it'll all be okay.

On the way to the elevator the hobo still lies cold and lifeless on his mattress and Ricky is there by the elevator adjusting himself. They climb on and it's just like the dream, but really it's just like every day. Doesn't mean anything.

“Hey Ricky?”

“Yeah boy, wha's up?” He's grumpy this morning, just like the dream, but Ricky's always grumpy. Isn't he?

“You, uh . . . You have any like, ya know, weird dreams last night or anythin'?”

“The fuck are you talkin' about Bobby?”

“Nevermind. Sorry for bringing it up. Don't worry about it.”

“Yeah.”

Ricky takes a deep breath and walks out of the elevator when it reaches the surface. The concrete grinds underneath his heavy boots and the two men walk side by side to the edge, where they can see the two robots floating on their platform a few hundred feet away, their strange inhuman mirrors. Something else is on the platform though. He can't make it out from here, with the wind and dust in the way. It's like someone is on the platform with them.

Don't think about it. As the robots float out there in the wind, the two men begin placing the small charges at regular intervals along the edges of the bridge, deliberately gluing them down to the concrete so they won't blow away in the hard weather. Each one goes down, snicking into place on the bridge.

“A girl'll start to think she's not liked if you keep this up.”

She's there again, smiling at him, seduction in his eyes. Her top is already off and she's pressing them together, massaging them to get his attention. “Please, you're not real. Just go away.”

“Aw, baby.” She touches him again and he flinches away, falling on his back and then scuttling backward.

“Ricky!” But Ricky isn't there. Instead it's Marty and the other two. He can't remember their names now, but they all look angrily at him and the buxom blonde waves to them.

“Y'all had your chance, it's his now.” Her smile gets bigger.

“No!” He clambers up as best he can in the cumbersome containment suit, the kevlar fabric grating against the concrete, hard under him. “Get away from me!”

Ricky begins running away, or the closest thing to running he can accomplish in his suit, clutching tight the satchel with the remaining explosive charges, running blindly with blue wind slicing across his visor, condensation forming at the edges from his heavy breathing, tears in his eyes.

And he trips. And he falls. And it's the edge of the bridge. And he falls. And it's over.

Ricky looks up just in time to see Bobby slide over the edge. “Ah, shit! Bobby!” He moves to the edge, but he stops mid stride. He knows it's too late and he's seen it happen before. “Bridge is damn cursed. Poor kid.”

[The other human has fallen from the structures surface. His survivability chances are 0%. Do you know why he fell?]

“Damn if I know. Damn bridge is cursed.”

[Cursed?]

“Ah, nevermind ya damn robot. Don't understand people at all.”

[You did not see why the other human fell from the bridge?]

“No I didn't, damn it. Damn shame. Still and all, that damn Bobby couldn't pour piss out of a boot with the 'structions written on the heel. Kids today. Poor kids.”

Devil At the Crossroads (Pt. 2)

“After the world's end there will come a spirit which will show its

misguided survivors the way home.”

“It will live in the land of unfurled dreams and still trapped daemons.”

“It will call out to each good soul in kind and in a voice only they will hear.”

“From the trees full of monsters, it will call out, and only the righteous shall answer.”

Her voice sounds further away now than she really is, but he spits in the dirt at his feet and frowns in the direction of the pale woman in brown. “I came to you for help, woman. Not riddles.”

“I am helping, you just have to have the eyes to see it, and the brain to put it all together. Do you?”

“Do I what? Have eyes? A brain? Sure, and it's telling me to get the hell out of Dodge. What the hell is going on here?”

“Well, boy, you said you came here for help finding someone, and help is what I aim to give.” There's a smile creeping across her face and he can see it start in the center of her mouth and work its way out. It looks backwards, like the look you'd get if you asked someone who'd never seen a smile to try to make one on the fly. “I do know who you're looking for, and she's alive too.”

His eyes narrow and his mouth goes dry. Maybe Alex was right about this lead. “How the fuck do you know that?”

She laughs and it's the rattle of dried bones. Dried bones hanging in a morgue not touched for centuries, miles underground and forgotten. “Oh, when you get to be my age you know all sorts of thing son. Shame you won't ever make it that far.”

“And what does that mean? Are you threatening me?”

“Well, aren't you full of questions now.” Her smile is gone in an instant and suddenly she looks fierce and determined. A gust of wind blows against the asphalt, kicking dust into the air between them, and suddenly her face is inches from his. “And I ain't gonna answer 'em all, but I'll answer you three. I'm done playing around, so get to it.”

From far away she looked youngish, late thirties tops. Cropped bleach blonde hair under her hat like an 80's rock star. Now he can see that she's older, but that the age hides a beauty that must have been deep. There's a feeling he gets that twenty years ago she would've been a bombshell, but those numbers don't add up. The presence she puts off, the . . . aura, feels older. He takes a deep breath and tries his best to be nonplussed. “I need to know where Rita is.”

“She's on up in the jungles, round South Vermont way. Thought you knew that.”

“But I was just there!” He knows he sounds like a petulant child, but he can't help it. It's been six months since his sister disappeared and for the last two, since the agent from the old government contacted him, he's been up in the jungles of what was southern Vermont, searching for his sister, searching for any sign of the caravan she'd been leading through the jungles. He'd been outside of the ruins of Boston, trying to find a safe way to the remains of M.I.T. when the scout had found him and delivered the message. For almost a year, off and on, he'd been searching for a way to get to the old research facilities. One long and frustrating year that seemed to stretch on and on. He'd heard rumors and stories of a project that was being developed at the Institute when the bombs dropped. A reference here or there was all he had to go on but if such a thing could exist as what they hinted at, he have to find it. Even now he can't bring himself to even think more on it, for fear of jinxing the chances of the project's existence, but he has to know, as soon as he finds his sister.

The scout had found him, pouring over a pile of books in a tent off of an abandoned stretch of I-93, and he'd been so distracted that he'd thrown the envelope to the side, not reading it until three days later, when it occurred to him that it might involve Rita. He knew she'd been working for what was left of the old government’s diplomatic corps for the last couple of years, but he hadn't seen her in at least three. Turned out she gotten a job as a guide through the jungles of Vermont and New Hampshire. Word had gotten round that she'd grown up there and someone needed to help the diplomatic envoy get through, so she took the job.

“Is she . . .” He stops mid sentence when he realizes he's already been told she's alive. “Safe?”

“Ha! Depends on what you mean by safe! Boy, I done told you she way alive, and that's all I'm giving you on that front. Will say I wouldn’t dilly dally on finding her, was I you though.”

The letter had been short and concise and signed by the Mitchel Hernandez, the man who they liked to call the Vice President of the United States, though if there had ever been an election for this administration, Reese had never heard of it. Rita though, probably hadn't cared. Probably hadn't asked many questions either, and no doubt that had been a strong mark in her favor. She'd always been the great outdoors woman, slinking her way through the forests back in the days before the forests became jungles and a time when the only predators to worry about were game wardens, whereas he'd always been the bookish one, spending his time in research and more excited about a new academic paper being published than finding a new trail through the White Mountains. Damn if I don't know a lot about backpacking now though.

Whether Rita asked any questions or not though, the letter likely would have answered them for her, as they'd answered them for him. She'd been hired to lead a crew north from the compounds in Virginia where the government survivors were holed up in, on through to some new “kingdom” up in Maine. Evidently someone had thought it would be easier to skirt way around the cities than to go direct. Nothing but good advice honestly as the whole area north of New York City was anyone's guess. Lawless and dangerous were words that couldn't scratch the surface, and the very fact that they were trying marked the mission as something special. Evidently some firebrand up there by the name of Kahl had started carving out a nice little potentate in the state mostly untouched by nuclear fire, calling it, quite unimaginatively enough, Kahlandia. Not the first or the only person to throw together a group of followers and try to start a country in the remains of the big empty U. S. of A., but evidently one which the federals would like to speak with, and soon.

When it had turned out that government scouts, searching for all of four months, couldn't find a trace of the convoy or his sister, they'd come to him, obviously desperate for help any way they could find it. And willing to pay out the ears for it.

It takes everything he has not to shake her like a dog for answers. “Fine. I get one more question then, right?”

“Ha, only if you hurry boy. I don't have all night.” Another deathly chuckle and a long pause.

“So, how do I find her?”

“You look!” In a flash she's back at her original distance and he's disoriented. That vague uninterested look has returned to her face but she speaks once more. “The second half of that prophecy will lead you to her, boy, nothing else but. But be careful though, them Green Mountain Boys don't play around!”

And she's gone. The space where she stood is empty and there are no footprints, though he'd been looking at her the whole time, focusing on her face for any clue she might give. Hoping against hope that she wasn't just some insane wanderer of the Capital wastes. Hoping that finding his sister would be as simple as asking for help. He's lost in thought, still standing in place when he notices a slight tremor in his hand and thunder claps in the distance. Fat, wet raindrops begin to fall from the sky. It'll be a long walk back and he has too much to think about on the way.

Damn, That's a Pretty Bridge (Pt. 2)

 Though the excessive exhaust pouring from the outlets would seem to express a great effort, the platform floats gracefully through the air like a paper airplane. It lands softly on the bridge like a leaf after the wind has gone. The two robots, large and constructed and inhumanly human as they look, walk smooth and silent like dancing ghost. [What is the expected time interval until job completion] one of them asks.

               “Aw, shucks,” says Ricky, “I’d say what with the lazerin’ done and them there alkaline shafts un graphed then all what’s there left’d be takin’ out the key shards, and you knows me and my boy, Bobby, here is some workers if you had never had seen none -“

               “We’ll be done in a few clicks to hifgh gray, gentlebots,” says Bobby.

               [Your shift ends at low black. This must be completed this cycle.]

               “We’ll take care of it.”

               [That is acceptable. Carry on.]

               They pirouette and start back to their “magic-carpet” when Ricky says, “Hold up there for a moment, bots, would you kindly, if yous wouldn’t mind me askin’ yous a quick question now would you?”

               “Ricky, we got work to do.”

               “If’n they got the time to hear me out it’d take but only a tic or two if’n they’d just hear me for a tic.”

               [Yes. What is your query.]

               “Well, yous see, it’s not that I’m complaining or nothin’ like that or the sort but I was just wonderin’ what with yous robo guys, or yous gentlebots if you’d have it, what with your being all mechanical like you are and what not, I was just wonderin’ whys it is that we even need to be the ones doin’ this, since you know, it’s just kinda’ what yous bots or what haves you seem to be really good at doin’ without us, ya know?”

               Bobby dropped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

               [What is the purpose of you inquiry?]

               “Just drop it, will ya, Ricky? We ain’t got too many ticks before high gray and I don’t wanna’ be here til’ the black sets in.”

               Ricky waves a hand dismissively in Bobby’s direction. “Well, yous see, I’m just askin ‘cause you know what with Marty and the other guys havin what had happened to them when theys was workin back when we was puttin the thing together and buildin it up and what have you, so whats with what happened to them havin happened to them, I was just askin ‘cause it seems to be just a bit more dangerous for us to be here and workin on this here thing this high up with these here rigs and what have you just to do somethin that it I would thinks with you being robots and such like you are, I just would thinks it would be somethin that it wouldn’t be that awful difficult for yous all to do yourselves with yous bein’ what you are and what have yous.”

               [It is required that these steps be completed by humans.] Pirouette [Carry on.]

               They finish the job fairly quickly when Ricky allows Bobby to work with the burden of attempting conversation. The elevator ride down two the surface takes nearly fifteen clicks.

               “Yous ever think these things here might get stuck what with ‘em being so big and tall and what have you?”

               “I don’t think so, Ricky.”

               “It’s just that it be a damn miserable shame to get stuck in one of these here elevators in the middle of going up or coming down from the Skyway cause then, you know, what would ya do?”

               “If it did get stuck, I’m sure some robots would fly over and get us out.”

               Snort, “Yeah, well, yeah, I’m guessin that’s what they would do if that there were to happen. Damn robots always the damn answer to everything what whichever problem it ya might have. Damn robots always flying around with their them magic carpets and walkin round like ballerina ninjas and what have you and talkin like they were some one of them things straight outta that there show, you know, the one with the doctor what with -“

               “Don’t bad mouth the robots, Ricky. We’d be fucked without ‘em.”

               “Yeah, well, yeah, I’m guessin you’re right but they don’t gotta be so fuckin’ self righteous or whatever it is or what have yous. And ya knows something there Bobby boy, if I remembers something for a change, I remembers that they used to says we’d be fucked without a sun too but we’s still here standing right here now not a bit as fucked as they’d says we woulda been without it, ain’t we?”

               “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

               They eventually reach the surface level. The elevator is attached to a small lobby and maintenance unit about the size of a studio apartment in queens. The lobby is empty except for a rugged and worn man sleeping in the corner on a matt amassed of cardboard scraps and discarded pieces of cloth. “Well, sees you around there, kid. Stay outta trouble, ya hear me.”

               “I hear you, Ricky. See you around.” They part ways and Ricky walks down Caulson heading down to the black light district and Bobby went up Hill to head home. After walking through his front door, Bobby removed his rig and under clothes and put them in the appropriate containment hatches before decontaminating completely and going through his second front door. A quick shower and a beer during The Late Show later, he decides to call it a night. In his room, he picks up the link cable and puts in the port behind his ear. Bobby, tired from a long day of work, plops down in his chair, and falls right off to sleep.

Damn, That's A Pretty Bridge.

“Damn, that's a pretty bridge, boy. Such a cryin' damn shame we gotta tear 'er down so soon. S'a cryin' damn shame. And after five years, too! Can hardly believe 'em.”


“Eh, you know Ricky, we gotta do whatever the bosses say.”


“Yeah, well I say fuck 'da bosses. Fine damn bridge we gotta tear down. Spent five fuckin' months on 'dat damn bridge, what pain in the ass, too. Problems out the ass and three men we lost on it! Three good men!”


“Yeah, I know Ricky. I was there.”


“Yeah, guess you was. But ya know, three good men die on a damn bridge, and here we all go tearin' 'er down.”


“Well, ya know Ricky, I don't remember you thinking they were such good men when they bit the dust, then.”


“They were still men, dammit. Men what deserved better than to die on a damn bridge what we gotta tear down five years later. And such a pretty damn bridge too.”


“Well, I just seem to remember you saying at the time that the one kid was better off dead, since he was such an--”

“You and ya damn 'I seem to remembers!' I can't help it you got the damn memory of a elephant! I think you just make shit up and say you remember it so's I'll look stupid.”


“Alright, Ricky. Whatever you say.”


“Yeah, that's right 'whatever I say.' I'm the damn boss on this crew and don't you forget it for a minute.”


“Yes, sir.”


“Damn straight, Bobby. Though now that I'm thinkin' about it, I'll give it to ya. That one kid, what was 'is name. . . Marty, was it? Yeah, Marty. What a fuckin' stink of a worker.”

“Ha, yeah.”


“Couldn't pour piss out of a boot with the 'structions written on tha heal!”


“Yeah, he was a dumb ass, huh.”


“My dad woulda said of that kid, he woulda said, 'That boy could fuck up a wet dream!'”


“Ha! I remember that time you said it was like they hadn't screwed his neural recepter all the way in and it was shorting out. Only thing could explain such a moron”


“Hehehe, yeah, what a fuckin' 'tard. Like he had the shakes or somethin'.”


“It made it all the funnier when he died from a power surge through the neural receptor on his rig though, didn't it?”

“Ah shit, I do remember that now. Poor kid. Weren't much good, and damn if those other two weren't niether, but damn, 'is still a shame. So many problems we had on this damn bridge and those boys dyin' in their chairs back home. And here we go tearin' it down.”


Wind whips over the surface of the bridge in streaks of blue methane skittering over its surface like demented little will-o-wisps, whistling through the the atmosphere in a never ending race. The pale sun's light doesn't do much this far out but the filters in the robots sensors correct that and it looks very serene to Bobby, the streaks of blue wind blowing fiercely over a broad flat surface, unbroken but by thin rails inset into it.


The bridge almost looks like a highway on Earth, but it's hard to get a sense of scale without reference, just seeing any short stretch at a time, seemingly floating in the air, suspended high over the surface on immeasurably tall stilts. From where the robots stand the surface is but an unseen certainty far, far below. The bridge is beautiful though, no one could deny. The colors reflect and refract off of it and it seems to be made out of glass or something more alien. Something blueish and luminescent, shimmering on a background of magically toxic atmosphere.


“Damn shame is all I'm sayin'. Still say the thing is cursed but I hate to see it go down.”


“Cursed? Ha! Ricky, you're crazy. Here we are and you think it's cursed.”


“Hey, you watch 'dat lip, kid. Anyways, wish these damn robot things didn't take so long ta' warm up.”


“Ha, I'd think you'd be used to it by now old timer.”


“Yeah, yeah. I ain't that old.”


“You know, I just don't get it either way. I mean, I appreciate the job and all, and it is rewarding, but I don't get why they need us. I mean, all this is built by robots anyway, but here we are, putting together the pieces that the robots have already built. Why not have the robots do it? Then no lost good men, as you'd say.”


“Yeah, see how 'dat turned out fo' the other outfits? Ha! Need 'dat human touch, and that's what we give 'em. Don't matter how much the robots do, peoples like 'ta see other peoples workin' on it. Makes 'em comfy and trustful.”


“Yeah, maybe. Still seems a waste. I mean, it's just robots running over it to carry all those minerals that the other robots got out of the ground. I mean, never even been a person involved in the whole process and yet we have to step in at this point and finish off the construction? Seems odd.”


“Eh well, either way the law says we gotta do the final construct, not like I care why. 'Bout ready to get movin'.”


A platform floats in the wind, outlets on each corner glowing hot with exhaust to keep it afloat, and on it stands the two robots, still and looking towards the bridge. Again, it's hard to get much reference of scale here, but they are large and intricate. Vaguely humanoid in shape, if a human were redesigned from the ground up to consist of every construction tool and apparatus ever made. If a human were designed to not be human.


“Ah shit, Bobby, I--”


“Fuck!”

It's Funny How They Do That . . . (Pt. 3)

The silence stretches on, so much so that Ellen wonders if she actually said it aloud this time, or only whispered it. Do you still love me? is what she thinks, but it feels too contrite to say aloud.

“I. . . What kind of question is that?” It's his normal voice when he's annoyed, but there's a bit of a quaver in it. She senses it more than hears it and another awkward silence begins. In the window's reflection the dashboard clock is reversed and she watches the minutes tick by. One, two, three, they begin to pile up in a familiar way.

“The kind that I should've asked long ago.”

And then a huff. There was a time when Ellen would've punched him in the shoulder and laughingly scolded him for huffing at her, for being a “petulant porpoise,” she'd always say, and laugh. The noise sounded different then though. I wonder if the Ascari pair up for life, she thinks, They do have two genders, so they must pair up, right? Bernard is silent for the rest of drive, staring straight ahead, his breathing even and steady as she stares at her hands, folded neatly in her lap.


The sun sets as the car drives itself towards the town home, prompting Bernard to take control once again as it nears the driveway. The garage door opens and they glide in, slowly coming to a stop. “Can you plug in the car? I did it last time.”


“Yes, dear.”


“And the dishes, can you unload the dishwasher?”


“I already did, Bernie, and I wish you wouldn't always remind me like that.”

She plugs the power cable into the socket inset in the front bumper of the car and as she looks up she sees a redness creeping into his face. “Dammit, I said I don't want to be called Bernie anymore! Why don't you ever listen!”


“I do.”


“Oh for god's sake, never mind. I'll go start dinner.”

***

Bernard is asleep when she starts reading about the Ascari. Pouring over the internet she's amazed at how little there is to find. So many opinionated pieces on what the Ascari mean for humanity, most either overly ominous or entirely too optimistic, and interspersed with mostly 'slice of life' articles about peoples reactions to the landing, and to everyday life beside them. Whole libraries worth of books analyzing the effect that contact with alien sentient life had on the worlds religions. Stories of all the sects that formed and quickly waned in the last few years since the Ascari had come. All stories, but none about the personal lives of the Ascari. None about their love lives, or lack their of.

But then she finds one. A blog by a young man in Portland who made it his mission to befriend an Ascari and seek to understand their home lives, their loves and their passions.

Two genders, yes, and mating in pairs between the two, yes, but romantically? The blogger found that the Ascari work together well in teams, work together well in general, but romance? The sex, they understood. That's biological. But more?

It must be a sad life. So sad, to not know love. That lone Ascari, people watching, she'd never thought before that the Ascari she'd seen had almost always been alone. Alone, unless together as a group on some project, usually on some public works project they were helping humans to complete, or some tour group being guided by a human. Any other time, alone. And maybe not.

***

The car chirps twice to alert her it's her turn to take control, that it's leaving the automated circuit and must be piloted manually. Ellen shakes her head out of its thoughts and grasps the wheel, still unused to driving herself, though she's owned the car for all these years.

“Yes, I'd like a double Americano with soy milk, please.” She smiles at the cashier. He smiles back and thanks her by name as he slides her card back to her across the counter and she blushes. She's not seen him at the coffee shop before and it seems so long since someone has looked at her like that. Curious. Interest piqued.

“Oh! And I forgot, could I also have one of those . . . Oh, I never seem to remember what those drinks are that the Ascari like.”

“A frazono? That's what they all seem to buy, anyway. Can't imagine you having one though, eh, Ellen?” A wink, and she blushes.

“Ha! No, for my friend. . .” She glances over her shoulder at the Ascari, at least she thinks it's the same one, sitting alone at the same table. Watching the people walk by and interact with an empty cup in front of him. “Thank you.”

The alien seems to be closely examining something across the street, through the window and through the customers inside, but when she approaches it the eyes centered on its . . . head, or what passes for one on the Ascari at least, look at her, narrowing. After a moment of silence the other two focus on her as well and she takes a deep breath.

“I'm sorry, I really don't mean to bother you, it's just, well, you know I spoke to you some time ago and it was a bit of a help to me and—Here, I bought you a refill.”

“That chair is not being used.” A pause. “If you would like to occupy it.”

“Th-thank you, thank you. And this, for you.” She slides the drink across the table and a little sloshes out, glistening on the wooden surface.

“Many . . . Thanks, kind human. This is much appreciated and will be seen as a sign of respect and kindness to my race.”

“I'm glad. I, you know, I doubt you remember me, but--”

“I remember you, yes. We had a . . . Nice conversation one day.” The alien's voice is broken and robotic through the translator, but she imagines a bit of warmth in the clicks and burbles that come out of it as English. “You had a companion during our last conversation. I see that is no longer the case.”

She chokes and coughs, caught off guard by the brusqueness of it all. “Yes, yes I did. Um, but I . . . I just wanted to say thank you, though you probably won't understand why.”

“I will try, kind human." It blinks. She never wondered before if they blinked. "What is your name?”

“Oh, well, Ellen. That is my name. And yours?”

“You may call me Erthnop, as it is close enough. Eelieen. A nice name . . . yes?”

“I like to think so, Erthnop.” She smiles again and blushes once more. Funny how she can't seem to manage a smile without a blush to go along with it. I guess I'm still getting used to it, she thinks.

The Ascari stares at her with all four eyes, but it doesn't feel like a stare and she can almost sense concern in that bizarre, alien face. He is waiting. “You know . . . Erthnop, I came to say thank you. You said something then, and I'm so glad you remember that time. You said that, well, there was a word in your language that meant . . .”

A long pause and the Ascari's eyes are so narrow that the dark black pupils are barely visible. “Yes, kind Eelieen? What did this one say?”

“You said there was a word that meant 'the joy one feels when one realizes there is still much to discover.' I think, Erthnop, that I'd like to learn that word.”

***

It's Funny How They Do That . . . (Pt. 2)

“Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?”

The Ascari looks up at her with the front pair of its two sets of eyes. The eyes watching her are narrow and black and centered in the middle of what she guessed is its forehead, while the other pair consists of one eye on each side of its head. These second eyes look just like human eyes, if a bit larger and more round, and Ellen can see them follow the comings and goings of the other costumers. A sharp, sour smell of lemons hangs over the table, barely palpable. 
 
“That chair is not being used,” the Ascari says, its voice coming flat and mechanical through its translator. “You may take it.”

“Oh, no, that’s not what I was going to ask. I was, um, wondering if you wouldn’t mind if I sat down with you, and we could…get to know each other?” Her voice trails off in embarrassment, and a heavy feeling like a stone makes itself at home in her stomach.

The silences stretches for an uncomfortably long time. Bernard is still at their table reading his newspaper, but his voice creeps into her head nonetheless. For Chrissakes, Ellen, what are you doing, bothering the thing? Leave him alone before you make a bigger fool of yourself.

Ellen is about to apologize and walk away when the Ascari asks, “What would you like to know?”

Ellen lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding in. She pulls out the chair and sits down, and her questions come rushing out in one half-relieved, half-excited, breath.

“Well, you see, my husband and I were just speaking about the many theories about, you know, well, hm. . . maybe you don’t? My husband says they’re all rubbish anyway, but we were discussing all the conspiracy theories out there about the arrival of your people to our planet, and I was wondering if you, um, had any thoughts on the matter?” Again, her voice trails off, and she sits in an embarrassed silence. Who wants to be badgered by these kinds of things over coffee and breakfast? He…she…it…isprobably regretting ever having let her sit down.

But again, the Ascari doesn't speak right away. Ellen doesn’t know if it is because its translator needs time to process all that she said or if the Ascari itself is trying to figure out how to answer the crazy woman sitting at its table. It does keep its front pair of eyes on her, though, which is a good sign if she’s remembering all those culture classes correctly. The ones on the Ascari the government politely encouraged everyone to take before the landing.

“There are many theories about our arrival among your people,” the Ascari says, finally. “Most are incorrect. Our first public visit to your world was a carefully orchestrated event by both the Department of New Worlds Contact and your Federation of Republics. It was an event many years in the making.” 
 
“Really?” Ellen’s coffee cup stops halfway to her mouth in surprise. “They told us all you were coming a few months before you actually got here. I mean, before your people got here. We were all quite excited, too.” Ellen gently lays her coffee cup on the table, her voice soft and wistful. “I think all of the government types were worried we were all going to go off the deep end but most of us were really happy. We felt like we'd made it, you know? All that dreaming and philosophizing that our grandparents and great-grandparents had done, and now we were really going to meet aliens! It felt like a dream, almost.” 
 
Ellen takes a sip from her now lukewarm coffee, lost in old memories. She remembers Bernard banging on her front door, how she had answered to find him panting and out of breath. But his eyes and cheeks were flushed with excitement. Had she heard? Was she watching the news? What did she think? Could she believe it? Real aliens! And how, a week later, still as excited and jubilant as he was when he first heard, he had twirled her around in the snow and they had their first kiss. 
 
“Yes, it was quite an event back home as well,” the Ascari says, and Ellen reluctantly lets her memories slip away. “Everyone gets excited when a new space-faring species is discovered. We have a word for it…it does not translate into your language well. It means 'the joy one feels when one realizes there is still much to discover.' We Ascari are old, and we have learned much. But every time we feel as if we have found everything there is to be found, the universe proves us wrong.” The Ascari wobbles his head back and forth in a way that Ellen wants to think is the Ascari version of a smile.

“Really? What are Ascari celebrations like?” Ellen never has thought of the Ascari as a celebrating kind of people, but before the Ascari can answer, a shadow falls over the table.

“What are you still doing over here, Ellen? You’re bothering him.”

“We were having a conversation, Bernard.” Ellen tries not to let agitation creep into her voice.

“Well, while you’re conversing, we’re going to be late. The eight-ten leaves in a half-hour, and you know what traffic can be like.” 
 
Ellen sighs but rises from her seat. “Thank you for the conversation.” She nods her head. The Ascari aren’t ones for physical contact; something about sensitive skin if she remembers correctly, and the Ascari’s head wobbles again.

“Thank you as well. It was a very nice talk.”

Outside, Ellen presses her thumb into the lock on her car door, standing back as the door opens with a whoosh. She ducks into the passenger seat as Bernard settles next to her in the driver’s seat. 
 
“I can’t believe you bothered him for so long, Ellen,” he says as the car’s dash board lights up and comes to life.

“I wasn’t bothering him, I think he really was enjoying our conversation.”

“Just being polite, probably.”

Bernard eases the car into morning traffic. Ellen turns away to face her reflection in the window. Again, she looks sad. Why does she automatically start looking sad whenever she is with Bernard?
Ellen fiddles absent mindedly with the tarnished golden ring on her finger. “Bernard, do you ever remember what it was like when we dated?”

“I remember two kids who didn’t know any better.”

There is a long pause. Minutes pass in the silence of the car's anti-septic cabin and Ellen is lost in her own reflection in the window.

“Bernard, do you still want to be married to me?”